Page 38 - Titanic: Forbidden Stories Hollywood Forgot

24 Jack Fritscher

the circle of voyeurs grew. His hairy white thighs, un-
touched by coal-grime, glowed with sweat in the red light.
His dick was so long and so hard, it hung like a gal-
vanized pipe three-quarters of the way down his thigh.
The man was hung with a horsecock crossbred with bull
balls. A groan, a sigh, and slight applause rose from the
au dience who’d given up betting for mastur bating. It was
obvious. Ed ward and the Stoker, two different classes of
men, were as perfect an odds-on match as Titanic was
for the North Atlantic.
“When I beat you, young gen tleman, sir,” the Stoker
said. He appreciated Edward’s cock and cockiness. “You
will stay with me for 24 focking hours below decks in
the hold, in the boiler room, maybe even in chains in the
brig, just so you see, young gentleman, how men like you
make men like us live.”
Edward, ever the knightly aristocrat, picked up the
gauntlet. He hated socialism and bolshevism; he took on
the Stoker’s dare as if the laborer were the devil Trotsky
himself. As an American man, matched, mmm, “mar ried,”
in great subtlety, to a bit of a British snob, I had to listen
at tea to such lordly politics with feigned sympathy, when,
I, like Molly Brown, much preferred the social leveling
of the bedroom where everyone, Astor and Guggenheim,
ends up horizontal, even as, I bet, Trotsky himself, with
his legs in the air.
How could Edward not win for losing on the Stoker’s
dare? Edward either took the Stoker’s 14-fat-inches down
his throat, and, mind you, up his ass, or he had to spend
a day and a night in the hold getting up to the Stoker’s
“focking” speed, outdistancing his old sculling records,
the way Titanic, slicing through the still, cold waters was

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