Himalayan Love Stories

Mountain High

On Batman’s previous adventure, “The Erotic Adventures of Batman” [WHICH WE NOW PRESENT AS AN ILLUSTRATED SPIN OFF E-BOOK CLICK CLICK CLICK– Ed.] we left our hero, Batman, in Peoria, Illinois where he’d taken up temporary residence with his new best friend, Tom Shneider, Tom’s family, and his long-suffering British manservant, Alfred, in Tom’s three-bedroom, one-and-a-half-bath split-level home as a cost cutting measure to tide him over during a protracted lawsuit against Randy Shuvelback in which Batman and Tom Schneider are the co-litigants. Whether or not Batman and Tom will ultimately be able to make the charges against Randy stick concerning the issue of the whole “wooden pussy thing” remains to be seen, as the trial is ongoing. A notorious grifter and a sort of cipher for some weird, uniquely American vintage of confidence trickery, Randy is, by nature, a litigious fellow and the struggle has been bitter. But, rather than getting bogged down in all of that crap, Batman has instead decided to bring you selections from his Erotic Anthology Series, “Himalayan Love Stories.” The Basis of these Love Stories is a tribute to the eponymous mountain range, a place where Batman finally “found himself” and was able to accept the fact that he is a mountain man. While the Love Stories will not always be set in the eponymous “Himalayas” the “heady” nature of Batman’s dizzying Erotic Experiences bespeaks the fact that it is, indeed, a fitting tribute to these most majestic and “tip-top” of mountains. So, without further ado, episode one: “Mountain High.” Please do not attempt to contact Batman with any questions at this time. [BUT PLEASE DO BUY SETH’S EROTIC ADVENTURES OF BATMAN E-BOOK, PICTURED BELOW. HAPPY BLACK FRIDAY! CLICK CLICK CLICK! – Ed.]


I am a mountain man.

There, I said it.

I’m not jacking you around and I’m not playing games.

I know what people say.

They say:

Mountain men are gross.

Mountain men are smelly.

Mountain men live in the trees and eat the cheese and herbs that grow wild on their unwashed bodies.

And maybe, in some small way, they’d be right.

Because you know what?

Mountain men are people, too.

Maybe some of them do do shit like that. I don’t know, I haven’t met all of the others yet. But I have met a lot of them. And do you know what I do know about mountain men?

Mountain men are wonderful men.

Because they’re above it all.

I don’t know what it is, but something about the mountains has always appealed to me. All the shitty crap I normally have to deal with on a day-to-day basis seems to take a back seat when I’m at altitude.

The thing is, with people—your dad, whatever—you can’t win. One second they’re telling you to pull your head out of your ass and the next they’re on your nuts for having it stuck up in the clouds.

All that melts away when you’re “high.”

Look, I’ve been riding the ranges long enough to have picked up some serious wisdom-sticks along the way. Did the kundalini thing for a while until I actually could put my head into my ass just to spite the haters. It’s called “closing the loop of desire” and it works. Problem is, once it’s closed you crack a whole new can of worms, brand name “What now?” And folks, let me tell you that is one bastard of a can to answer.

I’ve been through varieties of shit that would’ve body slammed a lesser man and enough of it to have lain waste to an entire sexy army. Everybody knows this. I’m not saying I’m unscathed (I’ve got the battles scars to prove that), but everybody also knows where I ended up and of the elevated life I live today.

What a lot of people don’t know is how I got from point shit to Point Reyes.

You guessed it: the mountains.

My introduction to the mountains came in the form of none other than the legendary Himalayas.

Talk about a baptism by fire…

To go from walking around regular to scaling craggy peaks and scraping my BatHelmet against the ceiling of the world was nothing short of sheer insanity.

Talk about a case of whiplash…

As usual, I had dived in dick first without bothering to check the temperature of the water.

Lucky for me, I was swimming with a buddy.

I’ve already written about Girth Brooks.

This isn’t his story.

It’s mine.

But, he is a part of it.

Him, as well as the world of mountains and the men who love them into which I was initiated by him.

I owe a lot to Girth, not the least of which is the current outsize status of my tackle. But, more important than that even are the life lessons I learned in the mountains under his maverick brand of tutelage.

These are his stories. But again, more so, they are mine.

And like all great stories, they are love stories.

Himalayan Love Stories.

Which is why I’m partnering with none other than David Duchovny to bring them to you.

David brings to the table with him an expansive portfolio of experience curating and creating some of the most influential and erotic content this side of cable television. David’s influence is going to be subtle but at the same time it’s going to be nut-busting and monumental. You won’t always know he’s there during these stories—sometimes it’ll seem like he’s faded into the background, more a structuring absence then a felt presence—but even when you’re totally in the dark about where he is or what he might be doing in these stories you should keep in mind that he did in fact have a hand in the whole thing, legally. Call him a “fixer.” Better yet, call him sir. If you have to call him at all.

Speaking of calling though, to call his addition to the team a game-changer would be euphemistic, at best. Forget the game. Forget the heretofore unheard of depth of the bench I’ve somehow managed to assemble for this, my soon-to-be greatest endeavor. What it changes is everything. And that’s just to start.

So, without further ado, allow me to present my magnum opus. It’s going to make my previous work look like dogshit.

Men. Women. Friends. Lovers. From my mountain perch, to the very core of this mother Earth, I present to you: David Duchovny Presents: The Red Shoe Diaries 2: Himalayan Love Stories. Featuring Me: Batman.

Seth Blake is a writer from New Hampshire.