WIP excerpt
Keeping this just on DW/LJ for now to keep silence on Tumblr.
Some of you know I'm a big fan of Larry Townsend's 1971 porn pastiche The Sexual Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (I wrote a long essay about it here. Aren't you glad we live in a world where the author of The Leatherman's Handbook also wrote a filthy Sherlock Holmes book? I sure am.)
BUT the sad thing about that book, is that it ends after his version of "The Final Problem." There is no "Adventure of the Empty House" and no happy Holmes/Watson reunion.
If ever there was a lacuna that cried out for fix-it fic, that's it. But I've been in some ways much more intimidated by Townsend's style and legacy than Doyle's. Well, at least until someone at the Sherlock kink meme on Tumblr requested H/W public sex at the Diogenes Club. (The Diogenes is a hardcore BDSM club in Townsendverse). I just can't resist a kink meme prompt that speaks to me.
Yeah. I'm writing it. It's called "Full House Tonight."
A tall, thin man with coloured glasses, some sort of self-proclaimed detective, was holding forth on his theories of the matter, all of which I found absurd, and I withdrew from the little crowd in disgust. As I backed away, I happened to strike against an elderly, deformed man behind me, knocking several of his precious books out of his hand. I picked them up, and observed the titles and the prurient nature of all of them: The Origin of Phallus Worship. British Bawds. Catullus. The Holy Wad. I endeavored to apologize, but the man snarled at me and half-spit, though I didn’t miss his attempt to hump and fondle a little bit between my legs as he did so, and I was disgusted by his presumption. He gave a contemptuous grope of his filthy crotch and limped angrily away down the pavement. I did not notice until he’d turned the corner that he had pressed a small, vile-smelling volume into the pocket of my waistcoat.
I do not remember the title of the crude pornographic book, or much beyond the childish drawings of depraved acts and barely-legible typesetting. All I recall now is the card that fell from between the pages:
YOUR PRESENCE IS REQUESTED AT THE DIOGENES CLUB AT HALF SIX.
Coincidence, surely. There was no way this poor wretch of the streets could have known what the Diogenes Club was to anyone, much less its terrible personal significance to me.
Yet I knew that my rent was paid at the sufferance of the master of that queerest of queer clubs, and if I did appear at the appointed hour to satisfy my curiosity, I might not be turned away as long as I was willing to observe the rules.
It was a silly fancy - most certainly the card belonged to a previous owner of the book, dated long ago, and if I appeared at the club, I would have to face the other Holmes brother, the imposing Mycroft, for the first time since I had my own Holmes alive still. It could go hard on me, especially if I were to be ridiculed, as seemed likely.
I cannot say what imp of the perverse drove me on. Not for the first time, I considered the possibility that even if this were no secret offer of information (perhaps the elder Holmes was also following the Adair case with interest? Perhaps in memory of his brother he had some news he deigned to share with me?), the nature of the Diogenes Club was such that a man might find relief from spiritual pain in willing submission to the physical. It was only an idle fancy, but thoughts of it made me giddy and stiffening. Yet something had always prevented me. The Diogenes, it seemed, was for solitary men - but not for lonely ones.
Spoiler alert: Watson's gonna have a wild night.
Some of you know I'm a big fan of Larry Townsend's 1971 porn pastiche The Sexual Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (I wrote a long essay about it here. Aren't you glad we live in a world where the author of The Leatherman's Handbook also wrote a filthy Sherlock Holmes book? I sure am.)
BUT the sad thing about that book, is that it ends after his version of "The Final Problem." There is no "Adventure of the Empty House" and no happy Holmes/Watson reunion.
If ever there was a lacuna that cried out for fix-it fic, that's it. But I've been in some ways much more intimidated by Townsend's style and legacy than Doyle's. Well, at least until someone at the Sherlock kink meme on Tumblr requested H/W public sex at the Diogenes Club. (The Diogenes is a hardcore BDSM club in Townsendverse). I just can't resist a kink meme prompt that speaks to me.
Yeah. I'm writing it. It's called "Full House Tonight."
A tall, thin man with coloured glasses, some sort of self-proclaimed detective, was holding forth on his theories of the matter, all of which I found absurd, and I withdrew from the little crowd in disgust. As I backed away, I happened to strike against an elderly, deformed man behind me, knocking several of his precious books out of his hand. I picked them up, and observed the titles and the prurient nature of all of them: The Origin of Phallus Worship. British Bawds. Catullus. The Holy Wad. I endeavored to apologize, but the man snarled at me and half-spit, though I didn’t miss his attempt to hump and fondle a little bit between my legs as he did so, and I was disgusted by his presumption. He gave a contemptuous grope of his filthy crotch and limped angrily away down the pavement. I did not notice until he’d turned the corner that he had pressed a small, vile-smelling volume into the pocket of my waistcoat.
I do not remember the title of the crude pornographic book, or much beyond the childish drawings of depraved acts and barely-legible typesetting. All I recall now is the card that fell from between the pages:
YOUR PRESENCE IS REQUESTED AT THE DIOGENES CLUB AT HALF SIX.
Coincidence, surely. There was no way this poor wretch of the streets could have known what the Diogenes Club was to anyone, much less its terrible personal significance to me.
Yet I knew that my rent was paid at the sufferance of the master of that queerest of queer clubs, and if I did appear at the appointed hour to satisfy my curiosity, I might not be turned away as long as I was willing to observe the rules.
It was a silly fancy - most certainly the card belonged to a previous owner of the book, dated long ago, and if I appeared at the club, I would have to face the other Holmes brother, the imposing Mycroft, for the first time since I had my own Holmes alive still. It could go hard on me, especially if I were to be ridiculed, as seemed likely.
I cannot say what imp of the perverse drove me on. Not for the first time, I considered the possibility that even if this were no secret offer of information (perhaps the elder Holmes was also following the Adair case with interest? Perhaps in memory of his brother he had some news he deigned to share with me?), the nature of the Diogenes Club was such that a man might find relief from spiritual pain in willing submission to the physical. It was only an idle fancy, but thoughts of it made me giddy and stiffening. Yet something had always prevented me. The Diogenes, it seemed, was for solitary men - but not for lonely ones.
Spoiler alert: Watson's gonna have a wild night.