ON THE SATIN SHEET
18 HOUR WANKATHON
SANTA’S BAD JESUS
BACK OF THE QUEUE
MUDDY ANGEL, DARK DOMAIN
AUSCHWITZ vs 731
4 are finished, 3 have yet to be started, and 5 are well underway. You are only as good as your last production. This one is going to be the shortest of all, hardly long enough to be called a book, really, but maybe it will be put to use as part of something longer. Forget chunky novels though; they are like three-hour films.
Why am I writing rude? The answer is simple: It’s just the stage where I’m at. It’s called 50% Rude because I’m 50% Rude. It’s all about contrast and context: The sweet and the sour. In previous plots, this concept has been intermingled, but now it’s divided equally into two halves. I’ve emerged from the foggy confusion of my distortion phase (THE VIOLENT ARSONIST), with all its seductive shades of grey, and am now back to painting the world either black or white.
I’ve been accused of selling out, by wearing the rude label. I see it more as buying in. But my general rule of thumb is of course no blood, goats or kids. I prefer friskiness. Naughtiness. Like in the old black and white movies, the suggestion of sex is so much sexier than the sex itself. With most modern movies now the fake sex scenes equal cringe-time big-time, apart from the odd super-realistic few which work almost too well! The movies Red Road and Fishtank by British director Andrea Arnold come to mind. Also, and this may be unrelated, but I can’t help but chuckle at the prospect of an unsuspecting teen couple on their first date together going to watch the extreme Last House On The Left at the cinema, thinking they are in for just another spooky movie!
So on one hand I’m submitting to and embracing the rude half of my inner being, or writing with my penis, if you like (wouldn't that make for a swell party trick), but on the other I’m leaving it out of the equation altogether. The idea was that the second half of these stories would be purer of the heart and soul, done this way. It’s kind of like a chemical distillation process. Stolen Escort should hopefully shine with the beauty of a person trying to write a love story not really old enough to know what true rude even means. In such company, it should shine brighter than it normally would in a similar-minded collection of non-rude stories. A whole book full of love and happiness is too goddamn much; the other night, during a soppy movie, I was secretly praying for a stalk n slash character to burst onto the screen and lob off Pierce Brosnan’s head with something out of a toolbox. But in the midst of dark loveless horror, the faintest touch of genuine romance can have just the same effect.
In association with Big Don