The Eleven Thousand Rods E-Book

Guillaume Apollinaire

• Herausgeber: Lebooks Editora
• Kategorie: Erotik
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 156

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

The Eleven Thousand Rods (1907), by Guillaume Apollinaire, is an erotic novel that blends satire, excess, and transgression. The work follows the adventures of Prince Mony Vibescu, a young Romanian nobleman who travels across Europe indulging in endless sexual experiences. His journey becomes a grotesque parade of extreme situations in which desire is portrayed as unrestrained, irrational, and often violent, defying the moral and literary conventions of its time. The narrative unfolds as a succession of episodes in which the protagonist plunges into orgies, fantasies, and sexual practices taken to the limit. Each episode seems to outdo the previous one in extravagance and rawness, making the novel a catalog of excesses that is deliberately provocative. Apollinaire does not seek to conceal obscenity but instead highlights it as a narrative device and as an ironic critique of social hypocrisy. Beyond its scandalous content, The Eleven Thousand Rods can also be read as a parody of adventure and travel novels. Mony Vibescu's journeys place him in an international context that reflects early 20th-century Europe, but the absurd and grotesque situations transform the voyage into an exploration of the boundaries of the body and desire. In this way, the work moves between eroticism, satire, and the absurd. Guillaume Apollinaire (1880–1918) was a French poet, storyteller, and art critic, one of the central figures of the European avant-garde. Known for his innovative poetry and his closeness to movements such as Cubism and Surrealism, he also ventured into erotic fiction with works such as The Eleven Thousand Rods and The Eleven Thousand Whips. His irreverent style and his ability to break taboos made him an influential author, whose work continues to attract interest for its boldness and literary experimentation.

Leseprobe

Guillaume Apollinaire

THE ELEVEN THOUSAND RODS

Original Title:

“Les Onze Mille Verges”

Contents

INTRODUCTION

THE ELEVEN THOUSAND RODS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

INTRODUCTION

Guillaume Apollinaire

1880–1918

Guillaume Apollinaire was a French poet, art critic, and essayist, regarded as one of the most influential figures of the literary avant-garde of the 20th century. His work, marked by formal experimentation and a break with poetic traditions, made him a pioneer of modernism and surrealism. He was also one of the first to use the term “surrealist,” anticipating a movement that would transform literature and the visual arts.

Childhood and Education

Apollinaire was born in Rome under the name Wilhelm Albert Włodzimierz Apolinary de Kostrowicki, the son of a Polish mother. He moved to France at a young age and adopted French as his literary language. His education was diverse and cosmopolitan, which influenced his open and experimental style. From early on, he showed an interest in literature and in the new artistic movements emerging across Europe.

Career and Contributions

Throughout his life, Apollinaire became a central figure in the Parisian avant-garde. He was a friend and collaborator of artists such as Picasso, Braque, and Derain, promoting and defending Cubism in his critical writings. As a poet, he broke with traditional metrics and explored new expressive forms in works like Alcools (1913), where he eliminated punctuation to allow greater rhythmic freedom, and Calligrammes (1918), in which he combined visual poetry and innovative typography, creating true poem-objects.

Apollinaire also wrote plays, short stories, and essays, showcasing his ability to move across different genres. He served as a bridge between Symbolism and the avant-garde movements of the 20th century, driving the renewal of literature and art.

Impact and Legacy

His work paved the way for movements such as Surrealism, Dadaism, and Concrete Poetry. The formal boldness and creative freedom he championed are still recognized as fundamental to the evolution of modern literature. In addition, his work as a critic helped legitimize and spread the reputation of artists who would later be regarded as pillars of contemporary art.

Apollinaire died in Paris in 1918, a victim of the Spanish flu, shortly after returning from World War I, in which he had served as a soldier. His premature death cut short a career that had already transformed the literary and artistic landscape. Today, Apollinaire is remembered as one of the great innovators of modern poetry and as a true spokesman of the avant-garde of the 20th century.

About the Work

The Eleven Thousand Rods (1907), by Guillaume Apollinaire, is an erotic novel that blends satire, excess, and transgression. The work follows the adventures of Prince Mony Vibescu, a young Romanian nobleman who travels across Europe indulging in endless sexual experiences. His journey becomes a grotesque parade of extreme situations in which desire is portrayed as unrestrained, irrational, and often violent, defying the moral and literary conventions of its time.

