First Pages: Sherbet and Sodomy by I.V. Ebbing
Welcome to First Pages on Fridays! Every Friday, we share the first pages from a book (usually vintage), along with a bit of information about the author and the book’s history.
So, the title of this week’s book is the best title I’ve ever heard: Sherbet and Sodomy. Enough said, right? The book is by I.V. Ebbing and was published in 1971.
On his blog Feuilleton, John Coulthart writes, “The eye-catching title is no doubt an allusion to Byron’s description of Turkish baths as ‘marble palaces of sherbet and sodomy’ . . .”
There is no information available about the author, I.V. Ebbing; I assume that it is a pen name (since most authors of gay erotica/fiction at that time did not use their real names). The publisher of this book, The Traveller’s Companion, is affiliated with Olympia Press, which still has a large online presence. Books from the publisher can still be purchased, even in electronic formats! Check out their website at www.olympiapress.com.
Without further ado, here are the first pages from Sherbet and Sodomy by I.V. Ebbing.
My name is Jud. I am eighteen and a half. I was born from the felicitous conjunction of an anthropologist and an ethnologist under the sign of Capricorn. I have been called cute, handsome, pretty, and good-looking; actually, I am beautiful. My blond hair hangs to my shoulders, is of better quality than Rapunzel’s, and the envy of every girl in Cuneiform 874. My nose is classically English, along the line of Reynolds, maybe with a little Caravaggio thrown in around the nostrils. My athletic adolescence on the swimming team at Sterling High has given me a slender, muscular body–firm pecs and round dimpled buns–and exceptional coordination. My eyes are South Pacific blue. I have read Hesiod. I masturbate regularly. I have no concept of money or its value. I try to keep my farts silent. I have juvenile down on my ass. I have read the minor Elizabethan poets and I have looked at my anal sphincter in the mirror. Until last week I considered myself heterosexual, despite the fact that my dreams were filled with men. I am extremely bright and overflowing with lust. Sometimes, lusting after my own body, I undress before the floor-length mirror and masturbate, shooting bullets of cum over my own reflection. I have read the major Elizabethan poets, too. I am not vain or puffed up, only accurate. I have an eight-and-a-half-inch cock, and I fear that it is still growing (I measure regularly, stern to prow). I used to ball chicks, but that was a week ago. I am now part of the great American goldrush to homosexuality. In the last week I have, as they say, “Come Out”–and as far as I’m concerned six million men can’t be wrong.
I got to groove on guys in this way: It all started the other day when I ran into Fred Cranshaw, an out-in-the-open gay from Hunter College, on my way from Babylonian Ciphers 345. I’m an undergraduate by status, but the graduate department insists that I take advanced courses in my future major, Mythology. My mom is the ethnologist, my dad the anthropologist, and between the two I reached adolescence with a graduate student’s knowledge of both sciences. My parents are now in Tunis digging up the ruins of Old Carthage for UNESCO; my parents are always rooting around in the garbage dumps of civilization.
Anyway, I was on my way from Ciphers 345, the halls were swarming with kids changing classes, and I’d just stopped to cover up my semihard-on with my cipher textbook (I’d been sitting behind the beautiful Sybil Blair) when Fred nabbed me and started telling me about his new pad down on the Lower East Side. Fred’s not a bad-looking cat, not what you could identify as a “fairy”; I mean, he’s got long dark hair and a moustache and a pretty muscular body. He was telling me the rent was sixty-five fifty-two a month and if I wanted to go in fifty-fifty I could get into a really groovy scene off campus.
“Come on, Fred, man, you know I’m not gay.” I was moving down the corridor behind this humpy piece of ass. Fred started telling me that it didn’t matter, and how the other night he’d had over some chicks and cats, and how this chick had blown seedless grapes up his asshole while he fucked the cat who later fucked the chick. By the time we’d gotten to the end of the corridor I’d shelled out twenty-one dollars as a down payment, and Fred had given me a piece of paper with the address of the apartment on it. I told Fred I’d finish the week out at the dorm and move in on Friday night in time for the heavy scene–with the chicks, I emphasized.
