Lost Chances - by Parker Briggsmore

Here's a poem from Parker. We're pretty sure he wrote it BEFORE the Brothel came about, and then submitted it to the site, but whatever. We don't care. If you like poems, you might like it. -KV

LOST CHANCES

Parker Briggsmore

Lost chances

Shifting stances,

Half spoken words remaining prolonged glances

Moments,

like sliding doors,

derailing romances,

when they pass,

With quickly spoken nonsense

into the past,

and do not fade,

rather, last and linger.

Strings on the finger that tap my brain at night

As I stay awake and contemplate

Failures to communicate

feelings that dominate

the Universe that exists in the cell of my soul grown cold

in the absence of the rise of its moon,

and too soon

the scenario threatens to repeat again,

and again

and again,

but...

this time…

from my lowered heights,

I do ascend.

Rising past walls built up to defend

with love in my heart

to mend

a wound in my soul,

taking control of what fate has foretold,

me and you together,

forever,

growing old,

two fragments finally whole.

And in this script,

I gladly play my role

So I take my chance…

Offering half a smile and a prolonged glance

giving you everything for a little romance.

and as I look into your eyes and you look back

risking the present to banish the past,

I know,

that all the words of love that were never said,

will be spoken at last.

-PB

Microsoft Desires Heterosexual Males to Change Sexual Orientation

We're not what you might call "proud" of this piece, but it received some nice words and a few fans, and so, here it is, edited like a motha, 'cause apparently we didn't know how to write real good back then. And by "we" I mean me. -KV

MICROSOFT HARD AT WORK, TURNING STRAIGHT MEN GAY
by Klaus Varley

If you are a man, Microsoft wants to make you gay.

That's right, gay as in homosexual, not as in happy. If you're happy and homosexual, all the better, but, like always, Microsoft cares not if you are happy, regardless of your sexual orientation.

But why is it their desire to turn all men gay? Do they feel gay men are more likely to take advantage of their paying services and not stand up and fight against the giant monopoly?

No. Homosexuals and people who support queer rights have a history of activism and vocal dissonance. There must be another reason.

Well, it's common knowledge that every guy who works at Microsoft is a nerd. Now, I know there are many nerds who are sweet and nice and who DO get laid. Yet these specific nerds can't get laid even when they pull in two-fifty a year, because when they approach a woman in a bar and say (in the cool voice practiced in the mirror oh so many lonely Saturday nights) "hey, I work at Microsoft," all they gets is laughter. Sad laughter. The laughter only a fellow Microsoft nerd can understand.

It was here, in the early days of Microsoft, before Windows XP, before Gates met Bono, the real conspiracy behind Microsoft was born; the wheels set in motion by a young group of programmers. One fateful Friday night they were gathered around a table for their weekly Dungeons and Dragons "battle" when Timothy spoke up.

Timothy: We should be getting laid right now.

Everyone: *Groans.

Timothy: Seriously, why aren't we all getting laid? We run this fucking world!

That's when Christian, (who adopted the Elfin name Rijiu) the level-headed guy of the group, interjected:

Christian: Timothy, it is simply not that simple. (Chuckles from the crowd at his clever wordplay.) Though our jobs are financially profitable, that does not make us sexy.

Timothy: Well what makes us sexy Rijiu? Elfin names?

Christian (irritated): Obviously NOT Elfin names, you crepuscular neophyte, and Timothy, or should I say Storm Trooper #6, you're out of line!

This flurry of incongruity disrupted a bookish looking gent with a twelve-sided die in his hand. Negative energy had flooded the room, and he didn't like it. It was, after all, a very important time in the game.

BLGWTSD (Bookish Looking Gent With a Twelve-Sided Die): Please guys, I'm about to unlock the goblet of Archimedes.

BLGWTSD is ignored.

Timothy: Did you just refer to me as a nondescript member of the Dark Side??!!

Christian: That I did, Jaba helper #3.

Timothy: You have NO RIGHT to do that! I am a person! I have a name! Look at you..you're just some, some Elf! Your real name's Christian!