The narrative unfolds as a succession of episodes in which the protagonist plunges into orgies, fantasies, and sexual practices taken to the limit. Each episode seems to outdo the previous one in extravagance and rawness, making the novel a catalog of excesses that is deliberately provocative. Apollinaire does not seek to conceal obscenity but instead highlights it as a narrative device and as an ironic critique of social hypocrisy.

Beyond its scandalous content, The Eleven Thousand Rods can also be read as a parody of adventure and travel novels. Mony Vibescu’s journeys place him in an international context that reflects early 20th-century Europe, but the absurd and grotesque situations transform the voyage into an exploration of the boundaries of the body and desire. In this way, the work moves between eroticism, satire, and the absurd.

Guillaume Apollinaire (1880–1918) was a French poet, storyteller, and art critic, one of the central figures of the European avant-garde. Known for his innovative poetry and his closeness to movements such as Cubism and Surrealism, he also ventured into erotic fiction with works such as The Eleven Thousand Rods and The Eleven Thousand Whips. His irreverent style and his ability to break taboos made him an influential author, whose work continues to attract interest for its boldness and literary experimentation.

THE ELEVEN THOUSAND RODS

Chapter 1

Bucharest is a beautiful city. Orient and Occident seem to meet and intermingle there, for although you are still in Europe, from a purely geographical standpoint, you have only to observe certain of the local customs, and to glimpse the picturesque specimens of Turkish, Serbian and other Macedonian races who are to be seen on the streets, to realize that you are already in Asia. Nevertheless, it is a Latin country. The thoughts of the Roman soldiers who colonized this land must have turned constantly towards Rome, the then capital of the world and source of all civilized refinements. This Occidental nostalgia has been passed down to their descendants, for the Roumanians dream incessantly of a city where luxury is the natural element, and life full of joy. However, since Rome has been stripped of her splendor, and has ceded her crown as Queen of Cities to Paris, it is hardly surprising if, by an atavistic phenomenon, the thoughts of the Roumanians are forever turned towards Paris, which has so deservedly supplanted Rome as the hub of the universe.

In common with his compatriots, the handsome Prince Vibescu dreamed of Paris, City of Light, where all the women are beautiful and every one of them is willing to part her thighs. While still at college in Bucharest, he had only to imagine a Parisian woman — the typical Parisienne — to get an erection and be forced to toss himself off, which he did slowly and in a state of beatitude. Later, he had spurted his seed into the cunts and arses of numerous delectable Rumanian women, but he felt an overpowering desire to have a Parisienne.

Mony Vibescu came from a very wealthy family. His great-grandfather had been a Hospodar, a dignitary position corresponding to a Sub-Prefect in France. The title was hereditary and both Mony’s father and grandfather had called themselves ‘Hospodar’. In honor of his grandsire, Mony Vibescu should likewise have borne this title, but he had read enough French novels to know that SubPrefects are something of a joke: ‘Look here,’ he said to himself, ‘isn’t it absurd to call oneself Sub-Prefect simply because one’s great-grandfather was one? It’s utterly grotesque! ’ And so, to appear less grotesque, he had replaced the title of Hospodar-Sub-Prefect by that of Prince. ‘Now there is a title worth having!’ he exclaimed to himself, ‘and one which can honorably be passed on through the hereditary line. Hospodar is a civic function, and while it is perfectly correct that a man who distinguishes himself in the civil service should be given this title, I prefer to ennoble myself. After all, I too am an ancestor. My children and my grandchildren will have something to thank me for.’

Prince Vibescu was on intimate terms with the Serbian Vice-Consul, Bandi Fornoski, who, according to rumor, delighted in buggering the charming young Mony. One morning, the prince dressed in formal attire and set out for the Serbian Vice-Consulate. As he walked through the streets, all heads turned and the women ogled him saying: ‘Isn’t he just like a Parisian?’

And in fact Prince Vibescu copied the gait of a Parisian, that is to say, the gait which everyone in Bucharest imagines to be Parisian: with tiny, scurrying footsteps and waggling his bottom. The effect is charming! And when a man walks like that in Bucharest, there is not a woman who can resist him, no matter if she is married to the Prime Minister.

