Page 39 - Titanic: Forbidden Stories Hollywood Forgot

Titanic! 25

outdistancing itself and her sister ship, Olympic.
The Stoker stripped naked to his boots. Edward
shucked his clothes and shoes. A sailor started rapping
a rhythmic tattoo on the iron railing in time to the rods
pistoning the huge engines. The Stoker was a stroker,
wrapping both big hands around his cock, squeezing out
a third handful, vein-popping the bulbous mush room
head, its piss-slit dripping translucent 40-weight lube
webs. His was a savage cock, primitive, animal, evolved
somehow, from the mountain giants of Eastern Europe
into a steel-hard, mechanized pis ton. The way his ox-
driving ances tors wielded their barbarian swords, the
Stoker aimed his ram at Edward like some unspeakable
industrial weapon.
I fairly swooned.
Lucky Eddy Weddy. Was he ever ready for this?
Oh, my, yes. The Stoker, I knew, was the stuff of
Edward’s dreams. No matter his politics.
No sooner did I take my own hard cock in my hand
than a hand some young sailor, blond as Melville’s angelic
Billy Budd, dived mouth-first on it, freeing me to grope
the cocks standing hard out all about us, every eye fixed
on the Stoker, double-fisting his animal cock. Edward,
who knelt only to royalty, recognized the regal superiority
of the noble savage, and fell to his knees, his own 10-inch
cock stiff enough to fly the colors, his mouth open as wide
as a choir boy stuck on the jaw-dropping fourth note of
“Oh, Holy Night.”
The Stoker roared.
The crowd roared.
Titanic roared.
I feared for Edward’s life and limb, but I knew he’d die

©Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved
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