Christian: Do not disrespect the Elfin code! You have disrupted the primal order by referring to me by my human name! My wrath is-

That was when Marcus, who is sometimes, but not often, referred to as the "jokester," chimed in:

Marcus: We'd be getting laid if all the other men in the world were gay.

Silence fell over the room. Like most deeply humorous things, people laughed because what Marcus had said was funny, and also because it was true.

Timothy: How do we do that?

The following Monday the rainbow butterfly was born. It fluttered and floated around the screen, becoming the symbol for Microsoft.

Timothy (rejoicing): I can see them parading in the streets already! Poontang, here I come!

Also, that was the time when they needed to create an online e-mail service for the company.

Timothy: A name, we need a name.

Christian: I got it.

Christian, high on his epiphany sent out a mass ICQ for all programmers from previous Friday's D&D game to meet in his office. Once gathered, he unveiled his master-thought:

Christian: We'll call it "hotmail."

Collective laughter filled the room and then cheers of joy. Christian had indeed stumbled upon something great, something spectacular, something that comes along only once in lifetime in this lonely, lonely world. He sat back in his chair and smiled, imagining the hordes of heterosexual males who would flock to "Hotmail" (pronounced HOT MALE) to "check" their e-mail (pronounced E-MALE). Yep, pretty soon he'd be the only one not drinking a fruity cocktail at the bars and females? Well, they'd come to him.

Amongst the cheering revelers, only one noticed Christian. One face emerged out of the crowd, bringing with it a fragile twenty-something body. The feeble twenty-something stood at Christian's desk and stuck out its hand. It was Timothy.

Timothy: Good job, Rijiu.

Rijiu: Thank you, Luke.

They shook, drawing out the handshake, longer and longer eventually turning it into a mock competition, enjoying the brief pain they felt here, locked hand in hand, shaking long and hard; these heterosexual men who were about to get laid. It was glorious day in the Microsoft world.

And it was only the beginning.

-KV

Hooking Up by Kat Bannister

As you can tell from the references (Reality Shows, Snoop Dogg, hey, wait a sec...) this was one of the first pieces on The Brothel. In fact, "Hooking Up" always attracted a steady number of visitors. Most of this traffic was from guys searching "hooking up." But it's still a good read. -KV

HOOKING UP
Kat Bannister

The clock strikes 2 as I stumble into my apartment from a night out with my girlfriends. I throw off my dancing shoes, fling my clothes onto the easy chair next to my bed and pull on some sweats. I turn on my computer and log onto the net to check my email. Immediately, an instant message pops onto my screen. It's my friend Mike, a late-night online junkie.

"So did you hook up?" he asks, tacking on a little yellow happy face at the end of his sentence.

"No," I answered, and swiftly typed in my Hotmail password. I groaned as I viewed the slew of junk mail, all advertising porn sites, littering my in-box. Gotta check out that new inbox-protector feature.

"What do you mean you didn't hook up? That's the whole point of going out!"

I am perplexed by the attitude people have about bar-hopping, clubbing, partying, whatever. It's like an automatic brain response: PARTY ->HOOK UP-> SEX. As if hooking up and sex were necessary conditions for doing anything remotely fun.

But then again, I look at the world today and suddenly, I'm not so surprised. Ideas of sex pervades our everyday existence. We can't escape it. Turn on the TV and Temptation Island, whose sole purpose is to get couples to cheat on each other, is the highest-rated show of the week. And one thing I've always wondered-who actually wins on this show? The couple who remains monogamous, thus defeating the whole purpose of being on an island full of scantily-clad women and buff men? Or the person who hooks up with everyone else on the island and goes home without (a) girlfriend (b) boyfriend or (c) both. But with (a) disease or (b) bun in the oven (take your pick). And people wonder why I hardly watch TV.