On arriving at the Serbian Vice-Consulate, Mony pissed profusely against the front of the house, then rang the bell. An Albanian dressed in a white fustanella opened the door. Prince Vibescu climbed rapidly to the first floor. Vice-Consul Bandi Fornoski was in his drawing room, stark naked. He lay on a velvety sofa with his prick rampant. Beside him was Mira, a brunette from Montenegro, who was tickling his balls. She too was nude and, as she was leaning forward, her fine, well-rounded arse, brown and downy, stuck out prominently, with the delicate skin stretched as tight as a drum. Between the buttocks ran the deep and dark-haired furrow with the forbidden hole showing as round as a cough drop. Beneath them stretched two long and lissom thighs and, since her position forced Mira to part them, Mony could see her cunt, thick, fleshy, deeply-cloven, in the shadow of a dense jet-black mane. She was not at all put out by his arrival. On a chaise-longue in another corner, two pretty girls with full round bottoms were poking their fingers up each other’s arses and letting out little ‘Ah’s! ’ of voluptuousness. Mony quickly took off his clothes, then, with his fully erect prick waving in the air, he threw himself upon the two lesbians and endeavored to separate them. But his hands slipped on their damp and glistening bodies as they wriggled and writhed like snakes. Mony, seeing that they were drooling with sensual delight, and enraged at being unable to share in it, slapped the nearest fat white backside with the flat of his hand. As this seemed to excite the owner of the bottom considerably, he began to strike with all his strength, to such effect that, pain overcoming pleasure, the pretty girl with the reddened arse stood up angrily and said:

‘Pig! Prince of bum-boys! Go away; we don’t want your great big cock. You can give that stick of barley-sugar to Mira. Leave us alone, we want to make love in our own way, don’t we, Zulme?’

‘Yes, Tone! ’ replied the other young woman.

The prince brandished his enormous prick, crying:

‘What, you stupid sluts, can’t you think of anything better to do than stick your fingers up each other’s arses?’

Seizing one of them, he tried to kiss her on the mouth. It was Tone, a lovely brunette whose snow-white body was delightfully marked with beauty spots in just the right places, showing off the whiteness of her skin. Her face was equally white and a beauty spot on the left cheek lent an added piquancy to the girl’s charms. Her chest was graced with two superb breasts as hard as marble, veined with blue and surmounted by delicate pink strawberries, the right one prettily marked with a beauty spot which sat there like a fly, a most provocative little fly.

Mony Vibescu, as he seized her, had passed his hands under her plump arse, which was so white and full that it could have been a splendid melon ripened by the light of the midnight sun. Each of her faultless buttocks seemed to have been carved from a block of Carrara marble, and her thighs descended with the perfect roundness of the columns on a Greek temple. But what a difference! The thighs were warm and the buttocks were cold, which is a sign of good health. The spanking had made them a little rosy, so that the color of raspberries mingled with the cream of her skin. The sight of them excited poor Vibescu to the limit of endurance. His mouth sucked each of Tone’s firm titties in turn, then, planting his lips on her neck and shoulder, he left strawberry marks. His hands kept a firm grip on her large bottom, which felt like a hard and full-fleshed water-melon. Fondling these royal buttocks, he inserted his index finger into an arsehole of exquisite tightness. His great prick, swelling more and more, moved like a battering-ram against a delicious coral cunt surmounted by a shining black fleece. She shouted at him in Roumanian: ‘No, you’re not going to put it in! ’ and at the same time she wriggled her round and chubby thighs. The inflamed red head of Mony’s prick had already touched the entrance to Tone’s moist grotto.

The girl escaped again, but with the sudden movement she let out a fart, not a vulgar fart, but a fart of crystalline delicacy which made her burst into violent and hysterical laughter. Her resistance slackened, her thighs opened and Mony’s huge battering-ram had already buried its head in the redoubt when Zulme, Tone’s lover and partner in sex-games, seized Mony’s balls roughly and, squeezing them in her little hand, caused him such pain that the smoking cock withdrew hastily from its niche, to the great disappointment of Tone, who was already beginning to stir her large arse.

Zulmé was a blonde, with a thick mane of hair falling right down to her heels. She was shorter than Tone, but yielded nothing to her in slenderness and grace. There were dark rings under her black eyes. The moment she let go of the prince’s balls, he hurled himself at her, saying: ‘Very well then, you will pay for Tone!’ Seizing a pretty little tit in his mouth, he began to suck the tip. Zulmé twisted and turned. To tease Mony, she made undulating movements with her belly, at the base of which danced a delicious, tightly-curled blonde beard. At the same time, she lifted up her prominent mound of Venus, which was cleft by a sweet little cunt. Between the lips of this pink pussy dangled a rather long clitoris, giving proof of her tribadism. The prince’s cock strove in vain to penetrate this recess. At last he clenched her buttocks in his fists and was about to pierce her when Tone, furious at having been thwarted of the discharge from his superb prick, started to tickle the young man’s heels with a peacock’s feather. He began to laugh, twisting this way and that. Still the feather tormented him, as it moved up from the heels to the thighs, to the anus, to the cock, which swiftly lost its erection.

