Brenton Booth

by Horror Sleaze Trash on December 1, 2014


 Brenton Booth lives in Sydney, Australia. Poetry and fiction of his has been published in many small press publications. For a full listing visit brentonbooth.weebly .com


Long Willie was broke. At one time he was the best payed performer in the adult movie industry. His real name is Winston Chester. Originally he was discovered at a McDonald’s urinal. He was just standing there relieving himself when Eddie Hard, the famous porn producer noticed at least seven inches of soft meat on this young man. Eddie couldn’t believe it. He started up a conversation with Winston.

By the time they washed their hands he had him signed. Winston declined Eddie’s traditional handshake.

Soon after Winston began making movies (or Long Willie as Eddie had named him). He was in hot demand. It seemed like everyone wanted him, or a piece of him in their films, or bodies. He was making a fortune. He went from living on boiled rice and water, to eating a la carte and drinking single barrel whiskey. He no longer walked everywhere. He drove around in a new red sports car. And his sex life went from nowhere to never-ending. It was quite strange to Winston. He originally wanted to be a writer. He would write and write—all day and night. It was all he ever really thought about. His biggest problem was though; he never seemed to have anything to say. And although this never stopped the masses of university graduates and dropouts in the past— he wasn’t so sure. He was never  really confident about his works. He continued trying regardless. After a while the stories seemed to improve. He eventually decided that his stuff was pretty good. He began sending it to the Atlantic Monthly. They were a class publication, he thought.



He sent fourteen stories over a period of seven years. He was rejected each time. Winston’s favourite writer like most other unpublished writers was himself. No one else really compared. Apart for Henry Miller, but he needed to separate the self indulgent from the story, which at times made his stuff worse than a flared haemorrhoid.

Winston could really get great performances out of the other actors. His cock was eleven inches erect. This was before An Chuan Wu invented the penis pump and everyone had dicks that looked like baguettes and were as hard as a dry sponge. Winston was natural. His cock had a slight curve and was as dense as Joyce’s Ulysses. It was always memorable the first time he did a new girl on screen. She would scream, and wouldn’t have to resort to any of that pathetic porn acting (for at least a couple of takes; that is.) Though Winston no longer does porn. He is writing again and is a devout catholic. Problem is he just can’t seem to put anything down on the page. It’s terrible. He hasn’t written a sentence for months. He got a call the other day from Eddie. Apparently there is a new kid in town who has what it takes. Only problem is he’s too small. The thing is though, Eddie explained, his parents are rich. I told him all about you Willie, oh, I’m sorry, Winston, and his interested. “What do you mean?” said Winston.

“In your cock.”


“I don’t do that anymore. Besides I never did gay stuff.”

“He don’t want to screw you; he wants to buy you. He wants your dick Willie.

Look you don’t need it anymore. You don’t want to run the risk of upsetting God do you? I know you are broke. The kid will give you thirty-thousand for it.”



The day after the operation Winston died. Now the kid has his cock. Eddie named him Long Forcash. Winston’s wife thought about suing the doctor; but you know what doctors are like. They help each other and won’t testify against one another. They might be in the same situation eventually, and don’t want to burn their bridges burying a colleague over morals.

About a week later Long felt some movement in the middle of the night from his new cock. It wasn’t your usual 3AM half-stiffy. He peered down there and swore it looked alive. It was like nothing he had ever seen before (not that he had much to look at before he got it.) The cock began speaking. It told him to grab a pen, and start taking notes. He bluntly refused. “ If you don’t, I won’t fuck for you anymore,” said the cock.

He ended up writing all night. Line after line— page after page. He ended up writing five complete stories. It was amazing! The cock told him its name was Winston. It had had writers block for years, though now the words wouldn’t stop.

When it finished dictating it gave instructions to send the stories with a self addressed stamped envelope to the Atlantic Monthly. What Winston didn’t know is that Long Forcash’ father was a big shareholder in the magazine. When Long handed the stories to him he assumed his son had written them, and was just  pretending to be carrying them for a friend. The stories were published. And Long’s father was happy to have a writer for a son, rather than a porno actor. It did warm his heart to know that his son had been screwing so many women though.



Winston continues to write. He dictates to Long Forcash every night. His stories have become some of the most read in the whole world. Long Forcash is currently regarded as one of the great writers. Yet no one knows how the words are really coming.

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