The next morning, I'm flipping radio stations during rush hour traffic. Just when I think I've escaped the maws of Temptation Island, I find out that a segment of the morning show on KIIS has been dedicated to "Temptation Station." I turn to Power 106 and Snoop Dogg is singing (if you can call it singing) about f-cking someone in his Lincoln Continental rental car. Ditto for 100.3 The Beat. Jamie and Danny on Star are taking phone calls from women who's love interests happen to be prison inmates. Supposedly, the newlywed couple can request permission from the warden to visit the prison's "Honeymoon Trailer" after the nuptials. Disgusted with the variety of topics being discussed on my palette of morning radio stations, I switch to my CD's for the rest of the drive into work.

But just as I pull around the corner and approach the parking garage, a billboard image hurls itself at my car windshield. Angelina Jolie and some other actor I don't know are posed with provocative looks in their eyes. "Original Sin" is the title. Just great. I'll pass and maybe watch my Disney movies instead. But then again, I've heard rumors that certain scenes in "Aladdin" contain explicit sibliminal messages-sweet nothings that you would never imagine Aladdin whispering into Jasmine's ear (Or is it him and the monkey? Hey, you never know).

One would think that their own home would be safe from the ways of the world-that is, as long as you don't turn on the TV or the radio, log onto the Internet, answer the phone, open the mail or look out the window. But at our Thanksgiving family dinner, this had to be the first question out of my aunt's mouth:

"So Kat, are you dating anyone?" She swirled a bit of cranberry sauce into her mashed potatoes with her fork.

"No."

She gave me a look. "Why not? Not interested in anyone?" Translation: "Why not? Is something wrong with you?"

I tried to explain to her that I actually preferred not to be in a relationship because I was going away to law school and I had no idea where I was going to be in the next several months. But she obviously found my reasoning to be flawed:

"Honey, no one knows where they're going to be in six months. You should just date around. For pete's sake you don't have to marry 'em."

As I gnawed on my turkey leg, my dear aunt then proceeded to lecture me on how she once had a friend who was so picky she didn't get married until she was 28.

Twenty-eight! What a shame. By 28, my life is almost over. For sure, all my eggs will have dried up by then.

Actually I was surprised that she didn't just come straight out and ask me "Are you a lesbian?" like my mom did one time at the dinner table (she justified the question by kindly pointing out that I hadn't had a boyfriend in a while-or at least not one that she knew about).

Is it our attitudes that have infused the ideas of hooking up and casual sex into every aspect of our lives? Or is it TV, radio, movies, and other elements of pop culture that have turned our society into sex-crazed lunatics? Perhaps we will never know. Don't get me wrong. I think a relationships and sex are both beautiful things. In fact, I think they are among some of the best things in life. But not when it's always in your face, in the most perverted forms. Forget the idea that sex is the most intimate physical act that two people who have devoted their hearts and souls to each other can have. Our world has seemed to have retrogressed to the extent that we look at relationships as something to gratify our short-term desires. In looking at pop culture today, it seems as if we have begun to view sex the same way that animals do-as mere satisfaction of our primal, physical urges.

If you ask me, I'd take singleness anyday.

-Kat Bannister

Old School Time: Baseball Stars on the NES

In the introduction it appears this will be the start of a series of writings about Nintendo games. I believe this is what some refer to as "good intentions," and others "foolish proclamations." Who knows, it could still happen...?? -KV

BASEBALL STARS
Klaus Varley

(This is the first piece in a series of writings dedicated to Nintendo games we loved and cherished in our youth, and dominate today. The games that so eagerly took away those “precious” moments between the ages of 8 and...20? Okay, 5 and 29. Damn. I knew there's a reason I don’t use integers.)

Needless to say, that without the countless hours frivoled away in front of a viewing screen day after day, year after year, we would all be geniuses by now. (Geniusi? - The prosecution rests.) I've ponder how my life would be different had I enthusiastically dedicated two to three hours per day - including weekends and especially on Sundays - to a practical hobby. Had these hours gone to guitar, I would not be writing this late on a Friday night, instead rapping up the post-gig party after my set at the Hollywood Bowl. Romeo Blue opened for me, and though he was solid, he should drop that pseudonym. Your real name ain't bad, kid.

