The Harlette Story, Continued

That horny little hottie from my past, Harlette, is getting more notice.  Suits her, because she always was a whore for attention (among other things).  Ever since I made mention of the book and subsequent film adaptation, the queries and reminiscences have been pouring in.  I must say I am rather surprised.  It never sold very well (and it is no longer in print), a fact I attributed less to poor writing than to poor marketing and promotion.  Still, the story obviously struck a few chords, rumbled a few cocks, and moistened a few pussies.

Of all the correspondence I have received in the last week, the letter below may be the most interesting.  It begs the question: how would a re-release go, if it was at all possible?  At the very least, rest assured that I will be going through the archives here looking for additional Harlette-abilia.  Like the man says on TV, “Stay tuned!”

Some time ago (nevermind how much, precisely) I found myself in a regrettable state.  Whether it was the departure for supposedly juicier pastures of my long-time lover that brought on a months long bout of ill health, or the onset of said period of unwellness that sent my long-time lover scurrying, I may never know.  Life doesn’t reward those who dwell on such inanities, anyway.  So whatever the case, I was alone, I was miserable, I was teetering on the brink, when along into my dreary existence strutted brazen Harlette.

A silly book, judging by the silly cover.  The prominent silhouette of a pistol-packing, or should I say pistol-pointing (though I am certain a gun nut would say “aiming” that does not deliver the shot of alliteration I require) female looming about similarly silhouetted, though unarmed, males, promised a massive payload of lunacy.  A college freshman would be unable to miss the Freudian undertones suggested by a strong-willed, take-what-she-wants woman’s adoption of a gun in a world full of (presumably) penis-packing men.  “Even so,” I mused, “mindlessness may be just the ticket.”

From the opening pages, though, I was transfixed.  Here was the brassy heroine, a crime-solving outsider (we are informed that she was once in fact a rising star on the police force, but disregard for protocol and a penchant for fellating confessions out of suspects led to her inevitable dismissal) consulting with the DA, the Chief of Police, a squad of detectives, atop an orgy bed at a leather club.  “A man will tell you anything when he’s sixth in line at a gangbang.”  So observes Chastity Harlette in the tale’s opening line, and so saying, I was hooked.  A detective who summons up a roomful of studs for a gangbang whenever she hits a cognitive wall?  This was my kind of thriller.

Desire to finish the book overcame my illness.  Desire to turn the page, to stew in that funky brew of lust and subterfuge that Chastity (I came to call her this, in my own fantasies, which I indulged incessantly) wove, filled the emptiness left by my newfound status as single and alone.  Chastity was, after all, alone, but never alone.  Going fully against what I know my doctors would advise I tapped into my financial resources (which are quite ample) and, inspired by Chastity Harlette, organized an orgy.  The old me would have only dreamt.  The Chastity inspired me, unsure of what life had to offer but sure of the pleasures of fucking (there, I said it), had to do more than dream.

I was on the road to wellness.

Attached please see a photo of my copy of Harlette.  That silly book, with its silly cover, that means so much to me.  Normally I am not much for film though in this case, I have to know: is there any possible way that your backer can be bought off?  As I said above, my financial resources, through a series of prudent investments and shrewd wheeling and dealing, are incredibly sufficient.

We should talk.