Susanne Ulrike Maria Albrecht

Nimm mich mit dir fort

Verrückt vor Verlangen, wollte sie dies und wollte jenes,
eine lodernde Flamme an einem purpurroten Ort.
Ihre Schenkel durch ihr Gewand verlockende Worte sprachen.
Während sie sich entflammt danach sehnte ihn mit
ihrem Leib zu umfangen, sie ihre Knie hinauf bis zu
ihren Brüsten zog.
Rote Lotosblüte.
Von irgendwo der Jadeflöte Ton an ihre Ohren drang.
Sein Mund über ihrer Blüte, sein Atem zwischen ihren
Schenkeln liebkosten ihre Rose.
Bis hinein in ihren wogenden Hain.
Tauchte er in jene Schlucht der Zeit und füllte sie mit
Wärme.

Susanne Ulrike Maria Albrecht

Im Hain

Ihre Leiber gehüllt in einen Umhang von Glut.
Schwebend in einer sommerlichen Wolke, lagen
seine Lippen auf der Anhöhe ihres linken Hügels.
Ihren ganzen Körper umspielend, beide Hügel in
seinen Händen kreisend, an ihnen saugend,
knetete er sie und leckte über das Land ihres Bauches.
Die duftende, nass schimmernde Stelle liebkosend,
legte er seine Hand mitten in ihren Hain.
Sein Finger glitt an der Spalte im Waldboden entlang.
Jenen mystischen Wald erforschend, teilte er das
Gebüsch. Legte die Perle frei.
Tastend, wandernd, ergründete er alles.
Der kostbare Nektar strömte.
Sein Haupt vor ihrer Höhle, presste sie
ihre Waldlippen auf seine.
Summend erbebend, krümmte sie sich
stöhnend, in und vor köstlicher Pein.
Und verwandelte sich in süßesten Honig.

Susanne Ulrike Maria Albrecht

Hochebene

Die Umrisse seiner Männlichkeit erblickend, berührte das heiße Organ ihre Schenkel.
Stehend, leuchtend, einäugig, entflammt.
Aus ihrem Wald strömte es hervor.
Sie war nur noch Nektar.
Ihr Körper entfesselt, der Schleier ihrer Leidenschaft geöffnet.
Ein ferner Außenposten der Wonne.
In Zeitlupe, wie ein Mann, der in einen Traum versinkt, ließ er sich auf sie herab.
Nacht umfing sie.
Sich nach diesem erstaunlichen Werkzeug sehnend, presste sie die Erdspalte ihres Waldes gegen den fleischigen Kopf, um es immer tiefer zu sich hereinzuholen und spürte die nasse Träne aus seinem Auge quellen.
Mit den Lippen ihres Waldes verschlang sie es.
Ihre Höhlenwurzel war in Aufruhr. Er drang immer tiefer vor.
In der Waldgrotte herrschte sein heißes Organ. Feierlich, schweigend, erhaben.
Auf dem Berg der Lust. Bereit. Ganz erfüllt. Sein glühender Phallus ganz in ihr untergebracht, wandelte sie den Pfad der Freude entlang. Zu spüren, wie sein Werkzeug in sie hinein-, aus ihr herausgleitete, war die tiefste Wahrheit. Konnte es noch mehr geben?
Er versetzte ihr einen einzigen Stoß. Und er tat es so langsam, dass es der ganzen Nacht bedurfte, um seine hundertarmige Lanze in ganzer Länge hinein- und wieder herauszubewegen.
Bewegte er sich in dem höchsten Grad an Langsamkeit, erblickte sie verborgene Welten.
Die Zeit veränderte sich.
In einem einzigen Augenblick sah sie große Teile seines Organs, Atemlos, brennend, benommen, lernte auch sie, sich langsam zu bewegen.
Hier öffnete sich der Augenblick.
Und sie wurde kleiner.
Sie wollten ihre Hochebene erreichen.
Glühend vor Leidenschaft wurden sie noch langsamer.
Sie beide stürzten durch gewaltige Zeitschluchten, hinein in die tiefe Höhle der Lust, und taumelten immer langsamer dem Abgrund der Freude entgegen.
Es kam der wunderbare Augenblick, da er sie im Hain berührte und wie der Frühling hervorplatzte.