Enchanted with their sport, the two little fiends, Tone and Zulmé, laughed for a long time, then, red-faced and breathless, they began their games again, embracing and licking one another in front of the baffled and crestfallen prince. Their bottoms rose and fell in cadence, their hair intertwined, their teeth clattered together, their firm, palpitating breasts rubbed against each other like the ruffling of satin. At last, writhing and moaning with pleasure, they came at the same moment, while the prince’s cock began to raise its head again. Seeing that the two girls were exhausted from their mutual goosing, he turned towards Mira who was still toying with the Vice-Consul’s prick. Vibescu approached softly and, passing his splendid tool between Mira’s plump buttocks, he slid it into the moist and half-open cunt of the lovely girl who, as soon as she felt the head of the penis pierce her, jerked her arse backwards so that the weapon penetrated completely. She continued these abandoned movements while the prince stroked her clitoris with one hand and tickled her nipples with the other.

His piston-like movements in her tightly-clenched cunt gave Mira intense pleasure, as she proved by letting out little squeals of delight. Vibescu’s belly struck against Mira’s arse and the coolness of her buttocks gave the prince as much pleasure as the warmth of his belly gave to the young girl. Soon their movements became quicker, more staccato, the prince pressed hard against Mira who was panting as she squeezed her thighs together. The prince sank his teeth into her shoulder and held her firmly. She shouted:

‘Ah! that’s good … hold on … harder … harder … oh, oh, take all of me. Now, give me your spunk ... all of it... yes! Yes! ... yes! ’

And in the mutual ecstasy of orgasm, they sank down and remained for a moment oblivious of everything. Tone and Zulmé, entwined in each other’s arms on the chaise-longue, looked at them and laughed. The Serbian Vice-Consul had lit a slim cigarette filled with Oriental tobacco. When Mony stood up again, he said to him:

‘Now, my dear Prince, it is my turn. I was waiting for you, and although I allowed Mira to titillate my cock, I have reserved the full enjoyment for you. Come, light of my life, my dear little bugger, come, let me slip you a length.’

Vibescu looked at him for a moment, then, spitting on the cock proffered to him by the Vice-Consul, he uttered these words:

‘I am sick and tired of being your bum-boy, the whole town is talking about it.’

But the Vice-Consul, with his prick rampant, had stood up and seized a revolver. He pointed the gun at Mony who tremblingly offered him his posterior, stammering:

‘Bandi, my dear Bandi, you know I love you, bugger me, please bugger me.’

The smiling Bandi forced his weapon into the elastic hole hidden between the prince’s buttocks. Once it was in, and with the three women watching him, he jerked about like a madman, blaspheming the while:

‘God’s b … s! I’m coming, squeeze your arse, my pretty little fag, squeeze hard, I’m coming. Squeeze your pretty buttocks.’

And with haggard eyes, his hands clenched on Mony’s fragile shoulders, he reached his orgasm. Afterwards Mony washed, dressed again and left, saying he would return after dinner. But, on reaching home, he wrote this letter:

‘My dear Bandi,

I am sick of being buggered by you, I am sick of the women of Bucharest, I am sick of spending my fortune here, when I could be spending it so much more happily in Paris. Within two hours, I shall be gone. I hope to enjoy myself immensely. Bidding you a fond farewell,

Mony, Prince Vibescu Hereditary Hospodar.

The prince sealed the letter and wrote another to his solicitor asking him to liquidate all his assets and forward the entire sum to Paris, as soon as he should receive Mony’s address there.

Taking all the loose cash he possessed, some 50,000 francs, Mony made his way to the station. He posted the two letters and boarded the Orient Express for Paris.

Chapter 2

‘Mademoiselle, the moment I laid eyes on you I fell madly in love. I felt my genitals rise up in salute to your sovereign beauty, and my blood run as hot as if I had just drunk a glass of hot rum.’

‘Oh, come, come! ’

‘I lay my fortune and my heart at your feet. If we were in bed together, I would prove my passion for you twenty times in succession. May I be punished by the eleven thousand vierges, or even eleven thousand verges * if I tell a lie! ’

‘Pie in the sky! ’

‘No, my feelings are sincere. I do not speak to every woman in this manner. I am no Casanova.’

‘Oh sir, you bowl me over! ’