Perhaps it’s easiest to think of P.S. Haven as the director/producer of low-budget, sexploitation B-movies. He seems to operate under the delusion he’s doing just that. Each is released not on drive-in movie screens or late-night cable television, but rather via the written word, in erotica anthologies, in novels, and on the internet.
Seventeen tales are offered as evidence here in It Rhymes With Luck: The Erotic Fiction of P.S. Haven, including three never-before-published stories. The works in this anthology are sweaty, cramped, and contorted in the backseat. These stories stink of guilt and revenge and 103-octane. They get under your nails like grit and under your skin like regret. In these tales we’ll escape with a wife streaking across the wide-open desert, wondering if what she’s running toward might be worse than what she’s running from. We’ll wait outside locked doors and listen for sounds we don’t really want to hear on the other side. We’ll watch dirty movies of people with secret identities. We’ll lust after chromed ladies long gone and cloned pin-ups from the future. We’ll get skin-tight with tattooed bad boys. We’ll do it on the hood, in the kitchen, in our big sister’s bedroom. We’ll do it ourselves when we’re not paying someone to do it for us. We’ll fight evil and sometimes let it win. We’ll take it just a little too far. We’ll remember what it was like.
These are stories of men and women obsessed, in the wrong place or the wrong time. And that’s just how they like it. It Rhymes With Luck is about what people do when fantasy and reality lie too far apart.
Eventually, I know, it will no longer be enough just to get them to attack me. I know there will soon need to be more of a challenge. The only uncertainty is whether or not they’ll take no for an answer. And, really, that’s out of my control. All I can do is lead them to pussy and then tell them they can’t drink. How they react to that is entirely up to them. And, as hard as it was for me to believe at first, most of them accept it. They’re not happy about it, of course, but they deal with it. It’s certainly not the first time they’ve had to. Not the ones I pick, anyhow. Sure, most of them call me the typical names and maybe even feel like hitting something. But they rarely hit me. Not even the ones who don’t take no for an answer. Which is good. Because I don’t like getting hit. I only want to get fucked.
He puts his finger to his lips and tells me the walls are really thin and Old Lady Mearle next door complains a lot. Mrs. Mearle is watching Wheel of Fortune. I survey his apartment, map the direction back to the front door, make sure there’s nothing to trip over. Mental bread crumbs. He clamps his big hands over my shoulders and bends me over the sofa. I tell him not to, tell him I don’t want to, and he reaches under my skirt and snatches my panties down, leaving them stretched like a hammock between my thighs.
In the bar, I had told him I wanted to fuck him. In his car, I told him I hadn’t sucked a cock that big since eighth grade. And he loved that. But now, I’m pleading with him to stop. And he loves that, too. But just for a moment I’m afraid my protests are too sincere, my act too convincing. But he’s beyond convincing. I struggle to get up but he’s ridiculously stronger. He tells me not to struggle, tells me not to be scared, he promises he won’t hurt me. I’m not scared, and I want to tell him so. He doesn’t scare me. None of them do. And that’s the problem.
He’s surveying me, sizing me up, I can feel it. It doesn’t get much more naked than knowing someone can see your asshole. I hear his belt buckle hit the floor and he takes the suspenders of my garter belt into his fists like reins. Every individual hair on my body bristles. He nudges the head of his cock against my asshole. Inside. He runs it in like a blade, the full weight of his body on me, forcing it all the way in. He hunches over and starts sawing away, his thrusts just fast enough to keep me from getting used to the size. Instinctively I reach behind me and clutch at the empty air, begging him to stop, tip-toeing on that line of too genuine and not genuine enough.
And, like every other time, I inevitably wonder: is this the time the novelty finally wears off? Is this the time I finally get enough? It’s an uncomfortable thought, but I can’t help but think it. I wonder what I can do to bring the excitement back. I wonder if I need him to hurt me. Hold me hostage. Put me in the emergency room.