Guy New York is a bestselling erotica author and publisher with more than 25 titles to his name. With two full length novels, numerous short works, and a thousand free stories on his blog Quickies in New York, his books have been widely read and occasionally burned.
“I’m not fucking you if you vote for Hillary,” he said, crossing his arms as he leaned back on the couch with his glass of wine abandoned on the coffee table.
“Fine, I’m not letting you if you bro out for Bernie, anyway. We just won’t fuck anymore and that’s all there is to it.” She poured herself a whisky and sat in the windowsill looking out over the city. They had been arguing for weeks, but as the primary got closer it all just got worse. He said she was a liar and too close to Wall Street, and she thought Sanders would be about as effective as John Kerry after a lobotomy.
“I bet she doesn’t even think we should be allowed to tie each other up,” he finally said, breaking their tense silence.
“Yeah, well Bernie probably thinks Pony Play means someone’s doing a local production of Equus.”
“I bet Hillary thinks S&M stands for Stocks and Mutual Funds.”
“Bernie couldn’t choke a girl if he tried, and if he went to slap me he’d probably sprain something,” she said drinking half her glass out of sheer anger.
“Yeah? Well I bet Hillary would pass out if you so much as waved a ball gag in front of her!”
“At least she knows how to take it up the ass without being a little bitch about it!” she screamed back.
“Bernie’s probably fisted more people than she’s kissed!” he yelled standing up and pointing aggressively.
“Bernie’s never fisted his own ass, let alone anyone else’s! He’s more vanilla than a Starbucks latte. He’s whiter than a mayonnaise convention. Bernie’s about as sexy as Trump’s toupee on a bender. He can’t even get it up for his wife, let alone the country!”
She was in his face now, her whisky left on the ledge as they glared into each other’s eyes, circling like turkey vultures. He pressed his head against hers, his breathing tense and shallow as they pushed harder, their hands clasped together in a game of tug-of-war. Without warning, she swept his feet out from beneath him and together they toppled to the floor, her body astride him as she pinned him to the ground.
“She could eat my cunt better than you do, and I would fucking let her,” she hissed, spitting in his face as they fought.
“Just try me,” he growled, his hands pinned above his head as he gasped for breath. She slid up his body, her short summer dress around her waist in an instant as she held him in place with her knees. Before he could start to beg, she pushed down to his mouth, feeling his tongue push against the thin cotton that covered her.
“Prove it,” she moaned, as he reached up and pulled her down harder with strong hands on her hips. She grabbed his hair as he ate her cunt, soaking his beard and lips with her excitement as he still struggled.
“Who are you voting for?” she finally asked, sitting up just long enough for him to gasp.
“Bernie,” he said, before she cut him off once more, smothering him in her pussy. She held him there, not letting him breath before asking him once more.
“Bernie!” he cried, desperately trying to taste her again. Finally she put her weight into it, holding him there for long minutes as his tongue pushed deeply inside her. She pulled his hair harder as her other hand moved to his throat. Squeezing tighter with each second, she felt herself getting closer and closer to her inevitable release.
“Who. Are. You. Voting. For?” she asked once more, her fingers so strong and firm he could barely answer.
“You,” he finally mumbled, “I’m voting for you.”
“Good boy,” she said, pushing down hard as her body began to shake and tremble, her orgasm finally slipping through every nerve ending she had. “Such a good boy.”
“So, can you tell me why you think you’re here?” he asked, taking out his stethoscope. Without thinking I let him slip it inside the thin fabric and against my skin. It was cold to the touch, but he listened as he moved it about, and the familiarity of the procedure somehow calmed me down. I had done all of this before. Maybe everything would be okay.
“My mom thinks I have a problem,” I said, unsure of what else to say. I certainly wasn’t going to offer more than I had to.
“And how about you?” he asked, opening the gown further as he continued listening to my breath. “Do you think you have a problem?”
“I don’t know,” I said, trying to control my inhalations. “I don’t think so. She’s just crazy and controlling.”
“Well, she doesn’t seem crazy to me, but I can’t tell you if she’s controlling,” he said with a warm laugh. “Some mothers are more protective than others, and some simply worry too much. Do you think she’s just worrying too much?”