Gloria Beinhaus

HOLZ
Eine erotische Phantasie

Im wohlig dunkelorangenen Licht der Holzkammer schwinge ich das schwere Handtuch, feiner Nebel legt sich auf ihre Körper, sie stöhnen auf. Ein Zischen und wieder dreht das Handtuch über ihren Köpfen; zwei geben auf.

Der dunkle Mann bleibt, setzt sich auf, wischt sich den Schweiß mit einer sanften Bewegung aus dem Gesicht. Während ich, den Busen mit dem linken Arm verdeckend, auf ihn zu gehe, mir meiner rasierten Muschi bewusst, den Dampf auf ihn schleudere, der Körper streckt sich genüsslich und mit einer blitzartigen Bewegung fährt seine Handkante zwischen meine Beine, schiebt beim Zurückziehen den Kitzler auf, so wund und empfindsam das kleine Kügelchen bleibt.

Meine Brustwarzen brennen, ich drehe mich um, seine Hand erwischt mich noch im weggehen, schiebt sich zwischen meine Backen in die Hitze. Ich verharre kurz, lege ihm meine Pobacken in die geöffneten Hände, vor der Glastür geht Christian vorbei, sieht nicht hinein, derweil ich mit den Hüften wippe die ganze Länge meiner Spalte reibe. Er murmelt italienische Worte, springt behende auf, das gelbe Handtuch auf seinen festen Penis gedrückt stürmt er aus der Kammer.

Gloria Beinhaus

JACK
Eine erotische Phantasie

Seine Handkante streicht erst sanft über meine äußeren Oberschenkel, mit erhöhtem Druck arbeitet sich Jack zur deren Innenseite, gleitet auf der öligen Fläche in schneller werdenden Ovalen meiner sich öffnenden Mohnknospe zu, die da ganz zerknittert einsam sich rötet und anschwillt. Das rasende Tempo überzieht meinen Po mit prickelnder Hitze.
Am Heimweg drückt die harte Jeansnaht mein öligfeuchtes rosa Höschen beiseite. Mitten auf der steilen Kaunitzgasse, ein ausgesetzter Blumenstock müde vor einem Gemeindebau, orangenes Licht aus einer Erdgeschoßwohnung dringt ins dunkle Grau, bleibe ich abrupt stehen und ein zauberhafter feiner Orgasmus kitzelt mich. Die Menschengruppe vor mir ist zum Glück mit sich beschäftigt, so kann ich ihn genüsslich zu Ende atmen.
Beseelt und lächelnd gehe ich mit weichen Schritten weiter, die Hosennaht glitscht bei jedem Schritt von einer Seite zur anderen – ich kann es kaum erwarten nach Hause zu kommen.

Kerstin Lindros

Figs before lunch
Short Story

She arches her back under the sheet and smiles at Tom. He grins. Laura admires his perfect whitened teeth and the finesse with which he splits the plump figs over a plate he balances on his now-covered thighs. She follows the moves of his manicured fingers as they feed her the sweet, juicy fruit and reflects on six thrilling months with her new man.

Lying close, she reaches up to stroke his bulging bicep and marvels at his spontaneous idea to leave the office this morning to share it with her in his high-rise apartment, when she knows only too well how busy he is. All she has to do is call.

“It’s my sister’s birthday on Saturday,” she says. Pause. “I’d like you to come.” Still, she only hears fat summer rain drops drum against the panes of glass. She looks on as they spatter.

“Meeting the family? Excellent.” Now they look at each other and Tom flashes a wide-eyed smile. Gently, he guides her face towards his lips. His fingertips on her once-taut belly make her feel self-conscious, but his obvious appetite for her natural beauty lets her surrender to the current of warmth. She knows Tom is different.
She can already hear her mother, again reminding her of the big Four-Oh approaching and waving about several neutral-coloured newborn onesies. Her eyes roll the semicircle path. But then they narrow, her temples wrinkle, and the corners of her mouth curl into an upward crescent. Enveloped in a veil of Dior Eau Sauvage she moulds herself against his firm shape.

She flinches when Tom’s iPhone interrupts her blissful musings. Tom’s eyes dart to the bedside table when the jazzy tune strums. He stares at the lit-up device and his smile dies. It always does when the phone disturbs their quality time.

