Author’s Note As a writer occasionally you just want to write something, edit it lightly and share it with people. It’s good for productivity. I woke up this morning and realised that, whilst I have many Clara adventures in the works involving classic literature, it would also be awesome to be able to write the modern pop culture stuff. It would be awesome if Clara met Batman. I can’t possibly write and sell that without getting my ass sued and I don’t have that much time to spend in all these fabulous ideas. So, I wrote this in a few hours of fun, and will write part two when I next have a rampant lusting after a few hours of fun. Enjoy, in all its first – and possibly, but hopefully not the only – drafted glory.
A Dark and Lusty Knight –
Being a Clara Brooks Procrastination
“This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.””
– Polonius, Hamlet.
Clara lay on her back, on her boyfriend’s bed, uniquely dissatisfied.
“No girl was ever less satisfied than I,” she lamented.
As Clara lay demurely on her back, her boyfriend pounded into her with all the grace of a troop of horny monkeys. Clara was reminded of the monkeys who had been set the task to write the complete works of Shakespeare. If one randomly pushes Clara Brooks’ buttons in whatever manner one chooses enough times and for an infinite length of time, perhaps one day you will be lucky enough to create an orgasm. The monkeys hardly cared at all whether they accidentally stumbled across the First Folio edition of Hamlet any more than her boyfriend seemed to care about the script for Clara Brooks sensual pleasure. In both cases fun was being had pushing buttons regardless of the outcome, so long as – she supposed – there was some kind of innate physical response happening.
She closed her eyes and attempted to imagine an orgasm into existence. It was awfully difficult to do as much whilst a man is gnawing at your breasts as if they were an overdone piece of steak, ramming into you so hard and inelegantly, in a seemingly desperate attempt to find the back wall of your vagina, perhaps hoping that by doing so the seemingly elusive g-spot will make its first time appearance.
“Oh me, oh my!” She internalised. “My dashing Romeo has turned out to have all the grace and passion of a Jeremy Clarkson. Although I’m sure he, at least, could work through my gears a little more smoothly. Externally, she breathed with a heavier, steady rhythm and began to moan, “yes darling, yes, just like that baby. Oh, fuck yeah don’t stop, don’t ever stop!”
“Please, for God’s sake let it be over with. Just fucking cum already,” her inner demon scowled..
“That’s a bit harsh,” the daintier Clara replied, a little shocked by her other self’s attitude.
“Why, he’s a monkey, you said as much yourself not one – orgasm free – minute ago.”
“True, but just in bed. Otherwise he’s sweet, isn’t he? He bought me an ice-cream earlier while we walked around Hyde Park and then laughed as we watched the squirrels. That was nice and I simply love ice-cream. Earlier, while we were getting naked, he said that my nipples were like juicy little cherries. He simply loves cherries”
“Is that really it?”
“Kinda, yeah,” Clara felt glum.
“He’s got nothing else going for him than buying you an ice-cream?”
“He’s absolutely atrocious in bed, Clara. It’s terrible. I can have more orgasms when I flick through the Next Directory.”
“That’s not good Clara. Not good at all. Although, some of those catalogue models are pretty hot.”
“I’m glad we agree on something.” She nodded to herself.
Clara realised that she’d been discussing things too intimately with her other half, and that she’d forgotten to continue the play. “Oh, shove that huge dick in harder loverboy,” she screamed. “Was loverboy too much?” She wondered. Maybe it was the wrong word, perhaps it sounded fake. Could the guy tell if she was faking? Would he even care? Her concern was wholly misplaced since her pert little fruit pastilles were currently being chewed out of existence by what could only be described as a rabid chihuahua, who yapped annoyingly as he did so. “Oh Clara baby, you’re so hot, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cuuuuuuum. UHHHHHHH!”
“YES – go on baby, DO IT. FUCKING DO IT MY DARLING!!”. For the first time since they’d arrived back at her boyfriend’s apartment she’d spoken with an ounce of sincerety. “C’mon my amazing Superman, give it to me good and hard.” The mistake was made, the agony was about to be prolonged.
He stopped abruptly, completely destroying the rhythm of the thing….
(Interjection) – “there was no rhythm Clara, no rhythm at all. If you’re going to describe this gruesome ordeal in minute detail, then at least get it right. I’ve had better rhythms listening to 5 hours worth of Dubstep. And you know what dubstep does to your neural pathways. It’s not an experience I’m anxious to repeat” –
… he stopped abruptly. Breaking the condom as he pulled out.
(Interjection) – “Please, I don’t intend to get pregnant, not from this bad sexual experience anyway. I need something better to remember the baby by. If there’s going to be any condom breaking accidents, let it be during an orgasmic epiphany, OK?” –
…he stopped abruptly. This did at least stall the pain that had slowly devoured her increasingly sore breasts for a few seconds.
“Don’t be stupid honey. I’m totally not Superman. Superman is a douche and a pansy.”
“Errrr what? ( did he really just say that?) Never mind, carry on pet, carry on” (did I just say, pet?)
The boyfriend mercilessly continued. “There’s no internal drama going on with Superman. It’s all boy scout save the world stuff, and Apple Pie Americana.”
“Ok, sure, now fuck me baby. I am so fucking horny for you,” came out slightly more monotone than Clara’s intention. Her pleas for sexual attention were, however, wasted.
“I’d even prefer Captain America to Superman. At least Captain America can’t just do anything he wants. Fly, shoot lasers from his eyes, superhuman strength. No one can beat Superman ever. That’s just not awesome.”
