Tasting You

14 erotic short stories, 2003

That was the summer I got a job in the kitchen where Selina worked. Our mom had found a boyfriend who lived in Spain and she wasn’t at home much. It suited me fine to have the house to myself, but Selina didn’t think I should be home alone all summer. She made the Drive In-restaurant employ me to do dishes …
    … What I saw was the fat cook grabbing hold of Selina and placing her on the kitchen counter. At the spot where he usually cut the meat. She was tilted with her head leaning partly on the wall, while he removed the dish towel from his waistband, opened his fly and stuck it inside. He fucked her briefly, efficiently, in almost the same rhythm, without a word. None of them said anything. Sometimes she tensed up her body like a bow, moaning, and he gave out a short Ah! Before his own knees went soft and he withdrew. Afterwards he brushed his hand through her dense, blonde bush, so that some hairs got stuck between his fingers, then he shook his hand with the hair above the pot of potatoes and let them fall into it. She stayed on the kitchen table for a little while staring like a glass doll before she slipped off the counter, pulled up her pants and adjusted her apron over them.
    I hated him. I had fantasies of boiling him in one of his own giant pots …
Classed, p. 96 in Tasting You
He entered me and never came back out. I don’t know what he wanted in there, but he is still in there.
It began sort of cold. We met in the supermarket where we caught hold of the same package of frozen chicken legs. I was wrestling with my shopping cart, the wheels were stuck you see – the wheels always get stuck on my shopping cart in the supermarket. I held on to the package and he held on to the package and I yanked it towards me and he yelled: Watch out for your cart! It was heading directly into an elderly lady with a walking cane. He ran around the counter with frozen stuff and got my cart, while I froze right there, stuck to the chicken legs and he helped the old lady get up and found her cane and I wondered how come the wheels seemed to be rolling with no problems now …
    I grew wet and warm once again inside my accordion case, it filled up with lust and I crept up and squatted, straddling him I lowered myself over his glowing peak. Slowly, really slowly, I sat down entirely on him. Ooh it was wonderful. With one knee on each side of his thighs I was in charge of the speed and I felt that it shouldn’t go too fast because then he would explode and break into a thousand pieces. A person who is broken into pieces cannot very well sing a duet.
    I sat quietly. We were completely quiet, like mice listening to the cat sneaking closer. Then he began moving inside me and grabbed hold of my thighs, lifting them up and lowering me over the glistening pole, hard and huge like a giant carrot. A carrot that grew and filled me out more and more every time he lowered me unto the root. I could feel the population growth gather beneath my backsides where the balls were shrinking, ready to shoot of their millions, and then suddenly I felt something completely different.
    What is that, he gasped desperately, What is gnawing and bothering us?
    Where, I moaned, what’s the matter?
    This. Right here, he said and thrusted at a certain spot. I felt a sharp pain, not too bad, more like gravel in your shoe that you just need to remove. Enough of it to make it uncomfortable to go on. […] I told you: he entered me and never came back out. Even though I open the door and show him the way he remains standing there pulling his Tyrolian hat down his forehead, pulling up his lederhosen, claiming there’s no other place as good for tangling out his entanglements and eating chicken legs than here. He has equipped the home with a dining table and two chairs, so you can see he’s being serious.
    We have laid on the mattress many times since the first one and discovered many strange things that are in the way and pulled them out and made ourselves comfortable afterwards. A grumpy mother-in-law appeared, a chamois egg and a thermometer that could measure beyond the boiling point.
    The other day a beautiful red rose showed up. But that was, after all, Sunday.
Entanglements, p. 19 in Tasting You

In the short story Men, Mette, who resembles a boy, goes to a gay sauna with her friend Skip:

