You’ve at least heard of Poldark by now, even if you haven’t seen it. It’s a TV series (apparently a remake) about a very sexy man in Cornwall. He has a mine and he marries a woman and he sulks 80% of the time but sometimes you see his gentle soft side and you know that he’s only so angry because he knows the pain of love and needs the touch of a good woman (me) to heal his wounded soul. I’m not sure what else happens. I’ll be honest, I’m not watching it for the plot.
My friend Luke, a smut-peddler, has been writing these little erotic vignettes about Poldark for me. Initially they were just mini daydreams about Poldark catching me raiding the fridge and telling me to come back to bed so we could eat cheddar off each other – then Luke and I realised that the more mundane the activity, the bigger the challenge to turn it into a little nugget of erotic gold. They’ve turned into a bit of A Thing and Luke now has a tumblr, Mundane Erotica, which is basically Poldark doing household tasks in a loin-stirringly sexy way. Here’s a taster – I guarantee you it’s the future of porn.
Prompt: Poldark grating some cheese
“Poldark examines his sandwich. Insufficient cheese.
He fights down to urge to punch someone, instead heading to the fridge. The cool neon light bathes his bare torso in the pale glow of hunger, about to be sated. He reaches for the mature cheddar, prising open the seal with tough, calloused fingers.
He grabs a plate, holding it above his crotch. He slowly drags the soft dairy over his rock-hard abs, shaving off thin strips with the perfection that is his body. Eventually, he has enough. He dusts it over his sandwich and returns to the bedroom.”
Prompt: Poldark meets an owl
“Poldark sits in the woods, alone and shirtless. He hears a hooting.
Haunting, majestic. Beautiful. He watches a barn owl swoop down, ending the life of some small woodland creature with swift and graceful brutality.
He appreciates nature – savage, untamed, yet majestic. It reminds him of…him. He adjusts his trousers, and the creature turns its head, 180 degrees. Watching him, seductively swallowing the still-wriggling mouse. Even mother nature wants a piece of Poldark, it seems.
Prompt: Poldark goes to MacDonalds
“Poldark examined his surroundings. Harsh lighting, gaudy, faded neon. Customers and staff alike stood in a cold, dead-eyed trance. The strangely compelling smell of sythnetic food washed over his sharp senses. He approaches the counter, and requests a meal.
Before he can finish, his raw sexual magnetism overpowers the server. She rips her top apart, exposing herself to him. “Take me Poldark!” she screams. He sighs. Poldark can’t go anywhere.”
Prompt: Poldark does his tax return
“Poldark sits in the dark, cursing the king, tax collectors, and this infernal personal calculator. He re-reads a paragraph on deductibles and personal expenses for the fifth time, the words quickly lost in a fog of incomprehension and frustration. He slams a manly fist into the wall, not even wincing. The sweat of fury coats his handsome brow, and he turns on his heel.
Spread out on the table, wide open, are his tax returns. His pure frustration boils over, and man’s baser nature takes him over. He gives the tax return a look so smouldering it leaves a scorch mark on the corner, the rapid rustle of air sounding like an excited grasp. He tears off his shirt, preparing to do his taxes like they’ve never been done before.”
Prompt: Poldark unblocks the sink
“Poldark knelt before the sink, manly sweat condensing on his brow. The pipes were clogged. Still. He’d poured a bottle of some kind of cleaner down there, though the bald man on the bottle did not fill him with hope. He growled to himself in frustration. Perhaps he’d just have to do this the old fashioned way.
He hunted down the plunger, brandishing it triumphantly. He turned on the sink, imminent triumph gleaming in his eye. The sink sat there, shiny and coquettishly impassive. It gurgled. He poured the last dregs of the cleaning fluid out, watching the liquid circle the plughole. The sink gurgled again.
He moved in for the kill. The sink creaked as he affixed the plunger, and with all his might, pushed it down. He heard something shift, could feel it, ever so slightly. He thrust the plunger down again, felt the shift, and grinned. He soon fell into a rhythm, pumping with all his might. He was getting close now, he knew it!
With one final shove, he drove the handle down to the hit. The pressure forced the blockage in the sink loose, and the buildup gurgled away down the drain. Poldark wiped a hand over his sweaty brow, exhausted after some pipes well-cleaned. He wanted a cigarette.”
Prompt: Poldark as a weatherman
“Poldark stood on the clifftop, the salty sea air whipping his raven-dark locks about. His cameraman waved his hand – a little to the left. Poldark obliged. In ten minutes, they’d be live on air.The producers had been lairy about letting Poldark do a live report from the scene, but eventually he’d persuaded them into it. He adjusted his anorak, the tight material clinging to his sculpted body in the wind, rivulets of water running between the muscles that were now so starkly defined. The cameraman blushed and adjusted himself. Poldark didn’t mind.
He looked out behind him, the dark sea chopped and swirled, as gigantic waves crashed against the cliff-face far beneath him. He couldn’t help but smile a little. The freak storms that had been ravaging Cornwall were due to strike again tonight, and Poldark wanted a front-row seat. He hit the camera with a smouldering look, dazzling the monitor with his pearly whites, striking a stark contrast to the sky behind him which billowed with the ominous promise of impending thunder.
The camera rolled. Poldark began his report, turning to look over his shoulder and gesture at the roiling sea and sky beneath him. At this instant, Mother Nature struck her decisive blow. A thunderbolt struck from above, hitting Poldark dead on. The cameraman gasped, and so did the rest of England.
Not even the fury of nature could bring itself to harm Poldark. The cornish Baldr stood erect and defiant as his clothes were vapourized, the ashes carried away by a dervish zephyr. He winked at the camera and the nation went weak at the knees, the cameraman’s gasp of shock-cum-delight accompanying an outward zoom of the camera. Poldark’s bare body filled TV screens around the land as he stood proudly on the clifftop, dark hair surrounding his face like the halo of a particularly wicked angel.
He was Poldark. This had been the weather at Ten O’clock.”
Prompt: Poldark buys some shoes
“Poldark wandered his way though the bustling market. His boots were starting to give out, all the hard riding he did on a regular basis playing merry hell with the leather. This was going to be his second pair this year alone, the thought of which filled him with a sullen fury as he stalked the rows, seeking the cobbler.
He eventually found what he sought, ducking into a small dark set of rooms that smelled of musk and leather. The cobbler, a tall man with a glorious mustache eyed him up. “Boots?” he asked.
“Boots.” replied Poldark. The man nodded simply, and Poldark took a seat. The man grunted, eyeing Poldark’s obscenely tight jhodpurs and shooting him a sly grin. Then he went back to making Poldark some shoes, because they lived in a capitalist economy where money is exchanged for goods and services. Like shoes.
The cobbler finished his boots, and pulled off Poldark’s old ones with the look of lingering desire that Poldark was, by now, accustomed to. He’d considered buying less bulgetastic jhodpurs, but had decided against it. As the cobbler pulled the tight, shiny new boots up Poldark’s muscular calves, he prepared to pay the man.”
And, my personal favourite…
“Poldark lies in his bath of chocolate milk, the rich brown liquid lapping coolly against his tanned, weatherbeaten skin. He is alone – though in his heart, he is always alone.
His piercing eyes scan the page. The Feminine Mystique. This simple, slim tome – it was more than he expected. More than he bargained for. Waves of empathy crash against the hard stone walls of his heart.
Their runoff – a single tear – flows languidly down his scarred cheek before dropping, alone, into the sweet milky bath.”