If not guitar, something, anything, would have filled the video-game void and given me an admirable trait: one I could flash like a badge to the bouncers of the coolest clubs; one to boast about on Internet dating sites; one that would make me very, very wealthy – or at least emotionally stable.

Or would it?

The point is, Baseball Stars is a great game. Let me explain.

The history of Baseball Stars is…something…I have neither the time nor the patience to explain. (Nor do I know the history nor where to research it – nor how to use “nor” properly. Yes, I tried the Internet, but you’d be surprised at all the things you CAN’T find on the Internet: namely, the history of Baseball Stars. If it were the history of pom-pom girls, that would be a different story and on a different site. Although that article would probably better suit a site called “The Literary Brothel” than an article about a rustic video game.)

Historically ambiguous, the game works as follows: Create your own team, naming the fellers one by one and battle the established crews thematically crafted by the brilliant programmers at SNK. And then you…play other teams. That’s about it. Make team; play other teams. You can also buy replacement athletes from an infinite pool of athletes that at age thirteen I christened, “The Amazing Abyss of Wannabe Stars,” but now just call the pool of players. How we lose our imagination in our age.

Or do we?

To this day I start by creating a team of my closest friends with some shred of athleticism. I’m the coach of course. I’m always the coach. “Klaus” used to be on the team, but if Klaus were too good, Klaus would feel guilty and want to take the virtual Klaus aside to say, “Look man, you're in with the team creator, so don’t go showing off. The other players might resent you. Stop kicking so much butt, this is a team sport.” So, I reside to work my magic behind the scenes. The jealousy and inner-group conflict of that digital butt kisser “Klaus” is assuaged. No one gets crucified on my watch. Not even virtually.

Yet at the end of the day, it’s about friends. Sit down and imagine them together, on the field – having the time of their lives. Friends I see once a day to friends I see once a year, all on-screen as two dimensional, blobby white guys, even if in reality they are not white, or guys (or two dimensional). I tell Perhach to dive and he dives. Frooz turns two like a champ, and Yee…Yee!!? Yee keeps popping out! Dammit Yee, we’re a line drive team! Quit going for the fences!

When the only resemblance are the names, it takes a little imagination. In the end though, I’m playing a game with my old friends.

All except Yee. He’s off the squad. Better luck next year, kid.


-KV

On Free Boobies - by Mary Allen

This was one of Mary's first pieces for our site, and one of the most popular posts. It's popularity was likely boosted by keywords such as "boobies" and "free," but nevertheless is an enjoyable read. It has been edited from the original, and yes, does contain adult content. What did you expect from a place called The Literary Brothel? -KV

On Free Boobies
by Mary Allen

Ever been with a friend after a football game, no plans and wondering what to do? Ever said, "Ok" to your friend's question, "Do you want to see boobies?" Have you ever been a girl in the above situations? Well, that was me this past Saturday night.

After the recent tragic and miscalled UCLA-Stanford game, Jeff and I looked to alcohol. A little unfamiliar with the area, we picked up the SF Weekly to find a comedy club or a cool band. After our fifteenth time thumbing through the Weekly, Jeff asks if I'm game to "see free boobies." I figured that if I ever want to complain about those vulgar establishments, I better know what I was arguing over, so I went along with the idea. Or maybe, I really did want to see "free boobies." Who knows for sure?

We found parking and walked. The outside was swanky: metal nouveau detail and a nice man with a suit opens the door for us. The woman inside seemed peeved when we mention, "Couples get in free before ten." (Ha ha! I'm not paying for something that I can get for free at home.)

The inside was velvet 1950's chairs, dim lighting, a water wall straight out of Sharper Image, neon signs, a full bar, and girls. All kinds of girls: three women were coupled in the crowd, nicely clad servers wandered about, and the dancers. I was ready to be turned on.

The female body is incredibly beautiful and I will readily point out a sexy woman when I see one. But four of the twelve girls performing would have been defined as "Rubenesque" in the late 19th century and "Plus Sized" at the end of the last. Two others had attractive bodies, not as round as some, but danced fairly well. One girl, Fire, shimmied up the dancing bar and doing acrobats worthy of a trapeze artist off of the L-shaped beam at the top of the pole. While I didn't find this the least bit appealing, I can certainly see how some men would be quite excited by a woman who is double jointed. Wow.

