Note: This short-short story may not be as erotic as some readers would prefer, for, although its intent is to be such, it also aims at being as literary as possible; moreover, the form of the short-short, being especially–well, short–precludes the development of the tale that is necessary, in most cases, to effect the full flower of prurience.
Definition: A short-short story is often defined as a narrative of 1,000 words or less, although there is no exact length upon which everyone agrees. (Some require that a short-short must be 750 or fewer words, and others, just as adamantly–and vehemently–insist that it can attain a length of as many as 2,000 words.) Whatever its length (I have settled the issue, for myself, at 1,000 words, maximum), a short-short story will involve some sort of conflict, usually among two or more characters, and is likely to have a surprise, or “twist,” ending, effected through dramatic, situational, or verbal irony. Dialogue may certainly be present, although, because of the demand for brevity, much exposition and description will probably take precedence over not only dialogue, but also character development. Of course, an erotic short-short story also, by definition, centers upon a sexual situation of some kind. To economize, it also helps to use contractions when possible, and revise, revise, revise! Perhaps the genre is best defined by way of illustration; ergo, please see my example, below:
* * *
As a Catholic, Monica was a devout young woman, but she was also curious, and, as someone who had just celebrated her eighteenth birthday without having lost her virginity, she was curious about sex, most of all, but also, in particular, about male genitals. She'd seen pictures of them, of course, both in their “flaccid” and their “erect” states–diagrams mostly, but a few photographs as well–which her teacher, Sister Isabelle, had shown in her sex education course.
Monica also knew the basic mechanics of erection, orgasm, and ejaculation, just as she knew of God's mechanism for conception, pregnancy, delivery, and childbirth. She wasn't ignorant; in fact, it was her knowledge of such things that made her curious concerning male genitals. What she lacked, one might say, was carnal knowledge of such matters.
Monica wanted to know how a penis felt when it was soft and limp, what it felt like in a woman's hand, as she worked it into its excited state, what it felt like when it was erect. She was also curious as to what a penis might feel like between a woman's lips, facial or vaginal, or impaling her anus. Most of all, she was curious about–obsessed with, really–the question of what a man's ejaculate might taste like. Although, in her mind, she was careful to phrase her curiosity in terms of what “a woman” might experience during such activities, she meant, of course, what she herself would feel, both physically and emotionally.
Such imaginings were sinful, she knew, and she'd prayed for both forgiveness and deliverance from such thoughts. But she was flesh as much as she was spirit, and, try as she might to repress such thoughts, to “resist the devil,” that the fiend might “flee” from her, she found that these questions, thoughts, and images, continued to plague her and that, if anything, she was more curious than ever.
Because she was not willing, even in her most private and intimate thoughts, to entertain fantasies of incest, her father and brother were unacceptable even as imaginary playmates. The only other man in her life that she found attractive and as available as any other male (which is to say, in all probability, unavailable) was the priest of her church, Father Damien. Consequently, she thought often of him, sometimes even as she sat in the pew, listening to him preach. She imagined what he might look like under his robes, naked, perhaps with his penis erect.
Father was tall, dark, and handsome, with thick, curly black hair–Monica imagined that his chest and pubes, his legs, and possibly his belly, featured wiry hair of the same color–and he had broad shoulders, a deep chest, and, she'd noticed when he wasn't dressed in the splendor of his ecclesiastical robes, a compact pair of firm buttocks. As a Catholic, he'd be circumcised, although she had no way of knowing how long or thick his manly member might be (she hoped, long).
It was while listening to a sermon one Sunday that Monica conceived of a way by which she might seduce Father.
Accordingly, the next day, she went to confession with her blouse unfastened to the fourth button, wearing no brassiere, so that an ample amount of her sleek, soft bosom was displayed, and she confessed to him her sinful desires. He told her to “resist the devil,” that the foul spirit might “flee” from her, and she answered that she'd sought already, many times, to do just that, all to no avail. She adopted a desperate tone of voice and pled with him to help her, ending with the damnable suggestion that, if she were just permitted, once, to handle a man's erection, to masturbate him, and to taste his seed, she'd be cured of her vile obsession.
Horrified, he'd repeated his admonition that she abstain from sex and, above all, pray for the grace to withstand her temptations, but Monica, knowing he could not share her confessions with anyone else, repeated her visits–and her confessions–and her vile suggestions–until, at length, she'd worn Father down, and, with seeming great reluctance, he'd agreed to indulge her in her experiment.
The experience was a disappointment (for Monica, at least), for she found Father's ejaculate bitter, rather than ambrosial. Her curiosity satisfied, she told Father, she had no desire to ever try such an experiment again and prayed that she might be forgiven for indulging herself in such a manner, and at the priest's expense as well.
However, Father assured her that a change in a man's diet might transform the taste of his semen, and encouraged her to persist in her experiment, that she might, once and for all, satisfy her curiosity and so end her sinful speculations. “You might find,” he told her, “that the flavor of semen is an acquired taste.”
Dutiful in all matters of faith, Monica was happily persuaded to permit her spiritual guide to become a guide to her in matters of the flesh as well, and, as a result, found, after trying many additional samples of the priest's seed, that Father was right: the flavor of semen proved, indeed, to be an acquired taste.
* * *
Note: My short-short story, “Acquired Taste,” runs 863 words, title included, which is nearly two full fourths pages, single-spaced in 12-point New Times Roman font and with one-inch margins, or approximately three and a half pages, double-spaced.