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Robert

Roman

Empire

RED BRICK ALLEY STORIES

The Killards Are Coming

Every damn day in Religion Class, Sister Anna Banana yapped about the Soviets revving up to start a nuclear war with the new president, Ronald Reagan. She said after the cities burned to Holy Hell, there’d be something called “nuclear winter” that would kill all... 

Double-Strength Demon Dogs

Fantastic Freddie was the only altar boy from the Red Brick Alley. He was always consecrating Ritz Crackers and trying to make us eat them like communion wafers. He light-fingered incense from the sacristy, and he blessed water from Old Lady Tully’s spigot...

Laser Loop

I couldn’t see over the tall green school bus seat except when we hit a pothole and I bounced up in the air like a Pop-Tart jumping out of a toaster. Nobody at Saint Augie’s could believe I was allowed to go. My first school picnic ever. I was good from the day I handed in my pink...

The Boy Wonder

How the Hell did Jaggerbush get himself up there? He was clawing his way up into the open window above the Science class door like a real-life gargoyle. The blockhead of a wooden mallet stuck out of the back of his Toughskins where his butt crack was. He wore three...

About The Author

Rob.jpg

Robert Roman grew up in Pittsburgh, PA, where he sold newspapers to cars from a concrete island. Read more→

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  • Robert Roman

My Own Private Ulysses: Forced Confession of Deadly Sin #1 – Lust


Lust may be found in every love letter I write on the wall of this online shithouse. “Nabokov on Nausicaa” has been voted most likely to get your ass banned from a James Joyce Facebook Group.

The Deadly Sin of Ginger spilled its milk all over my dissertation on Naughty Nabokov’s lecture notes. For the record, I penned it during a lonely, unbearably cold winter in Southern California. I almost had to wear long sleeves!

Ulysses’ illegal Nausicaa episode stars femme fatale, dirty little Gerty MacDowell with her “Greekly perfect rosebud mouth,” “lustrous lashes,” “silkily seductive brows.” “Why have women such eyes of witchery?” She hikes up her “navy threequarter skirt…showing off her slim graceful figure to perfection,” revealing her “blue for luck…undies,” knowing damn-well that her audience, Leopold Bloom, is playing a rough game of public pocket pool.

The “hot little devil’s” seaside peepshow resulted in Bloom’s soiled skivvies, Joyce’s New York publishers’ incarceration (the heroic Margaret Anderson and Jane Heap), and my banishment from a Facebook Group. “O Lord, that little limping devil.”

But that’s only the half of it. This tortured contrition is about the Lust that Dare Not Speak its Name. In a major Freudian slippage, I admitted that the only romance novel I’ve ever read is Fight Club. A Deuteronomy double-whammy of damnation.

More forced confessions coming.

Same titillating time, same tingling channel.



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