But most of the girls I really can't remember, since they bordered on the bland and boring. I did give a dollar tip to a woman who didn't take all of her clothes off. But I had to place it in her thong. That was mildly disconcerting. She did have a nice tan and no stretch marks though.

Jeff asked me if I would be "willing to have her boobies rubbed in (my) face" if he paid the $20 fee. My reply was something to the effect of "I don't think so." But after a couple more attempts at getting anyone to rub the oft-said "boobies" in my face, he revealed that it wasn't that he wanted to see it happen, but only because he wanted blackmail material, to hold the boobie-rubbing incident over me for the rest of my adult life. I sat firmly in my chair after that.

One of the dancers came over and we had a five minute conversation. It turns out that she's been dancing for 5 years, dances only 1 night a week, has another part time job, and is a mother. If Jeff and I wanted a dance, her rates were $20 for one song or $100 for a half hour. Nice. She added that I should sit closer to the stage to get more attention. I did, only to be blinded by more obnoxious disco lights and the chuckling faces of the dancers as they stumbled across the stage in their insanely awkward heels.

Overall, I was a little disappointed by my strip club experience. The alcohol was strong but outrageously priced, the girls weren't that pretty, and the seedy individuals I looked to mock weren't present. The most notable part of the evening was the fact that I was relieved of $16.75 for the two drinks, a tip, and thong money. So much for "free boobies."

Addendum:

On my six hour drive home the next day, I had time to think about it: Most of the women dancing or sitting in men's laps were not pretty. In fact, the one woman who did stand out was plain-faced but loved what she was doing. Or at least, that's what she appeared to be feeling. She enjoyed her body and had fun on the stage.

That was the one residual idea that came out of the evening's entertainment. The fact that if you enjoy who you are, no matter what your occupation or your body image, and you have fun living your life, you end up being sexy to someone. And if Jeff's eagerness, in addition to most of the other classier men in the establishment is to be believed, that trick works.

I'm not going to rush out and make a purchase at Trashy Lingerie, but I think I have spent enough time in vinyl to realize that I think I could do what Amber or Sabrina or Summer did. And maybe I can't get my leg over my head or shimmy up a 12 foot pole, but I think I can strut my stuff with relative ease. As long as I don't wear 7-inch stilettos with a one-inch platform base. While I don't think you'll find Mary at the Spearmint Rhino anytime soon, a couple of lucky individuals might see a very different side of her. See you soon, boys.

-MA

I am Boris Salvador

"Boris" was one of the original voices on the brothel, and this is his profile. It is also one of the few things he ever got around to writing. We all were a little pretentious back then, but Boris was slightly more than 'a little.' - KV

I Am Boris Salvador
Boris Salvador

It came to me in a dream one night. Whether it is of divine origins or merely the bad-tempered grumbling of a stomach incensed over a THC induced late night snack of two corndogs and several cans of pear juice, I cannot say. It isn't even important where the name came from, rather, it is its existence that is relevant.

A name such as this is not formed or created, it is realized. It is perfection resolved in the unending chaos that is this life and conferred upon one worthy to bear its essence. A man who can match, in intrinsic power, the name which is so rightfully his. A man who can bear the weight of the magenta neon-lighted sign that this moniker requires. A man who will not be burned by white hot filaments, which infused with a power heretofore unknown, burst free of structured glass and sing unto the heavens in their rapturous demise. I am that man.

I am Boris Salvador.

Five Quotes We Like from Tolstoy, Salinger, Morrison, Fitzgerald, and Ferlinghetti

From 2001 - 2004, on the main page of The Literary Brothel we would put up a quote (with comments) and keep it there until we got sick of it. Sometimes that was hours. Other times, months. Now we've got thirty or forty of these life-changing wisdom nuggets just lying around, blocking the entryway. Like tribbles.