“Yes!” I said, thankful that someone actually understood me. “She’s always telling me I’m too loud or too excited. She doesn’t care what I do as long as it’s normal and doesn’t bother the guests.”
“And do you think what you’re doing is normal?” he asked, eliciting a blush from me. I thought of all the late nights, sweating in my bed with my fingers between my thighs, and wasn’t sure how to answer. The truth is, I had no idea what was normal and what wasn’t.
“I don’t know,” I finally said looking down.
“Well, touching yourself, is, of course, totally natural,” he said, finally stepping back and looking me in the eye. “The question is whether or not how you’re doing it is normal. I assume she wouldn’t have brought you here if there wasn’t a real concern, so here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to lie back on the table here and show me what you do at home, okay? Do you think you can do that for me?”
“I’m not supposed to!” I said, my embarrassment at what he was asking me to do instantly visible in my cheeks. The thought of doing that in front of him was almost too much to process, but the small chance that he would take my side was also enticing. Was it possible he would tell my mother everything was fine?
“Well, I can’t really tell you if it’s normal unless I see. I’ll dim the lights for you,” he said, turning off the overheads and switching on a small lamp on his desk. “Is that better? Just lie back and show me what you do. This is a safe space, Simone. You have nothing to worry about. Start at the beginning and go all the way through to the end. Just like you do at home, okay?”
I lay back, unsure of what to do, and he walked up next to me like it was the most normal thing in the world. He pulled a stool up and sat down, undoing the strings to my gown with his thick fingers. It fell open on both sides, and when I looked up he simply nodded and smiled, his face as calm as ever. I looked back at the ceiling before finally sliding one hand between my legs and barely parting my thighs.
“Just like that,” he whispered to me, brushing my hair from my eyes. “Just show me what you do at home. I promise, everything will be alright, Simone.”
While I’m finishing up these two novels, I decided to put out a new collection of short stories and a novella! It’s called The Ortolan Hunters and Other Disturbing Tales and it’s just that. It has three short stories and a novella called The Day The Lights Went Out. It’s not exactly erotica, but there is a ton of sex, much of it somewhat creepy and disturbing.
The Ortolan Hunters, which you may have heard at Dirty Boys, is about a couple fighting over the little birds. When the narrator is finally convinced to procure the exotic, and illegal dish, he decides he needs to teach his partner a lesson. It’s intense, delicious, and fairly twisted, to say the least.
The Elevator follows another couple acting out a horrible fantasy with a stranger. It’s a disturbing story of someone flipping the scales when it comes to consent, and you should be warned that it’s pretty fucked up.
The Unicorn is the funny break in the middle, and follows the narrator as he heads over to be the third to some friends who have never had a threesome before. It’s safe to say, nothing goes exactly as planned. I read this one at Dirty Boys as well, but this is the first time it’s been in print.
And finally, The Day The Lights Went out takes place in a NYC Hotel during a blackout. Two strangers meet for a one-night-stand, but get interrupted when the place goes dark. Instead of just getting busy they decide to test each other with stories of their past, each trying to prove how horrible they are. In between each story they discuss sexuality, consent, fetish, guilt, and kink, arguing about feminism and masculinity all the while trying to out do each other. Their stories are filthy and border on the edge of acceptable, often falling off the wrong side. But how much are they making up and how much is true? And more importantly, does it matter?
I hope you’ll take a look and maybe get a digital copy over on Amazon. And, of course, if you like it, nothing says thank you like a nice Amazon review.
Immoral Tales (1974) by Walerian Borowczyk (currently streaming on Netflix) is both horrible and delightful at the same time. Granted, I have a soft spot for slow French films with lots of gorgeous young women lounging about in white shifts doing each other’s hair, but if you expect a pleasant pastoral fantasy this is not that. Broken up into four short stories, they grow both more exciting and more horrible as the movie continues.
The first story, The Tide is a fairly simple tale of two teenage cousins who take a walk on the beach and end up getting a little friendly with each other. Like all of the stories, the camera work is so male gazey that it was even difficult for me at times, and I often like that shit. The story is slow, with lots of lingering shots of our heroine’s breasts as her cousin directs her to undress for him. But there’s something gloriously filthy about their sex (in this case a blow job) as the waves come in and wash over them. It looks uncomfortable, dirty, and in some ways strangely real.
