Shipwreck SF: Pygmalion

My comfort zone is pretty safely ensconced in my apartment. Every once in awhile, I venture outside, only to be horrified by “people” and “things.”

This was one of those times. For those of you unfamiliar with Shipwreck, it’s an event where six writers submit “erotic” “fanfiction” (aka: hilarious smut–not sincere porn) about an assigned book, movie, or play.

I threw my name into the ring, and oh, hey, I survived (this isn’t a small thing–it was the first time my non-legal writing has ever been read in public). I also came in third. This is not going to stop me: I WILL NOT STOP UNTIL I WIN.

My friends came out and supported me, too!

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I wrote for the Pygmalion Shipwreck, and was assigned the character of Alfred Doolittle. Here is my extraordinarily NSFW story!

Alfred Doolittle was furiously engaging in hand-to-gland combat in the foyer of the Higgins home, when he felt the edges of his world shake and then brighten considerably.

Fuck, he thought. He knew a college student had bought the book for class, but never in his life did he think the student would ever bother to open the book and read. None of the rest of them did.

Mrs. Pearce, who was waiting to introduce him on page 24, averted her eyes. Doolittle aimed his albino asparagus at a vase and increased his furious ministrations. He had few minutes before his big entrance.

Speaking of entrances, he mused, as he watched the housekeeper bend over to brush an invisible speck of dust from the floor. “If ye keep teasin’ me like that, I’ll have to give you a bit of the old rumpy-pumpy.”

Mrs. Pearce looked at him, still bent over, and winked.

“You’ll be the seventh Mrs. Doolittle yet,” he groaned, distracted, and jetted great streams of jizz into the air.

“Mr. Doolittle!” said Mrs. Pearce. “Not on the pages!”

From far above, like the voice of a significantly stoned god, they could hear the college student grumble in frustration. “This isn’t even English,” he complained. “Tee-ooh banches o voylets trod into the mad? What the fuck does that mean?”

“Why are parts of the pages missing?” another voice asked.

“I’m just gonna read SparkNotes.”

“Dude, you know if you plagiarize again, you’ll fail.”

There was a pause before the first student sighed heavily. “Fine, but I don’t know why we have to read this old shit.”

Doolittle and Mrs. Pearce bristled. Why, their play was a scathing commentary on class conflict and conceptions of morality! It was a proto-feminist text where the Pygmalion character was such an asshole that he lost his very own Galatea! It was their author’s most revered and popular work! For heaven’s sake, Audrey Hepburn starred in their adaptation, and there was nothing white girls loved more than quoting that “happy girls are the prettiest girls” twaddle. Had this man no respect?

“This little fucker should get an F,” said Mrs. Pearce.

Doolittle agreed. Through the haze of the six pints he’d had, a plan blossomed. “Quickly, to the end notes,” he whispered. Crouched in the dark recesses where no student’s eyes would ever roam, he told her of his plan. If parts of the play were missing in this book, thanks to the splattering of his mighty man juice, then they would just have to fill them with something else.

“Won’t Higgins mind?” Mrs. Pearce asked.

“Let’s just say this student isn’t the only one who deserves an ‘F,’” said Doolittle.

Henry Higgins was an officious little twat who had long needed a good buggering, and Doolittle was just the “elderly, but vigorous” man for the job. It said so, right in the script.

It didn’t take much convincing to bend Higgins over his desk, his gentlemanly brown eye winking. “I’m wrinkling my reams of phonetic shorthand,” he said naughtily, as the page turned to 27. They engaged in their usual argument about selling Doolittle’s daughter off to Higgins, then began to fill the newly blank spaces with things that would make Taylor Swift blush.

“Listen here, Governor, you and me is men of the world, aren’t we?” asked Doolittle, stroking his custard-chucker.

“Oh! Men of the world, are we? You’d better go, Mrs. Pearce.”

“I think so indeed, sir,” she said with dignity, and ducked out to make a long-distance script-to-script call.

“The truth is, I’ve taken sort of a fancy to you, Governor. I can see you’re one of the straight sort. But if Liza is going to have a bit out of this, why not me, too?”

Pickering steepled his hands and leered.

“I don’t know what to do, Pickering,” said Higgins, wantonly presenting his ass to Doolittle like a hot Sunday roast. “I feel a sort of…rough justice in his claim.”

What the…” said the college student, underlining the text.

“I know the feeling,” Pickering nodded, giving Higgins the thumbs-up and a wink.

Doolittle thrust into Higgins’ well-lubricated mahogany pocket. “I need more.” He began his great speech about middle-class morality, all the while still launching his meat missile, like a sentient Cheeto trying to distract the American people.

“Why, this man could be a great oral-tor in Parliament,” Pickering exclaimed when both the speech and Doolittle’s joy-juicer were finished. He walked over to Doolittle and undid the buttons of his trousers. “Why don’t you talk to a very important head of state?” he asked, encouraging the dustman to drop to his knees. Doolittle slurped happily, always pleased to improve upon a classic.

“I wanted to make a proper lady out of your daughter, Doolittle,” Higgins breathed in post-orgasmic bliss, watching Doolittle lick Pickering’s moral majority, “but I truly feel that you have just made me a man.”

“This play is so gay,” said the student.

“You shouldn’t use that outdated, offensive terminology for something you dislike,” replied his friend.

“No, I—” said the student, but he was cut off by the familiar lyrics of a song from a 1975 cult classic film.

“Did someone say something about…making a man?” purred a plummy voice. The accent, of course, immediately caught Higgins’ attention, but he was too boneless to take notes.

Size 15, shiny black six-inch-tall platform heels appeared before Doolittle. His gaze traveled up two thighs clad in fishnet stockings, up, up, up, to a lab coat open just enough to show a saucy bustier underneath. Behind the imposing figure stood a fit blonde man in shiny golden short pants. He had the gentle air that only the phenomenally beautiful and incredibly stupid could possess.

Doolittle shivered with antici………………………..pation.

He raised his eyes to the perfectly coiffed Dr. Frank-N-Furter.

“Care to join us?” he asked, around Pickering’s passion pump.

Dr. Frank-N-Furter undid Doolittle’s drawers with startling efficiency. “Aren’t we forgetting someone?” he asked.

“Is it me?” asked the blonde man, flexing.

“Jesus Christ, Rocky, I’m with a patient. Besides, I told you how I feel about you talking,” snapped Dr. Frank-N-Furter.

Just then, Mrs. Pearce skidded into the room. “I locked Eliza upstairs,” she said gleefully, pushing her disheveled hair out of her face and looking up at Rocky with eyes almost as shiny as his Speedo. “So…what is it that you say in your play? Touch-a-touch-a-touch-a-toooouch me, I wanna be diiiiirty!” She hiked her skirt up and presented him with her prick purse. Rocky happily gave her the ol’ clunge plunge, right in the middle of Higgins’ room.

Dr. Frank-N-Furter sank a finger into Doolittle’s ass and chuckled triumphantly. “The doctor…is in.”

“This shit is fucked up,” said the student, dutifully taking notes anyway. Maybe it was the marijuana, but he suddenly grasped the utter offensiveness of a patriarchal establishment trying to mold women, and sometimes men, into a narrow ideal of fuckability. Maybe he should always read the book, he thought, before drifting off to sleep and forgetting everything he just learned.

Despite the characters’ best efforts, the college student didn’t get an F. At least, however, they all got a D.