“Do you have to take that?” Laura moans and pins him against the mattress. Tom frees himself and shrugs. “It could be work.” He clutches the phone, turns back onto his elbow towards Laura, looks at the screen that says no caller ID and swipes the bar.

“Hello?” His breath is still heavy, which makes Laura giggle. Suddenly he swings his legs around to sit up on the edge of the bed.

“Hey … that’s a surprise.” … “Your number didn’t —” … “Trust you to forget your phone. What’s up?” … “Meeting cancelled? Argh, that sucks.” … “Yes, great day. But I’m just in the middle of something—” … “Can’t today. I can’t. I’m with a client.”

He turns back to face Laura and offers a guilty smile, mouthing sorry.

Laura leans on his shoulder, perusing his strained features, when a rush of goose bumps washes across her arms and shoulders. She rides the naughty moment like a winning wave. “Your boss?” she mimes. Tom frowns and pushes his index finger against her lips. He sits up, straightens on his side of the bed. Laura hears him in- and exhale. Perceives a subtle smile lick across his face, then a fleeting glance at her. “Yes … yes … Tomorrow…”
Laura, now staring into blank space, inches across to lean in again. His body freezes. She turns to meet Tom’s rigid face, speechless, as she listens to the purr and the tinny laugh. She slumps off the bed.

Tom rings off quickly and clears his throat, his fingers drumming on the mattress. The phone falls into his lap and he stares at the black piping on the quilt, while Laura wills herself to stand and thread her shaking limbs into the garments that, until moments ago, had lain scattered across the bedroom floor. “She’s only a colleague, Laura,” Tom declares to break the silence.

Laura goes to gather her phone, wallet and car key from the lounge room table.

“You don’t have to go,” Tom says, following her.

“I think I do.”

Laura pulls her sandals on as she rushes out of the apartment. The door shuts with a clunk as she steps into the elevator. At the bottom she runs for the exit. Then she pauses. Leaning against the wall of letter boxes, she squeezes her eyes shut, then fumbles the key out of her wallet and drops it into his slot. To the hum of the second elevator she sticks her head out the door, looks around and, when the walkway is clear, rushes out onto the wet pavers.

Uli Sajko

Sex ≠ Liebe

Die wahren Abenteuer sind im Kopf … wie recht er hatte, der André Heller.

Sex und Liebe haben aber schon gar nichts gemeinsam. Beides geht ohne das andere. Dass Sex nur sein darf wenn man liebt das ist unseren Großmüttern eingefallen und vielleicht uns auch eingetrichtert worden aber deshalb noch lange nicht wahr.
Wenn man liebt hat man Schmetterlinge im Bauch, beim Sex sitzen diese wohl etwas tiefer. Und während das eine Herzklopfen von der Sehnsucht kommt ist das andere eindeutig durch die Überlastung bei heftiger  Auf-Ab-Bewegung verursacht.

ULI: „Selbstbefriedigung“ Öl auf Leinwand

Sex braucht keinen Lebenspartner. Ja Sex braucht nicht einmal einen Partner. Selbstbefriedigung ist also die einfachste Form sexueller Tätigkeit und kann genauso befriedigend sein.