And so, The Literary Brothel presents the first installment of a series we mysteriously call "Five Quotes We Like" where we will publish five of those quotes from our archive at one time.

WARNING: Read at your own risk (of enlightenment)

Five Quotes We Like - Part I: Writers Tell Us Things About Life

“Remember then: there is only one time that is important—Now! It is the most important time because it is the only time when we have any power.”

-Leo Tolstoy

"I was damn near bawling, I felt so damn happy, if you want to know the truth."

-Holden Caulfield, The Catcher in the Rye

“What they did know was that you couldn’t go anywhere without stepping in their pearly shit, and it was hard to hand up clothes, pull weeds or just sit on the front porch when robins were flying and dying all around you.”

-Toni Morrison, from Sula

"His wife (The Literary Brothel) was shrill, languid, handsome and horrible."

-F. Scott Fitzgerald, from The Great Gatsby (parentheses our own)

"We mix drinks out of the insane liquors of the imagination and are perpetually surprised that no one staggers."

-Lawrence Ferlinghetti

The Original Literary Brothel Greeting

Below is our original front page from 2001, now edited (because geez, we used to swear a lot). The "Brothel Forum" mentioned is long defunct. I don't remember why we shut it down, but I do remember the tears. Lots and lots of tears. - KV

Greetings:

Welcome to the Literary Brothel. A place where we air our grievances, concerns, desires, and all non-rational thoughts we might have. A place where we whore out the deepest and most intimate details of our lives, exposing them for public ridicule in exchange for a little bit of internet fame. But mostly it is a forum for us to write about everything that pisses us off or makes us laugh or both. So read on and enjoy!

Submissions Wanted:

Feel free to submit Poetry, Screenplays, Treatises, or general social commentary and we (or one of our computer friends with a future) will post it on the page. Let the praises and insults of the internet public be the flame in which your character is forged. And if your creativity is best stimulated in the demeaning of another's work then feel free to do so in the Brothel Forum. If you're offended by the stuff you read here, sorry, but we're angry, hate filled people, who will stop at nothing to convert you to our way of thinking... God Bless.

Lunch Hour Enlightenment

Here's a little piece by Aine Brigit, published back in 2001. We liked it back then, and we like it now. As Aine gets paid to edit, we asked her to take a look at it.

"I made just a couple minor changes. Omigod I was so lame back then." -Aine Brigit

The fact that Aine still starts sentences with "Omigod" leads us to believe that perhaps "back then" was not so long ago. -KV

Lunch Hour Enlightenment
by Aine Brigit

Lately all I do is search. Search for meaning, search for an answer, search on the Internet for people who are like me. I search the bookstore for some tome that can tell me how to find happiness. The other day I found myself at Borders in the self-help section and thought, “What the hell am I doing here? I hate people who read self-help books!”

Now on my lunch hour I walk the two blocks to a public garden that has vast expanses of grass and flowers, and is secluded from the street. After weeks of rain the sun has come out. I sit alone on stone steps and open my book. Yet I do not read. I look around and absorb rather than feel the surrounding greenery and the sun on my skin and I realize that this is what I have been looking for. Or at least part of it.

When I was a child, I used to lie in a grassy field. In the springtime, the weeds were so high that I was hidden in my own little world. I would stare at the blue sky and watch bugs crawl up green stems. I can't remember having had any such peace recently. Perhaps I have forgotten what has always been my mantra, my own cherished philosophy: true happiness is in simple things and is most easily found in nature.

Recent months have found me struggling daily to better myself, in the hopes that then I will feel better and squelch the emptiness inside. But it strikes me at this moment that just sitting in the sun and examining the shape of the trees can fill that hole better than anything else.

Don't worry, I don't intend to change my name to Butterfly and go live in a tree. That's already been done and I don't like Birkenstocks. And I know that whatever is missing from my life will not be instantly found in a ray of light.

But as the cheerful sun warms my skin, I hear the call of a bird that I recognize from those days in the grass of my youth. I listen, smile, and feel a whole lot better.

-Aine Brigit