“Riiiight, Ok. So anyway I was just thinking he probably had a huge superpowered dick that can give me a good time like you do. I bet no-one fucks like Superman. So show me a good time, big boy.” She was scraping the barrel of her sexual vocabulary, but admittedly she was also truly beyond caring at this point.
“Don’t be an idiot. Superman would be a terrible person to have sex with. He’s too strong and too powerful. Not human. He’d just break anyone he tried to enter into, in two. You don’t want Superman to fuck you, honestly.”
“OK.” Clara screamed, sorely running out of patience. “Forget I said anything. Can we PLEASE just get back to having sex like a normal couple and stop talking about Fucking Superman – you moron.
“If anything, I’m Batman.” Was she even there, Clara wondered? “Batman has deep emotions. Batman is badass. Batman understands the shit that goes down.”
Clara lay back, ready to embrace yet more missionary position torture. She was demure. The warmth she felt as he held her before re-entry was a moment of calm and pleasure before the onslaught continued. She reached out her arm sideways to grab some lube from the dresser in an attempt to stop her being sore in the morning, but instead her hands found one of the many Batman graphic novels that were strewn around the room. She sighed, winced in pain, opened the book and looked at something that seemed to resemble Batman kicking Superman on the jaw.
“C’mon baby, she muttered with a good deal less enthusiasm than before. The difference it made was untraceable “Fire that me that great big load inside of me. Mmmm wow you turn me on so much, honey.”
“Oh wow. This is the best sex I’ve ever had. Truly”
Clara Brooks, you’re a filthy, dirty lying whore. Why tell stories? Why don’t you tell him the truth? He’s a fucking terrible lover.
“I don’t know. It’s easier. It’s just easier. Better. I like stories. He won’t get hurt this way. Nobody will get hurt. Stories are good.”
You’re going to hell Clara Brooks.
No, shut the fuck up. That’s a lie. There’s no hell. It makes no difference.
Lie back and dream Clara. Take it like a woman. Lie back and take it. Be the girl you were born to be.
No, be the dream you were born to be, Clara. The monkeys didn’t write Hamlet just by pressing buttons. The monkeys will never write Hamlet. You really can’t write a great play that way. You don’t just press the buttons, you have to press them in the right order.
“To sleep, perchance to dream”
I’m Batman, I’m Batman, I’m Batman.
“Why does he always get to be Batman?”
The ordeal was finally over. Thick night had long since descended across North London, a dark squalid haze of pollution depressing the spirits of all but the night-owls, the lifeblood of the City; aspirational bourgeois socialites who had partied hard, played hard and would soon go home to fuck hard; the petit bourgeois who deplored the stale heat of the working day and their calculated little lives run on schedule, preferring the fetid stink of manufactured fun, the ambiguous cocktail of sweat, stale vomit and casual sex. The witching hour was about to come, the last tube home would be leaving imminently and woe betide any who should miss it, left out on the streets with the sneering homeless, the murderously insane, the troubled whores, and the hopelessly lost. Clara, a conventionally pretty 20 year old medical student at UCL, wondered if she, too, was destined to be hopelessly lost, shrouded in bourgeois darkness with no escape save the Asylum. Would anyone rescue her from this darkness?
She had better leave her partner now and get the last tube back home to Claraland; if she missed it, how long before the next one?
“If you’re Batman then who am I?” She asked as she quickly dressed.
“What do you mean? You’re Clara.”
“I mean, If you’re Batman I could be your Catwoman, or Poison Ivy or something like that. Catwoman is pretty hot, right. Surely you want a Catwoman?”
He laughed sourly. “Don’t be silly Clara. Matilda is more of a Catwoman. She has this sexy, sultry slutty, purry thing going on”
“My best friend Matilda. You think she’s a purry slut?”
“No, not at all. I just mean she’s probably a lot wilder in bed. Into kinky shit. You’re a little demure, and proper.”
“I am? Demure?”
“I want to be Catwoman. I want to be sexy. I could be kinky.” Clara protested, but wondered why she bothered.
“Well, you’re not Catwoman. I just don’t see you that way.”
“Who am I then? Dark Phoenix, Wonder Woman, Black Widow?”
“Nobody, you’re none of those, you’re just Clara OK?”
“Is that who you want me to be? Just Clara.”
“Sure. Just Clara.”
“Demure and proper Clara?”
“You can’t very well have a relationship with a slut, can you? Good for one night stands, I bet Matilda is amazing in bed, but just not dependable. Not like you are. You’re lovely, Clara. I know you’ll always be there for me. You put up with my shit.” He laughed and Clara was unsure whether it was at himself or her.
Are you not wild, Clara?
Can you never be a slut, Clara?
Do you not fake your orgasms well enough for him, Clara?
Do you not fake life well enough Clara?
“Hey, there’s an RSC production of Hamlet on next week,” the thought just occurred to her. “You wanna go? I really love Hamlet.” Why did she bother to ask, she wondered.
“No, I can’t, I’ve got an exam and I’ve already promised Vicky I’d go round hers and help her with Ophthalmology”
“Sight – that’s King Lear.”
“Oh Nothing. Vicky huh? OK, whatever, it doesn’t matter” she sighed. “Look, can I borrow this Batman comic?”
She didn’t want to know any more about Vicky. Vicky was a leggy blonde who had been receiving a lot of help on medical topics recently. She pulled on her thick cloak and flew out into the night, ready to stalk the streets of London.