Dann gibt’s beim Sex noch die E-Version. Selbstbefriedigung vorm PC mit eingeschalteter Kamera, wobei einer den anderen anturnen kann oder beide sich genüsslich beobachten. Dies funktioniert auf weite räumliche Entfernung, ohne Berührung, ohne Mund oder Körpergeruch und wenns genug ist zieht man den Stecker. Unverbindlich. Abrufbar wann Lust dazu. Gratis.
Wenn man sich doch einen Partner zum Sex zulegt, nun dann ohne fixe Bindung, Genuss aus der Lust heraus, sich gegenseitig zu nehmen, was die Sinne verlangen, hemmungslos auskosten, treiben lassen ohne an Konsequenzen denken zu müssen, egal ob pralle Brüste oder großer Schwanz, alles ist erlaubt, Zunge und Finger erwünscht, Peitsche vorhanden, Dildo auch.
Sie schlagen entsetzt die Hände zusammen? Sind seit 30 Jahren verheiratet und lieben ihren Mann. Niemals würden Sie sich soo gehen lassen. Haben Sie überhaupt noch Sex? Seit die Kinder groß sind nicht mehr so oft, wie oft? Eigentlich gar keinen mehr. Und doch ist es Liebe. Weil die nämlich wächst auch wenn der Schwanz zu hängen beginnt wie auch der Busen. Liebe wird zu Treue, Verantwortung, Fürsorge, Vertrauen, Achtung, Respekt, verursacht auch mit 70 noch Herzklopfen ohne Schrittmacher, lässt Augen leuchten nicht nur weil grüner Star, vermisst ihr Schnarchen und sucht wenn seine Zähne nicht im Glas liegen. Liebe braucht keinen Sex aber wenn Körper in Liebe verschmelzen so hat das eben mit Sex nichts zu tun sondern mit der gegenseitigen Aufnahme des anderen, das Einswerden bis dass der Tod scheidet, das Zusammenfinden zur Familie mit Kinderwunsch und Lebensglück.
Sex kennt das nicht und nicht nur wegen der Kondome. Sex bohrt sich ineinander, krallt sich fest, reitet wild oder genussvoll, leckt und keucht aber wenn er gekommen ist dann sind sie wieder zwei und sie liegen neben einander, kennen sie ihre Namen? Trinken noch ein Glas Wein, duschen, anziehen, man verabschiedet sich. Vielleicht wieder einmal? Unverbindlich. Vielleicht.
Sextrieb. Der Jäger aus der Steinzeit. Sucht sein Wild und erlegt es mit seinen Augen, seinen Gesten, seinen Berührungen. Ist es erlegt, verliert es seinen Reiz und er sein Interesse. Doch schon erspäht er Neues und schon bald hängt auch diese Trophäe in seinem Schlafzimmer. Autorücksitz ist vorbei, das Bett im Kornfeld zu unsicher ob der Mähdrescher, Lifte bleiben heute kaum noch stecken und unter der Brücke zu viele Sandler.

Liebe ist auch mit 90 Jahren ihre Hand zu halten, für sie Rasierwasser zu verwenden, das sie so gerne riecht und ihre Launen mit einem Schmunzeln zu übersehen. Liebe ist zeitlos und etwas wunderschönes. Eben wie Sex. Und jetzt haben die beiden doch etwas  gemeinsam.

Linda Marie Walker

SILK
Malevolent Fiction

He had a black shirt, I didn’t. All my clothes were black except for shirts. Once he asked me to dress totally in black with his shirt. I couldn’t think of a reason to say no. All his requests were unreasonable on one level or another. He stood beside the bed, I undressed by the wardrobe, He promised to buy me beautiful underwear, for himself. I didn’t object. I love black silk. I am not yet passed this desire, and of course soon I’ll indulge, as soon as his life has edged away from me, been teased out to the borders. This shirt was very old, ragged, but he took on the look of strength. I have a scarf like that, he was scathing, but whenever I wrapped it around my neck I was safe. The nearest I got to its meaning was when he held my throat during lovemaking. I never found that threatening even though we both knew my vulnerability at each of those extreme seconds, I’ve felt two other surfaces of similar softness: his eyelids, and the head of his penis. He never realised when I put silk around my neck that I was caressed by his eyes and penis simultaneously, and reminded of my own trust.

Ali Znaidi

Five Cyberpoems

Typing Something Luminous

Between light and darkness
a door of fathomless possibilities opens onto the ether.

Between light and darkness
a cosmos of limitations is exploded,
while limitless aspirations are being downloaded.

Between darkness and light
the butterflies’ wings are (still) static.
No movements;
only my errant fingers wandering in the keyboard’s  wilderness
trying to type something luminous in the dark.

Digital Dilemmas

I am Googleable.
I am Twitterable.
But why am I still unFacebookable?

I am Twitterable.
I am Facebookable.
But why am I still unGoogleable?

I am Facebookable.
I am Googleable.
But why am I still unTwitterable?

I am real. So why have I to be virtual?
I am virtual. So why have I to be real?

Am I online or off-line?
Am infected or protected?

Am a human being or a machine?

—The only thing
I am certain about is that at the end
we are (all) blog posts
and our ultimate goal is to be reblogged.

imagistic tweets that don’t require any Photoshop

{dregs}: follow the final lights of the twilight!
{rites of passage}: intrude in the hidden passageways!
{invisible comets}: don’t care about particles of dust!