The second story is just pervy without much else going–unless you’re really into Jesus, Catholic guilt, and girls getting off with cucumbers. The basic plot is a girl getting locked in her room, discovering dirty books, and getting herself off while feeling horrible about it. It’s pretty, and has a few hot moments.
And then we finally get the murderous lesbian love story we’ve all been waiting for. Erzsebet Bathory is the story of a countess who kidnaps a bunch of beautiful girls from a local village so she can play with them. I won’t ruin it because it has something of a story to it. It is also slow and has a whole lot of long shots of naked girls in the shower, each one prettier than the next. The near end is great, but the real end of the story is horribly cliche and does exactly what you don’t want it to do. But I suppose that was France in the 70’s.
Finally we get the tale of the Borgia pope we’ve all been waiting for. He gets elected, dresses his daughter up in the pope’s clothes and together with a possible nephew, they double team her. It’s pretty classic, but hey, who doesn’t love some Catholic incest porn on occasion?
All is all, it’s a strange collection of slow stories, tons of nudity, and some actually twisted plot devices. It makes something like 50 Shades feel almost vanilla, while also managing to only be occasionally arousing. But if you like pretty young french women, slow filmmaking, and can handle that much male gaze in one film it can be enjoyable. It’s just twisted and fucked up enough to keep it interesting, and even in our culture of shock porn it’s an impressive tome. Consider it a guilty pleasure, but I found it entertaining, occasionally beautiful, and just gritty and disturbing enough to be hot.
I’ve been getting a bunch of questions about my novels recently, so a quick post about them. I have two out under the name Guy New York: The Island on the Edge of Normal and Disgusting Beautiful Immoral. They are very different books, although both will feel familiar if you’re read my short stories. They are both in paperback and e-book format.
The Island on the Edge of Normal
This is a sweet, emotional novel about polyamory, relationships, and self discovery. There is a bunch of sex in it, but it’s not really erotica. It takes place on a small island off the coast of Maine and has a whole lot of coffee, wine, open communication, and some bi boy stuff. Also lots of love. You can find it on Amazon here.
Disgusting Beautiful Immoral
This is more of a wild romp through the East Village in 1999. It’s a big book with a ridiculous amount of kinky sex, threesomes, and Daddy stuff. It’s funny, filthy, and fast. There’s also a lot of love and romance, especially if you think spanking and anal sex are romantic. You can find it on Amazon here.
On a side note, if all of my followers bought a novel today I would:
1. Instantly become the bestselling author on Amazon.
2. Make enough money that I could do nothing but write for the next six months – and do little things like pay my rent.
Just something to think about. No pressure. But seriously, $4 could change the world. Or at least my part of it.
Dirty Boys is back the night of May 15th at the Parkside Lounge on Houston! Save the date, save the month, hell save everything. We’ll have more details soon, but we’ll have old readers, some new ones, and a renovated back room with a bar. It’s going to kick ass. Come see us.
I’ve been on Tumblr since 2009, and my feed pretty much looks like this: porn, cats, food, friends, porn, porn, friend, cat, cocktails, pro sex workers advocacy articles, lbgt radical rants, porn, cats, friends, blacklivesmatter, and then more porn.
But for now, I want to talk about the porn. I’m not currently a huge consumer, although that’s gone up and down, but I do get my fair share on tumblr, mostly gifs, pics, and a few videos, none of which I’ve curated all that well.
As I scroll, rather quickly, through my vast well (I follow a shit load of people) of dirty things, I have nearly universal reactions to certain images, tags, and captions. Call them my Pet Peeves of Porn if you will, because while somewhat politically critiquey, they are most often just me being a weirdo. I’ll start with a description and then my response.
So, here we go, Guy’s Pet Peeves of Porn:
- Photo: Black man fucking a white woman captioned something like, “oh, her husband is gonna be so mad when he can’t feel that pussy again.”
My Response: That is her husband you racist piece of shit, now calm down, they’re having a nice time.
- Photo: Any time there is a guy in just a shirt and no pants.
