This odd improvisational experiment began as a dialogue in the comments between me and Mothergooch, and has grown into… something else. After you read the beginnings of our improvisational romance novel, feel free to add your own input to the story in the comments. Don’t worry about consistency, just try to stay true to who you perceive the characters to be. We’ll see where — and in how many different directions — it winds up, but this is how it began:
Mothergooch: Sinner or saint, we can never be sure which Salome we are going to get.
Salome Valentine: This sounds like the opening to a deliciously trashy romance novel.
MG: His body was hard — not hard like Milosevic, the Serbian strongman, but hard like the marble on your shower floor, when you fall and bang your knee.
SV: His member was hard: not hard like marble, but hard like he’d taken a fistful of blue pills roughly four hours earlier.
MG: He tore open her blouse like a Publisher’s Clearing House letter in which he and some guy named Steven Bouber from Stockton, California, were potential finalists for the ten-million-dollar prize.
SV: She felt no self-consciousness when he tore open her blouse, because her plastic surgeon had assured her that the implants she recently purchased could withstand a direct fall onto a marble floor, or the hardness of a Serbian strongman.
MG: He awakened her slumbering womanhood with his double tall loin latte. “Starbuck!” she cried.
SV: “No, my name is Santiago,” he replied in an irresistible and nearly incomprehensible accent as he moved her to operatic ululations with his manly thrusts.
MG: Claire felt swept away by this dark stranger, a helpless dust bunny in the roaring cacophony of his gas-powered leaf blower.
SV: Internal explosions like really bad gas – but far more pleasurable – coursed through her body as Santiago played her body like a master playing a cheap violin.
JohnDoeche: Sated like pensioners at a cheap Chinese buffet, they lay and stared into each others’ eyes wondering who would go to the bathroom first.
ChipsRafferty: As Santiago took the cigarette from his lips, its glow was reflected in his gold teeth making him look like an Inca deity.
MG: He gently doubled her entendre like a powerful and mildly awkward simile.
CR: Claire moved closer but Santiago moved away. She slid in closer still, only to find he was just giving up the wet spot.
CR: As they drifted off to a sated slumber, Santiago heard Claire whisper in her last semi-waking moment. It was the name of a long lost lover, or perhaps the man who drove her to despair. It sounded like…. El Goooche. Santiago turned over, disappointed, and ever so gently farted, while thinking, “Man, I gotta lighten up on the Mexican caviar.”
Alluson: Claire, uncomfortable by the growing dampness against her hip, started awake as she imagined the distinct aroma of dead fish eggs. She stared at the soft outline of Santiago’s hairy moob and began to ponder if she had in fact made a grave mistake.
SV: Santiago’s moob was, in fact, a carefully sculpted pectoral muscle, but Claire was too inebriated from orgasms to recognize this fact. Eventually, he knew that she would succumb to his charms, stay with him even without the restraints, and allow him to make sweet love to her again, once the effects of the chloroform wore off.