***

We live by cacophonies (by the ether).
There are stars that resemble snowflakes.
Birds & fantasies.—Philosophy
& the silver (virtual) spaces.

Virtual Diaspora

The sky is not stagnant at all
because every bit of it is a map.
My poetical mind can’t measure the distance
between my shadow and the sun.
I used to envy the birds because they can assume many identities.
They always discover new moons and new stars.
They can (even) measure the distance between their shadows
and invisible entities.
Today there are screens everywhere.—
Complex maps. Provocative poetics.
I no longer envy the birds
as I can sink {tectonically} in the abyss of the web.

A Cybernetic Sonnet    

Twitter for breakfast. Facebook for lunch.
YouTube & Facebook for dinner.
This is not the whole story. This is just the gist.
Dawn begins to emit the first lights:
(BlurRED) eyes are still wide open.
Nerves are still bound to a vicious circle:
—A labyrinth of (free) fettered movements.
—A fake flood of encrypted happiness is inun[dating] the soul.
Everything becomes a code;
a sphere where liberty becomes a jail,
the human voice  becomes a replica of a hollow echo,
& humanity becomes a faint tincture. {Don’t forget Dada is a code!},

& persons become mere Dadaist entities encoded in a techno-sutra,
waiting for that technocratic saviour to have a happy-ending coda.

Steve Slavin

The Broadway Actors Matrimonial Service

My name is Sergei and I managed to get out of Romania almost thirty years ago by paying an American woman $10,000 to marry me. We got married at City Hall, just a few hundred feet from the Brooklyn Bridge, and I never saw her again.

I got a job working for my boyhood friend, Serene, who also came here by marrying an American. But they actually loved each other, and remain married to this day.

Serene had always liked the theater, and he hired me to assist him. He was what is called a house paperer. Every day he bought up several hundred theater tickets for off-Broadway plays – usually for just two or three dollars apiece – and resold them for eight or ten dollars.

Everybody came out ahead. The ticket buyers got deeply discounted seats without having to wait on long lines, and picked up their tickets within blocks of the theater. The actors play to full houses. And Serene made money. So what was not to like?

Serene had three other Romanians working for him, none of whom had a “Green Card,” which would have entitled them to work here legally. Virtually all of the ticket buyers were regulars, and everything was on the up-and-up.

But after a couple of years, I began to grow restless. So I decided to move on. I did a little of this and a little of that, while I always had my house papering gig to fall back on.

It wasn’t until about twenty-five years later that my luck suddenly changed. My friend Caroline asked me for “a great big favor.”

How big?”

“Well, Sergei, I’ll let you be the judge of that.”

Caroline, who is a fairly prominent author, had not been to her office in over two weeks. Why? Someone had been murdered in the building.

Like me, Caroline is nocturnal, never getting up before two or three in the afternoon. Luckily, her office is in a building that stays open 24/7. But on the downside, it is largely unoccupied after 8 or 9 pm.

“So would you be able to stay with me for five or six hours, while I go through all my mail, and try to get a little work done?”

“Sure. But why don’t you just take all the mail home?”

“Three reasons. First, it’s too much to bring home. I’d rather have a messy office than a messy apartment. Second, I’d then have to lug some of it back to the office. And third, the main reason I rent the office is to go through the mail and store my files.”

I love Caroline, and one of her charms is that she can be a little compulsive. In fact, she’s written three books on organizing your life, and she had won some kind of award from a group that advocates for people with psychological disorders similar to her own.

So there was no way I could argue against her logic. “Of course Caroline. I would be most happy to help you.”

Great! Maybe bring along a book to read. I promise it won’t be more than six hours.”

At 8pm the next evening, we met in front of an old seven-storey building on Third Ave. just below 14th Street. A uniformed guard asked for our IDs and had us sign in. Then he went back to whatever he was watching on a small TV and we took the elevator to the top floor. We walked down a long corridor lined with doors with frosted windows.

As we walked, I asked, “Are these all offices?”

“I think so. If they came in dress sizes, mine would be a 1. In fact, my office is actually divided into two cubicles.”

“Who has the other one?”

“Sergei, did you ever hear of Elaine Champagne?”