My Response: He’s Porky Pigging it! He’s Donald Ducking it! He’s shirt-cocking it and I don’t know why! Who does that? What’s going on? What has happened to the world I knew and loved. (Same goes for a naked guy in socks, but without the first bit.)
- Photo: A young twenty something woman just standing there naked, captioned, “Check out this hot MILF/Cougar.”
My Response: Unless this is from Teen Moms, you have a weird idea of age and moms and probably other biological things. And are you 12?
- Photo: Everybody’s favorite new trend, a crappy screen grab of some random porno with a huge caption over it in a horrible font reading something like “Daddy fuck me so good my pussy break bust this nut oh yeah big baby.”
My Response: …
- Photo: “Lesbians” with long fingernails, doing pretty much anything.
My Response: I don’t even have a pussy and that looks like it’s going to be uncomfortable. And not in a good way.
- Photo: Incredibly famous porn star in a well lit, well shot scene captioned, “Look at this little amateur slut.”
My Response: Do you know how much fucking work went into that? Also, how do you not recognize that girl?
- Photo: Incredibly famous actress photoshopped into an incredibly awkward nude shot.
My Response: No, no, no please not Emma Watson, is nothing sacred?????
I’m sure there are more, but those top my list right now. And to be clear, I’m not trying to kink shame anyone. You do what you gotta do to get off. That’s my motto. Seriously, that is my motto though.
Feel free to share yours in the comments (mottos or peeves).
In the small crowd that gathered for Belgian beers on 7th street we were the only two who had never fucked in Central Park. Everyone else looked at us like we were crazy and when they asked us what part of the park we would choose we answered at the same time.
We looked at each other and only seconds passed before she suggested we go.
“Are you serious?” I asked as I moved closer to her.
Two minutes later we were out the door and she was calling a cab. As we sat next to each other in the backseat I wasn’t sure what to say. I asked her again if she was serious and in response she reached into her purse and pulled out condom. She handed it to me and told me to hold onto it as she reached up under her skirt and pulled her underwear down over her thighs and into her hand. She stuffed them into her purse and asked me if I wanted to back out. I kissed her hard and held her by the hand.
Minutes later the cab dropped us off on 5th Avenue and we were running hand and hand into the park. The statue was empty at 2am and she pulled me towards her as she lay back against a cold metal mushroom. Our kiss was hard and gentle at the same time, and my hands slid up here thighs over soft skin.
She turned and pushed me back against the metal as she knelt and opened my fly. Moment later I was growing hard in her mouth, and I could swear that I saw stars in the city sky above. She licked me and sucked me and before I knew what was happening she had pulled the condom from my pocket and covered my cock in slick latex.
I pulled her up to me and kissed her again; this time I kissed her slowly and I savored her lips and tongue like a strong beer. I lay her down gently on the hard surface of the mushroom and lifter her skirt up around her waist. She pulled me towards her and guided me into her with one skillful hand.
Our kisses stayed gentle as we moved against each other and I found her neck soft and inviting. Her legs wrapped around me, and I could feel her tight against me through the thin barrier. Every sensation felt amazing as her body consumed me and her kisses tasted more and more of love each time.
As we lay there afterwards looking up at the sky she held my hand gently and thanked me. I thanked her as well as I kissed her fingers and called her Alice. The park never felt so comforting.
She was running twenty minutes late.
Not enough time for a martini at the Campbell Apartment, not enough time for some Kumamotos at the Oyster Bar, and not really enough time to get my boots shined. But it was enough time to wander the halls of Grand Central looking for things I had never seen before: a broken tile in the mosaic, a chandelier high above, or a passageway someone forgot to block off from the public. The old train station is a maze that I’m always too busy to notice.
I walked down the long sloping ramp and peeked through the window at diners drinking cocktails and eating mollusks before I stopped beneath the arch in front of the Oyster Bar. There’s a spot in each corner where you can hear a whisper from the far wall if you stand with your back to the hall. I was alone, but there’s something moving about hearing your voice and knowing it’s sliding along the stone ceiling to one exact spot on the other side.
“Can you hear me?” came a whisper as I pressed my nose against the cold surface.
“Yes, can you hear me?” I asked, surprised and charmed to find someone playing the same game I was.
“Don’t turn around,” she said, stopping me as I was about to do just that. “It’s more fun this way.”