A mulatto with bulging biceps was selling tickets for the baths. His skin was golden olive, wearing a tank top with long straps, low cut beneath his nipples. Purple boxers in thick satin and low lashes along an Arabian looking nose. His pointy nipples distracted both of us a great deal. Skip talked confidentially to them. I realized there had been something between the two of them. Maybe Aladdin here was the actual reason for our presence. The buzz from the drinks began to wear out, my feet were close to freezing-point again.
    This is my friend from Romania, Skip suddenly declared in his best school English. It is his first sauna. His very first!
    The guy’s large, soft lips opened into a tender smile, revealing a row of pearls and a couple of stars in his eyes he hadn’t shown us before.
    Well, I hope you’ll like it, Aladdin whispered melodically and threw an invisible fishing hook at me, which made me drop my jaw. It seemed there were benefits in being a first-time visitor. Skip got nervous and dragged me along speaking loudly:
    Here is where we take off our clothes, he gesticulated at a closet with a number. And down there are the showers, and behind them the steam bath. And here, he explained pointing down a dark corridor with opened and closed door. You can – uh – be alone if you know what I mean.
    Shut up, Skip, I mumbled into the collar of my coat.
    Not at all, no, I promise, your things are safe. If you have any – uh – expensives, you can surely leave them with Frank.
    I just had time to think that Frank ought to be named Aladdin when the moisture in the locker room hit us like a blanket of heat.
    You like each other, eh? our bronzed friend smiled.
    Skip choked on the smoke and started coughing. I watched him callously and raised my eyebrows at the African: We are very much in love. Very much.
    Oh shut up, Blackie, Skip croaked his voice hoarse from the smoke.
    Did you choke on the smoke, Darling? I said in a concerned voice, and slapped his back insensitively. Skip stood up, gasping for breath, utterly annoyed.
    He only made one step towards the showers before the effect of the smoke hit him and forced him into slow motion. I got up and dawdled along after him with the soaking wet towel around my hips. Everything was happening slowly, bathed in bright light. There was music in the room, melodies from the shower water, a water organ was putting our passion into notes and now music was playing in shining sperm. A tingling of crispy nipples and hard cocks in all the colors of the rainbow, and the instant I caught up with my Skippy on the top step of the stairs, I grabbed hold of his ears that I had been holding a moment before while in heaven. He seemed paralyzed with fear while I pulled his face towards mine and placed my big soft mouth on his sending lips, my tongue far down his throat. I sucked my way under his skin, Spacy Skip, with a heat that made him shiver all over. His nostrils were pulsing like a stallion at a gallop, but I held on tightly, we melted together with our horniness and the steam and the smoke and the water and the heat …
    The room started cheering; they were hollering and whistling, a great harmonized resonance expanding around us. I didn’t let go of his ears, I gave him all the best and he began to realize that there was no way out. His cock was stirring again, a bit faint and hesitant, against my soaking towel that was slipping off my miserable hips, he laughed into me, and we heard Tommy giggling behind us. We panted and kissed and laughed into each other until we were shaking. We laughed and the whole room was laughing, singing and laughing while we were tumbling around on the landing of the stairs and his poor ears were glowing between my fingers and we laughed and laughed and the room sang against us, the room was one huge kiss surrounding us and our wet bodies and I understood that maybe neither God nor I are particularly dead, we might have a decent chance of living for quite a while yet.
Men, p. 40 in Tasting You
When the new moon was high on the night sky, I slipped away from the partying. I had whispered my invitation to the guest of honor while my dad was away for a moment. Now I tied the bag over my shoulder, it contained the golden comb, the kissing oil and the sponge meant to secure me inside – even though the thought of being impregnated by a golden man with blue eyes was really tempting. Solely the thought of my dad’s frown when I was praying for the titan made me bring along the sponge.
    The kissing oil is Lucretia’s latest whim: she claims that if you smear your lips with lemon oil it will leave such a fragrant scent that the lover will become overwhelmed with happiness. I wanted to overwhelm the famous titan. My lips were glistening with lemon oil as I walked to the underground public baths.
It was dark in the corridor leading to the bath. I’m not used to walking alone, and I got scared down there in the dark with my oil lamp in my hand. There is something frightening about walking in an unpopulated place at night, a place which is usually full of people in daylight. The rooms there are normally full of men softly chatting, women shouting and children shrieking and laughing. Now there was only the sound of the water dribbling down the walls, trickling out of the holes and into the basins. I had just been to the baths earlier that day with my maid – through the hot-water bath to the hot-air bath and on to the cold bath – to avoid getting lost in the dark. Still I wasn’t quite sure until I felt the hot air on my skin. Afterwards the humid hot bath which was not quite so boiling hot at night, and quickly on to the cold bath which seemed less refreshing in the cool of the night. With goosebumps all over my body and a pounding heart I loosened my skirts and sat down on the wet bench with the little oil lamp next to me. The tiny flame was flickering and I realized I didn’t bring any extra oil. When it ran out of oil it would go dark here, pitch black. What had I gotten myself into? The most celebrated man in Rome. Me with merely seventeen years of experience, what was I thinking? Feverishly I went through the qualifications of my previous lovers. Actually they were all quite similar, full and drunk from my father’s wine, in my sleeping chambers.
    The buffalo tongue in my lap. The man’s sky-blue eyes.
    I took a deep breath and took the scarf off my hair. It is so big and frizzy that I cannot draw my fingers through it. My maid combs it with a special comb of bone with six long teeth. Completely unlike the golden comb in my bag. A comb as wide as a hand with blue sapphire in the handle. The colors of Titanius. I noticed tonight that his hair was smooth, with no curls.
    I was scared in the dark but not of the man I had summoned to meet me. Tita­ nius had displayed a dignity that only a true hero possesses. After fighting the buffalo he had proved to anyone that this man deserved a life like the rest of us. That he was no barbarian Norman, but a skilled soldier, perhaps the most skilled of the entire Roman Empire. And he had a sense of humor.
    My fear was of the unknown. Did he want me. Would we get caught.
    Suddenly I sensed something. Like a sigh by the door, a sudden heat drifting past. The flame flickered.
    Titanius? I whispered.
    Miss Lidia, the voice whispered back with the peculiar accent, I had been listening to through the noise all evening during the party.
    I have come, the giant said quietly.
    I was silent. A man knows what a woman wants. I closed my eyes and waited. His presence made my knees weak and my thoughts dizzy. Nothing happened.
    Miss Lidia, said the large figure in the darkness. What you are asking of me could cost me my freedom or my life. You have seen what I have paid for that. I cannot lose it again, not for the most beautiful Oleander of Pompeii.
    Of course not, I replied quickly. All I am asking is … let me comb your hair, Titanius.
The Mountain, short story set in Pompeii, August 20th 79 AD, p. 67 in Tasting You