“I’m afraid not. I just got off the boat.”

“You got off the boat twenty-five years ago, Anyway, Elaine was a very highly regarded theatrical agent.”

“What happened to her? No wait! Let me guess: she drank too much of the bubbly stuff and lost all of her clients.”

Worse! Much worse! Her son, who was in his mid-twenties, and a newly-wed, committed suicide.”

I just stared at Caroline.

“She hasn’t been back to her office since then. Not even to pick up her mail. And for all I know, maybe all of her clients did leave her.”

“That is such an awful story. You’re not in touch with her?”

“I’ve tried calling her and leaving messages. But it’s been two years. The only thing I know is that she still pays the rent on her office.”

We stopped at a door near the end of the hall, and she let us in. It was a windowless room divided into two cubicles, each about ten by twelve feet.

Caroline immediately got down to work, and I squeezed into Elaine Champagne’s cubicle. It was almost entirely filled with stacks of mail. Imagine if you went to the main post office when they were on strike.

I cleared off her chair and a little space on her desk. But I had to be careful not to cause an avalanche. There had to be tens of thousands of pieces of mail. I began going through a small stack. On top was a postcard with a glossy headshot of a smiling guy who reminded me of Ashton Kutcher. On the back was a note about a showcase he was staring in. Next was a card from a beautiful woman who proudly noted her appearance in a Volvo commercial.

I went through another dozen cards before it struck me that nobody had a clue that Elaine Champagne was no longer in the industry. They were doing mass mailings to every New York theatrical agent in the hopes that one would take them on. How sad is that?

I kept reading. A lot of the notes struck a personal tone, as if Ms. Champagne closely followed the actors’ careers: “In case you missed me on the HBO special, it will be rebroadcast next Sunday at 4pm.” Or, “Please keep me in mind for a role, however small, in any upcoming musicals.”

Finally, we were ready for a break. Caroline explained that hundreds of these cards still arrived every week. Everybody needed a theatrical agent – even one who might be terminally depressed. When I went back to the mail, I decided to put all the headshot cards into two neat piles – boys in one pile and girls in the other. I’m not that much of a neatnik, but an idea was beginning to form, and I knew that I would find a use for them.

When we were getting ready to leave, I asked Caroline if I could take some of the cards home.

“Sure! Take all of them! God only knows if Elaine will ever be back!”

So I filled a couple of shopping bags, and we made our way down to the street. I walked her home and then spent the rest of the night figuring out what I would do with the cards. Early the next afternoon when I woke up, I grabbed a piece of paper and wrote down these words: The Broadway Actors Matrimonial Service. It turned out to be the best idea I had ever had.

Remember the $10,000 I paid an American woman to marry me? What we had had has long been known as a “Green Card marriage,” because an immigrant who marries an American can get an expedited Green Card, or work permit. There are hundreds of thousands of Eastern European men and women who would agree to pay someone a lot more than $10,000 to go through with this charade.

So far, so good. Foreigners are willing to pay their way into the United States, and there are Americans willing to be paid to marry them. So why not arrange marriages between Eastern Europeans and American actors and actresses?

Tens of thousands of actors live in New York, but only a very small percentage of them can support themselves by acting – or doing commercials. Most of them get by with relatively low-paying jobs like waiting tables, tending bar, doing office temp work, and providing childcare. Many of them were saddled with huge student debts. I was sure that some would jump at the chance to pick up a sizeable amount of money by agreeing to a Green Card marriage.

But wait: there’s more! What if we could add a sweetener? Even more than money, what most actors crave is finding a theatrical agent. Let me add here that we’re not talking about just some schmuck who claims to be an agent, but can’t do anything for his clients that they can’t do on their own. No, I mean a real, honest-to-goodness, seasoned, respected, and legitimate theatrical agent.

I talked this over with Serene. He had an idea. There were three agents who shared an office on Broadway in the forties. They had a perfect location. There was only one problem. Their landlord wanted to double their rent. There was no way they could manage it. And there wasn’t any other suitable space they could afford in the theatrical district.

Serene made the connection. “If we set up a bunch of Green Card marriages of actors and Eastern Europeans – and take a cut of the dowry – we could keep these agents in business.”

