Annoncering
The Greatest Things Of All Time

Frankly, We Loved Morrissey's Erotic Writing, so We Asked Him to Reimagine Some Classic Sex Scenes

How would Moz have done Ghost? And what about Titanic? Answers within.

af Oscar Rickett
24 september 2015, 4:06pm

This article originally appeared on Noisey UK.

Today, Morrissey’s novel, List of the Lost, was published. It's already been rubbished by the Guardian, but what do they know about Real Literature anyway? Clearly, they failed to see that contained within the pages of this artistic milestone was a piece of writing so extraordinary, we can only say that, on top of being the greatest lyricist of his generation, Morrissey is also one of the greatest sex writers of all time. Put down your pen E. L. James, rest in peace Lord Byron: Here, he writes of love as no other ever could:

“Eliza and Ezra rolled together into the one giggling snowball of full-figured copulation, screaming and shouting as they playfully bit and pulled at each other in a dangerous and clamorous rollercoaster coil of sexually violent rotation with Eliza’s breasts barrel-rolled across Ezra’s howling mouth and the pained frenzy of his bulbous salutation extenuating his excitement as it smacked its way into every muscle of Eliza’s body except for the otherwise central zone.”

Having read this and having then removed our jaws from the floor, and having then relieved ourselves in the office toilets for the first time in ten years, we called Morrissey up to ask him if he could re-write some of cinema’s most famous sex scenes.

He duly obliged.

Continues below

TITANIC

A nocturnal blanket hangs dark and tragic over the doomed ship Titanic, as the beautiful floppy haired Catholic boy and the fat English maid cavort in its bowels amidst the preposterous motorcars.

“To the stars, I want you to rotate on me till I have reached the stars”, gurgles the fat English maid, dragging the beautiful floppy haired Catholic boy into the back of a nearby machine. “Are you nervous”, the beautiful floppy haired Catholic boy inquires, his engorged member hammering against his woollen trousers just as I am wont to drunkenly hammer on Johnny Marr’s door late at night. “I am”, replied the fat English maid, “for I am from the land of abattoirs and Oliver Cromwell”.

The beautiful floppy haired Catholic boy removes his braces, revealing a throbbing prometheus eager for an English home. “Put your hands on me”, cries the maid, as the boy furiously buries his head in her mountainous bourgeois bosom. The monster finds its home, running crazed and wild through the warm valleys of the central zone. The windows of the motorcar steam and in the darkness, the ill-starred iceberg creeps ever nearer. Fate creeps ever nearer.


BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN

Two strutting denim boys on a hillside desolate, the cold of the night enveloping their hard, white bodies. The dark haired American lies in his tent, calls to the Australian, who lies freezing outside. In the depths of the night, the American takes the Australian’s hand, meeting the resistance of generations of sheep-butchering convicts programmed only to pummel mercilessly at the central zones of the weaker sex.

But soon they are enveloped, hitting and punching one another, spit and sawdust flying, an acoustic guitar playing sparse chords on the hillside as the brutish Australian plunges his anaconda into the central (backward) hinterland of the fey American, who gurgles with pleasure as his master takes control of him.


GHOST

The wet, sloppy clay squelched in her hands as the topless Levi’s advert man sat down abaft her, his manly hands over her womanly hands, guiding the clay into the shape of that which resided, so proud and prominent, under his tight denim jeans: the most bulbous of salutations. Squelch, squelch, went the clay, as a singing group of yesteryear warbled from the electronic Compact Disc player that had only recently been installed.

“One day I will be a ghost,” said the Levi’s man, as his hands travelled north, south, east and west over the woman’s outer zones, penetrating vistas of pleasure as unknown to her as were the rollercoasters of Florida. And as his hands smeared clay all down her frontage, so she purred as they dissolved into a montage of close harmony singing, full-bodied copulation and dynamic pot making. “I need your love”, warbled the Compact Disc player, and so did they need one another, entwined as they were in a position that would require the finest, burliest, roughest men from the Fire Department of New York to untangle them.


Y TU MAMA TAMBIEN

In the night-time heat of a Latin American bar, a siren calls to two scrawny Tenochtitlan males, their adolescent johnsons hardened to breaking point by the promise of their temptress’ hitherto unexplored central zones. But the rollercoaster they secretly wish to ride is the rollercoaster of their love for one another and as the temptress takes blow after blow on muscle after muscle from their saluting beasts, so she leads them toward each other. “Si si”, cries the scrawnier boy in vivid Aztec. “Claro que si”, purrs his companion as he takes the huge mouth of the beautiful scrawny boy and puts it on his own, exploring the insides of his deepest, darkest desires, the zones that previously he had dared not believe were even zones at all, untouched as they were by the rollercoaster that was his engorged, spasming señor.


LAST TANGO IN PARIS

A pert-breasted European mademoiselle sits atop the fat American godfather. His beer barrel breasts are larger than hers. They swing around on the mattress in the empty room beneath the Parisian ceiling as he rasps, “Maybe we can come without touching”, as the brunette, whose central zones he has invaded but not exploded.

“I shall have to invent a name for you”, she says. “I will tell you my own name”, he replies. “It is the name of the father of all art, the interpreter of dreams and the singer of working men’s hymns. It is the name of the wind in the dreams, of the rollercoaster clattering through the central zones of a generation”. “What can it be?” cries the pert-breasted European mademoiselle. “The name? The name is Morrissey.”

For legal reasons, we should add: Morrissey had absolutely nothing to do with this. You can follow the real writer, Oscar Rickett, on Twitter.