The press wrote …

Liselotte Wiemer, Weekendavisen:

… Bi-gendered in themselves … frivol, devout and chaste in glorious union; kinky without being trite, modest without being prudish, naughty without being vulgar. Sex is fun, actually. Sex crisscrossed, vertically and waterfrontly horizontally between gender, age, weight and geographical location, mind you. Give a man a free hands and he’ll run them all over you, Mae West once said. Bente Clod too is quite good at a free hand, literally …

John Chr. Jørgensen, Ekstra Bladet:

… Bente Clod varies the juicy terms skillfully, so that we never end up in the predictable safety which torments soft-porn. The writer has what it takes in the art of eroticism: the knack …

Opus Magazine no. 12, 2004:

The short stories are almost too good not to share. They are certainly very suitable for reading aloud in the twin bed!

Marie Tetzlaff, Politiken:

… the reader is inside a disguised girl’s body in a gay sauna, in an old woman’s body in a swimming pool with an exhilarating shower (one of the finest little pieces in the collection), twice on a Greek island […] There is loser-Thilde, finding her happiness with Max at the Roskilde Festival, and a description of the lovers caught by surprise by the eruption of Mount Vesuvius and thus immortalized […] Oh yes we cover lots of ground in the 14 short stories all of which as mentioned are very well written.

Buy Tasting You here