We were already five minutes late for class and decided to take the basement route and avoid the stampede on the first floor. Going down the stairs I got a full hard-on thinking about the seedless grapes, but since there was only Fred around I let my big cock bulge magnificently in my jeans. We started down the deserted basement corridor, past the line of broken soft drink machines, and were about to head out the door, when the telephone booth opened and this bespectacled chick in a white blouse stuck her head out and motioned us over. I slipped my cipher textbook around in front of my crotch, but not before she got a good look at the line of my dick. We went over to the booth. The door was open and she motioned us inside. She was standing there with the receiver in one hand and a dime in the other. The directory was propped up against the wall.
“Come inside and close the door,” she said with a commanding look through her granny glasses, “both of you.” I hesitated, scratched my head, looked at Fred. We chuckled, but she repeated the order. “Hurry up, I haven’t got all day.”
As any baffled eighteen-year-old with an ounce of curiosity and a full hard-on would have done, I got inside. With Fred and the chick. The door closed and we were standing there, face to face, in the semidarkness of the unlighted phone booth. Fred and I giggled this time, thinking the chick was freaking out on acid or something, but she turned around, picked up the phone book, held it up to the window, and ran her finger down the line of listings.
“Hey, man, what gives?” Fred asked.
I was beginning to feel nervous.
The chick closed the phone book and murmured a number to herself. “You preppies like to fuck?” She took her glasses off and put them on the shelf under the phone.
“Fuck?” Fred and I chimed at the same time.
“That’s right, preppies, fuck.” She opened her shoulder bag and took out a tube of Vaseline.
“Fuck? You mean–?” I heard my voice crack into a falsetto. Fred’s mouth was open in astonishment.
“Fuck. F-U-C-K. Fuck.” She undid the cap of the Vaseline tube and squeezed a glob into her right hand.
“Sure!” I giggled nervously and glanced at Fred. “Except he’s . . . uh . . . queer.”
The chick turned and looked appraisingly at Fred. “You queer, preppy?”
“Yup,” Fred beamed.
“Well, you can fuck him, then, while he fucks me. How’s that?” With her left hand she started unbuttoning my jeans.
“Shit, man!” I felt the top button of my jeans open and I sprang into full erection. “I’m not havin’ no cock in my ass!”
“Don’t you wear underwear, preppy?” she asked in a clinical tone. With her right hand she began massaging the Vaseline onto my erected eight-and-a-half inches. I looked over nervously at Fred who was rubbing his crotch. “Not bad, Jud, man.”
“Don’t just stand there rubbing your balls, man,” the chick said to Fred. “Take it out.”
Phone booth and Fred notwithstanding, I felt the delicious tingle run up my legs, through my back, to the tips of my hair. Fred was taking his huge dick out of his pants, and the chick was rubbing Vaseline onto it with her left hand. He went into full erection, looking at my eight-and-a-halfer. I swallowed a mouthful of saliva and leaned back against the wall. The chick wasn’t bad-looking: long brown hair, a little plump maybe, but just the right height for a stand-up fuck. I looked out the window anxiously.
“Yes, sir,” she was saying, “thank God for the sexual revolution; man, I spent the first nineteen years of my life masturbating, now just look at all the cocks I can have.” She turned around towards the phone and began working her tweed skirt over her hips. Her right hand was doing a fabulous hand job on my dick and I was already breathing hard between my teeth. Fred moved closer to me, rubbing Vaseline onto his fat cock, and touched the end of my cock.
To get your very own copy of Sherbet and Sodomy or to browse other books by the same publisher, visit the Somewhere Books online store.
To read John Coulthart’s excellent blog post about this book, visit his blog, Feuilleton.
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