“I can do that,” I said, as amused as anything else. “Can anyone else hear us? You sound so clear.”
“It’s just us,” she said, more quietly this time. There was a long pause as I struggled to think of something smart to say. But then she continued. “I have a secret.”
“Do you want to share it?” I asked, curiosity hitting me like an unexpected kiss in the dark.
“You won’t think nicely of me,” she said, her voice trembling. “But I have to tell someone. Are you a good person?”
“I have no idea,” I said, pressing my forehead against the wall. “I suppose I try to be…”
“I did something this morning that I’m not proud of. But even still, I feel so alive I can hardly stand it. I hate that things like this make me feel so good and so horrible at the same time, but it’s the truth.”
“Tell me,” I whispered, holding my breath.
“I had an interview this morning. It was going perfectly well, and while I want to tell you that it was all his idea, it’s just not true. I don’t know why, but right in the middle, I suddenly want to push and see what would happen. I took off my sweater, claiming I was warm, and I lifted my skirt just enough for him to see my stockings. But then I couldn’t stop it. And to make it worse, I didn’t want to.”
“What happened?” I asked, my breath tight in my chest as I pictured this woman I didn’t know flirting in a nameless office with a stranger.
“It was quick,” she said. “He locked the door and kissed me without asking. I pretended to be taken aback, but even then my hand moved to touch him until he was hard beneath my fingers. We didn’t talk at all. He lifted my skirt, fingered me just long enough to get me wet, and then pushed me to the ground in front of his desk. I didn’t even look up as I sucked his cock, and I’m not even sure I could tell you what he looks like.
“He grew even harder, but there was no waiting for anything. He didn’t have to pull me up or tell me what to do. I stood on my own, I lifted my skirt once more all by myself, and I bent over his desk and opened my legs just like that. As much as I wanted to pretend that he was pushing me, it excited me more to do it on my own.”
“Maybe it’s easier with a stranger,” I whispered, unsure if I meant him or me.
“I don’t think we even fucked for five minutes. He just grabbed my hips, pushed into me in one thrust, and then screwed me right there on his desk. I rubbed my clit, I moaned a name I hoped was his, and I pushed back just as hard as he did. He came almost as soon as it started, but he fucked me even after he was done, pulling me back against him over and over again.
“When he finally pulled out, I just straightened my skirt and walked to the door. I couldn’t think straight, I could hardly walk, and I almost forgot why I was there. I kept imagining what my boyfriend would think if he knew, and I was trembling. Just as I opened the door, he told me he would call. And that he would put in a good word. He said the department would be lucky to have me.”
“Jesus, that’s intense,” I said, as turned on as I was desperate for more.
There was a pause, and I couldn’t tell if I could still hear a voice, throaty and breathy, sliding over the cool tiles of the wall. Just when I thought she might have left, she whispered “Count to ten for me.”
“Please, let me just turn around for a moment,” I begged. I craved even the smallest hint of who she was. A glimpse of those stockings, a flash of her lips, anything to hold in my mind’s eye so later I might remember.
“Count,” she said again. I sighed and did as she said, knowing just what would happen, but hoping she might surprise me. The second I finished I turned in a rush, looking up and down the empty hallway for a glimpse of who she might be. A few couples wandered up and down, and an old man sat on the stairs to the food court with a paper bag in one hand holding a bottle.
Seconds later my phone buzzed, and I fished it from my pocket. I closed my eyes for just a moment before walking back up the sloping hall to find her. Was it true, and if not, why would someone bother to make it up? And who tells a stranger a story under the whispering arch of Grand Central Station at three in the afternoon?
As I made my way back to find my date, every woman I passed was a voice whispering in the dim light of the station.
(You can find and support more of my writing here: Guy New York)
The last few months have seen some big changes and some wonderful memories. I moved to two days a week at my office so I can focus mostly on writing, and I’m halfway through two new novels: Beertown and The Oyster Hunters.
I got Piper a TENS unit for her birthday, we went out for some fancy drinks, and of course ate a whole ton of oysters. And I even got to see some snow up north over the holidays. All in all it’s been good changes even if they come with their own stresses.
Here are photos from the last month or so that kind of sum up what I’ve been doing.