“Wow!” I immediately saw the light. “And then we could offer their services to the new brides and grooms as a kind of wedding present.” Leave it to two Romanian immigrants to make the American dream come true.

In a few weeks a couple of our old friends in Romania had set up a website on which were headshots of dozens of very attractive actors and actresses. Are you wondering why we bothered setting up in Romania? Well, think about it! If you saw your picture on someone’s website – and they were using it to make money, wouldn’t you demand that they stop?

But if that website happened to be in a country like Romania or Moldavia or Russia – it would be much less likely that they would comply. And it might be almost impossible to sue.

Another potential problem would also be averted. While green card marriages are legal, the State Department would find ways to shut us down if we operated in the U.S.

On Valentine’s Day of 2011, a few dozen actors and actresses received the following e-mail:

Within hours after our e-mail went out, we began receiving replies. Some were a little nasty: “How DARE you invade my privacy!” “DIE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” “Rot in Hell!”

Others were somewhat quizzical: “Is this a joke?” “Are you legit?” “How did you get my e-mail address?”

But a few actually asked how they could sign up.

In the meanwhile, we spread the word through the social media and some carefully placed ads throughout the former Soviet bloc nations for green card seekers. We were completely upfront that it would cost them $50,000.

The response was unbelievable! Serene and I joked that we should become ordained ministers and perform mass marriages at Yankee Stadium. Our Romanian counterparts addressed us as the Rev Serene and the Rev Sergei. That made us feel like real Americans.

On June 3rd Serene and I witnessed the first marriage, which was held at City Hall. And before the summer was over, there were twenty-three more. We were on our way.

Just before Christmas, a new bride, who had signed with one of our agents got a part in a Broadway play. To celebrate, Serene and I had dinner at Sardi’s.

“So what’s our next move?”

“I don’t know, Sergei. You’re the idea man.”

“Thanks, Serene. You wanna know what I was thinking?”

“Sure.”

“Well, with all our contacts and the money we’ve been making, why don’t we produce our own play?”

“OK, I’m listening.”

“I’ve already got the title. We’ll call it, ‘The Broadway Actors Matrimonial Service.’”

“So far, so good.”

“We already have the cast.”

“We do?”

“Sure Serene. Our newlyweds.”

“That’s going to be a pretty large cast.”

“If we were making a movie, most of them would be extras. Well actually, we can give them relative short speaking parts.”

Serene sat there letting this all sink in. Then I continued.

“Now hold on to your seat. Our play is going to be on Broadway.”

“What are you nuts, Sergei? Who would put our play on Broadway?”

We will!”

“Sergei, you are one crazy Romanian! We’re talking about filling the house with at least 500 tushies. How can we possibly do that night-after-night?”

I didn’t say anything. After maybe six or eight seconds Serene began to smile. Then we burst out laughing. We would paper our own house!

“One week, limited engagement. Eight performances, which comes to ‘selling’ 4,000 seats. If we give each performer a couple of free tickets for each performance, that would take care of almost half the seats. And who knows: Maybe we’ll even sell some tickets.”

Three months later, we were ready for opening night. There were no previews performances. We knew we would lose a lot of money on our scheme, but we were not at all prepared for what happened next. Predictably the critics were brutal. If you think of what Bialystock and Bloom had counted on happening when they put on Springtime for Hitler, it turns out “The Broadway Actors Matrimonial Service” exceeded even those low expectations. “Complete Shit!” headlined one of the kinder reviews we received. And unlike Bialystock and Bloom’s play, ours was not perceived by audiences as a comedy. It was, by far, the worst play they had ever seen.

A reviewer for The Times suggested that if Tonys were given for “the worst” in all major categories, our play would make a clean sweep – except for the acting. As he pointed out, “Even the world’s greatest acting ensemble could not have rescued this piece of drek!”

Alongside its review, Variety placed a cartoon with this caption: “What Hirschfeld would have drawn had he still been alive.” Above the caption was a blank sheet of paper.

As word spread about the worst play in the history of Broadway, the completely unexpected happened. Legitimate ticket demand actually started climbing, and we were able to hold the play over for another week, and then still another. Audiences flocked to see for themselves just how bad a Broadway play could be. And they were not disappointed.

Our play finally closed after a very respectable six-month run. One week later an e-mail blast went to over 2,000 actors and actresses: