I may very well have been the most hated man in the He-Fan community. To many people, I was known as the “He-Man Pornographer,” a writer of “He-Porn,” which has been described as “sad” and “disgusting.” Now you may be thinking, what kind of sick bastard writes erotic fiction about He-Man? I guess that sick bastard would be me. But I certainly make no apologies for it. Most of the people that hated me never actually read my work, only scanning the text of my most risqué fanfics to cut and paste proof of my depravity.
Being of Greek descent, I was raised on a diet of Greek mythology, not the G-Rated Rick Riordan variety, but the original stuff, so it was not uncommon for me to learn, at a young age, of the sexual exploits of Hercules or Odysseus. Zeus, King of the Gods, was the most lecherous of all, cheating on his wife a total of 114 times. This isn’t to say that the Greeks condoned sex with reckless abandon. King Aegis of Athens was warned by the Oracle of Delphi against drunken fornication. But he did so anyway, giving birth to Theseus, which eventually led to his suicide. The Greek myths reflected the world as is, both perverse and innocent, celebrating life in all its diversity. But with Masters of the Universe, I was often confused. It wasn’t as if sex was portrayed as an evil thing; it simply ceased to exist.
I remember typing (on my Brother typewriter) a story about He-Man fighting the Hulk. But by the time I was in my twenties, I wanted to explore these characters in greater depth. I tried to imagine He-Man as a three dimensional human being, with all of the feelings, desires, and moral failings of a human being. And of course, sex was a theme begging to be explored, not because I wanted to destroy the nostalgic sensibilities of so many fans, but because I wanted to breathe life into my hero.
The Amazon was sent to a He-Man mailing list under the pseudonym Jennifer Thomas. I knew the tale would incite anger, and it did. People wondered why I did not start with something more in keeping with the accepted MOTU canon. Well, in all honesty, I was afraid. I had been writing fiction since I was six years old, and nobody had ever read anything I had written. My reasoning was: If I send a crappy, pornographic story over the Internet, I will a) get lots of attention and b) be protected against criticism, because any criticism for the story would be for its erotic content, not my writing ability. In retrospect, this reasoning seems stupid. But somehow I made fans. People begged me to send them copies of The Amazon and I decided not to bury the persona of Jennifer Thomas, but to continue writing under her name. This time, I invested more effort in the story, and Mari’na Lucien was born, a genuine romance. By the time I got around to my third “Jennifer Thomas” fanfic, erotica no longer interested me. I was more keen to explore other adult themes, so She-Ra and Fisto dealt with rape, but in a tragic way, regarding the characters’ relationships and the emotional scars caused by such an act. In my fourth story, Rain, sex is only alluded to. This time, I chose to tackle love, marriage, suicide and the birth of a handicapped child. By the time I got to my fifth fanfic, The Krelm, I became bored with sex and romance altogether and in a very traditional style adventure, I explored the way in which Prince Adam (He-Man) deals with his father’s death. Though it was my most ambitious project to date, The Krelm was a disaster. Nobody commented or gave me praise, and so I decided at that point to write The Return of Shokoti under my real name, Nick Alimonos, a story which could have been an episode of the original cartoon. My fan base continued to dwindle, however, since people tended to care only for erotica. Jitsu’s Revenge remains my most popular tale to date for this reason. I then started to experiment with different kinds of fiction, sometimes with vulgarity (as in the Amazon) and at other times focusing on romance and poetry, as in The Loneliest Being in All the Universe. By now, I was receiving quite a bit of hate mail, mostly from people who did not read my work, and in answer to them, I tackled issues of morality in Decadence, where He-Man is forced to choose between love and lust.
By this time, the “Jennifer Thomas Canon” was starting to form. Quite by accident, I had developed a saga, starting with The Amazon and culminating with Decadence. But it needed a better ending, something to tie the loose threads together, and so Prince Regan was born, the tragic conclusion to the “Jennifer Thomas Canon.” The story did not deal at all with sex, but the life of He-Man’s son. The main theme was hate, a thing I was all too familiar with. But while The Amazon started it all, you won’t be seeing it here (sorry). Try as I may, the story is unsalvageable, an embarrassing, pornographic, poorly written mess with zero redeeming qualities, so it really comes as a shock to me, that I could ever have been so brash and shameless to post it. I guess while other people in college were experimenting with drugs and sex, I was experimenting with erotica. So I begin my Masters of the Universe Fanfic Saga with Jitsu’s Revenge, the earliest in the chronology.
2019 Update: I am compelled to include this post script, as an apology of sorts, regarding this story.
Since I have been posting fiction online, the social media landscape has changed dramatically, and it has been fascinating to see the many ways in which perceptions have changed and continue to change. Twenty years ago, the most controversial thing about this story would have been its overt sexual content. Moving into the Adult Swim and Game of Thrones era, the most shameful thing later became the term “fan-fiction,” which is often synonymous with poor storytelling. Now that we are living in the Trump era, with Nazis and KKK members marching in the streets, and racists openly espousing their views on YouTube, the racist overtones inherent in Jitsu’s Revenge becomes painfully evident.
To be perfectly clear, I abhor racism in all its forms, and I sincerely hope that my literary work, taken as a whole, bears this out. That being said, I grew up in the 80s, where racism in books, movies and TV shows, however subtle, ran rampant. As a child, I never once bothered to question why He-Man never had a black friend (until the very last year, with the introduction of Clamp Champ), and I also never bothered to ask why the only two Asian characters in Eternia, Jitsu and Ninjor, were evil. I am not even sure whether Mattel, the creators of the toy line, were aware of this. I believe it had more to do with unconscious stereotypes, in the same way you can find a lot of African and Asian imagery in Tolkien’s Orcs, and how in The Lord of the Rings, the Nazgul are referred to as “black men,” despite the fact that Tolkien rejected claims of being racist. All I knew, growing up with Masters of the Universe, was that Jitsu and Ninjor, with their stereotypical Asian features, were the bad guys, and that the very Aryan looking He-Man was the good guy, and my fan-fiction thoughtlessly followed suit.
I guess I could simply delete this story from existence, but I think it important to preserve our literary history, so that we can look back at our past mistakes, to better correct the failings in our present. Plus, who knows what sort of update I’ll be making in another twenty years? The moral fabric of our society is always in flux, always striving, I feel, toward a better world.
Teela could hear the crunch of broken leaves under her boots as she approached the small, wooden, straw-roofed house. She had found it following the column of gray smoke wafting from its stone-brick chimney.
This must be the place, she thought, brushing her chestnut hair from her sea-blue eyes. But before she could reach the low clearing where the house resided, its small door cracked open, and out came a bearded, burly man with a giant steel glove in place of his right hand.
“Fisto, I presume?”
“Yes, and you must be Teela, Captain of the Royal Guard.”
“That I am,” she said, pushing her wooden staff into the soft, dark soil.
He turned. “Come on inside.”
“How is it that you live out here? I had trouble finding you.”
“Well, I AM a woodsman.”
“A woodsman who single-handedly kills thirty of Skeletor’s minions? That’s unlike any woodsman I’ve ever known.”
He did not reply, but stepped into the shadowy darkness of his cabin. She followed.
“You sit here in the dark?”
He lit a hanging lantern, then turned to a table where a map had been laid. “See this large island?” he pointed with his left hand, “that’s where the bandits come from.”
“Who are they? What do they want?”
“Nipponese, a harsh people.”
“You’ve seen them?”
“Only on horseback,” he replied gloomily, “when they come shooting flaming arrows into the village homes. They’re not like us. They have copper skin and slanted eyes.”
Teela reached into her pouch, pulling out a scroll. “I have orders from the king to make a peace treaty.”
Fisto laughed, but it was a harsh, broken, unpleasant laugh. “That won’t stop their raids. They pay no respects to King Randor.”
“The king is prepared to offer a settlement, a large sum.”
“No!” he cried, the wooden table crumbling beneath his metal hand. “They don’t want gold. They only want to burn homes, kill innocent men and children, and rape women.”
“I know how you feel,” she said coldly. “I understand that your family . . .”
He turned from her. “Oh, you don’t understand. They don’t deserve a settlement! They deserve . . . death.”
“King Randor doesn’t want war.”
Fisto laughed. “A noble king indeed, that kills to make himself rich.”
“He unified us! He brought peace to this planet!”
“Under his rule.”
“Are you a member of the Royal Guard or not?”
“I didn’t ask to be.”
“We need your skills.”
“I fought for myself. I owe no allegiance to no king.”
“But you will lead an army into Nippon?”
“We should try a peaceful settlement first.”
“What, has the king grown so old that his thirst for conquest is quenched? Or does he fear the hardships in invading an island that size?”
“Please . . . you’re the only one living this far out that can help me. If you won’t, I’ll go alone. Just tell me who their leader is.”
“Do you want to see?” he exclaimed, opening a chest and pulling out a hand, severed above the wrist, caked with dried blood. “Here is part of the man you seek.”
Teela had witnessed the horrors of war, and was not shocked by the loss of a limb, though she was quite taken aback by this. Then, her eyes focused with sudden realization. “He took your hand . . . and you took his.”
“Now do you think he’ll accept your settlement?” He dropped the hand on the floor. “He has nothing but contempt for us, as I have of him.”
“Still, I have to try. As Captain of the Royal Guard, I cannot let personal feelings get in the way of king’s orders. Thousands could die, and it is up to me to prevent that.”
“Go ahead and go,” he replied, rousing the dying embers of the fireplace with his metal hand. “He’ll probably rape you, then kill you. They trade women in Nippon, you know, like we do animals. If you’re lucky, you’ll find yourself the slave of some warlord, serving his lustful appetite day and night.”
“I’m not afraid. I’ve put myself at greater risk before. I’ll die for my king if I am so ordered.”
Fisto remained silent, and then tromped out the doorway. She ran after him, finding him behind the house, kneeling before two gravestones, his left hand on one them.
“I dug these graves myself,” he said, his eyes downcast. “I would have carved their names, but I had no chisel.”
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.
“I can’t help you make peace with this man, but you can sleep in my house tonight. The sun is falling, and the nearest village is far from here.”
“I won’t ask more of you,” she said softly.
That night, Teela slept in Fisto’s bed, as he slept on the floor. He didn’t seem to notice her, even when the warrior woman stripped off her white and gold attire and brown leather boots, before slipping into bed. She was well aware of the effect her body had on men, but she trusted a husband mourning over the recent loss of a wife, and she never slept in any way but nude. Still, she slept lightly, and with a dagger under her pillow, prepared as a warrior should be.
Suddenly, Teela awoke to the thunder of approaching hooves. She leaped out of bed, shaking Fisto awake.
“Marian, what is it?” he groaned.
“Do you hear that? Horses!”
“Get up!” she cried, grabbing her staff.
“By the Ancients! They’ve returned!” He sat up, attaching his metal hand to the stub of his arm.
The lantern now swinging from her hand illuminated the room, bathing half her face, breast and thigh in a warm light, leaving the rest of her shapely figure a silhouette. She then crept out through the door.
“Get dressed,” he called. “I’ll hold them off.”
“There’s no time!” The next thing she knew, an arrow with a flaming point sailed into the straw roof, turning it ablaze. “Show yourself, cowards!” she cried, brandishing her staff.
“No, no, no!” Fisto grumbled, running after her, “it’s happening again.”
A black horse appeared from the woods, and riding on it was a figure in black, a red dragon emblazoned on his breast and a bow in his hand. Nothing else could be seen of him but his eyes, gazing out from the slit of his mask.
“How dare you attack us in the middle of the night!” Teela cried. “Come off your high-horse and fight me if you dare!”
He clutched the reigns of his horse, standing it on its hind legs, before firing a flaming arrow, followed by another. The first split her staff like lightning, catching it on fire, and as it fell from her grasp, Fisto caught the second arrow in his metal hand, snapping it in two. Disarmed, Teela leapt away, as the dark figure flew from his horse, landing with his strangely curved sword unsheathed. It was unlike any sword Teela had ever seen. Shining in the moonlight, the blade arched towards Fisto, but he was quick to catch it in his impervious hand, twisting it into scrap. Teela, meanwhile, lunged with her fists, but the figure’s speed and agility were without peer, smashing her cheek with his foot, knocking her back against the wall. Now only Fisto and the figure remained.
“Where is your master?” Fisto cried. “Is he too frightened to face me!”
“Zin, jen, subo-kai!” the dark shape replied.
With that, Fisto found himself surrounded by eight others, exactly the same. He swung at one of them valiantly, stumbling forward as if he had made enemies with the air.
Teela got to her feet, watching as the eight figures orbited Fisto in perfect symphony, all striking at once. All the while, she could feel the fire raging, the heat growing more intense. The house will be destroyed, she thought, and everything in it. Torn between saving the peace treaty and Fisto, she remained, until finally making up her mind and running back into the house, burning debris falling around her.
When Teela came back out, her dagger was in her hand. Fisto was still struggling with the Nipponian. But she could see a pattern now. Only one of the eight were actually hitting him. Watching carefully, she aimed her dagger, and hurled it into his back. The other seven figures disappeared and the lone attacker collapsed to the ground.
His face raging with blood and bruises, Fisto lifted the assassin by the collar with his metal hand, preparing to slam him into the ground, but the dark figure snatched something from his belt and all were obscured in smoke.
When the air finally cleared, the man in black was gone, and so was his horse. But Teela noticed yet another shape creeping from behind the battered woodsman.
“Fisto!” she cried. “Look out!”
He turned just in time to grab the encroacher’s hand, a giant golden hand, much the same as his own. “Jitsu!” Fisto exclaimed.
In the light of the burning house, Teela could see the man with the inky black beard and mustache. He was wearing strange, ornate armor, and just as Fisto, his hand was fake. She knew it could only be he, the leader of the bandits, and then she turned to witness the house crumble into a flaming heap of stone and wood, along with the treaty.
Fisto punched a hole into the ground where Jitsu’s head had been seconds before. “Come back here, coward! Have you no honor, sending a ninja to kill me?”
“Why?” Jitsu replied. “You had every opportunity to assassinate me. There are no rules in war, Fisto. Those who believe so, lose.”
“Then you made your mistake coming here. I beat you once; I can beat you again.”
“Wait!” Teela cried, stepping forth.
Jitsu turned, surprised by Teela’s beauty and unabashed nakedness.
“You are outnumbered, Jitsu, two-to-one. If you don’t surrender to me, and agree to a peace treaty, we’ll be forced to use violence. Please, let’s not resort to violence . . .”
Fisto turned to her. “You stay out of this!”
In that instant, with his enemy facing away, Jitsu smacked Fisto in the head with his golden hand, and the two giants clashed. She tried to help Fisto but it was impossible. They were locked in battle too closely for her to intervene. Finally, Jitsu thrust his knee into the woodman’s groin and with a chop to the neck, Fisto collapsed.
Triumphant, Jitsu stood over the fallen body. As he drew his curved sword to make the final, killing blow, Teela ran to him, crying; “Stop! Don’t kill him!”
“And why shouldn’t I?”
She thought for a moment. “You have already killed his wife, and his child. Now you have proven yourself the better. Leave him with the agony of defeat.”
He moved the point of his sword from Fisto’s chest, and clenched his golden hand. “And who are you?”
“I am Teela . . .”
“You are his female?”
He moved his sword to her throat, and with his gold hand tugged at her hair. “You are beautiful. I will not kill him . . . yet.”
“Let go of my hair!” she cried. “Is this how you get women in Nippon, by force?”
“Yes!” he asserted, and she felt a sharp pain in her neck, and all went black.
Teela found herself lying naked on a large bed in a strange, decorative room, her wrists and ankles bound by rope. On the left wall there was a hook, and on it a curved sword in its scabbard. Standing at the foot of the bed was Jitsu, naked, his golden hand removed. Where it had once been was a stub. In the light of the blue, red, and yellow lanterns, she found him to be unusually attractive. He was all muscle and hairless. Only his face marred his beauty, not for his exotic copper features and slanted eyes, but the perpetual scowl that defined him.
“What are you going to do with me?”
“I think you know.”
“Please . . . I won’t run away.”
He traced the insides of her thigh with his finger, then kneaded her leg muscles with his one hand, and it felt, surprisingly wonderful.
“Where ever did you learn to do that?” she huffed.
“We Nipponians are wise in the ways of love.”
The next thing she knew, he was sliding his warm, tight body over hers, and she felt a damp emptiness between her thighs. How could such an evil man make her feel so good? Part of her wanted him inside, but another part knew he was a murderer and a villain. And yet she had no choice. Or did she?
“You don’t need to do this,” she whispered, biting his lower lip. “I want to.” Indeed, her body seemed to say so, as did her bright blue eyes.
Jitsu reached under the mattress, pulling out a small knife. He brought the knife over her face, and she was frightened to think what he might do. Her fears were abated when he moved the knife further, to cut the ropes from her wrists. He then slid down to her ankles, cutting her feet free.
If ever there was a chance of escape, it was now that he was kneeling, where she could kick him. But she was hesitant. Had she fooled him or fooled herself?
Suddenly, he was atop her, pressing his full weight against her. It was too late to back out. She’d wasted her chance to escape. Thrashing about would avail her nothing; he was simply overpowering. There’s only one way out of this, she thought to herself, give him what he wants. Surrendering to his will, she allowed him to take her by the ankles, to spread her legs apart, to kiss her neck gently and caress her breast with his only hand. He slid that hand further down the arch of her back to her jutting buttocks, gripping her tightly, pushing himself deeper. She moaned with acceptance, wrapping her legs about his muscled abdomen as he continued to thrust and to send waves of pleasure through her like the tide. It was not long before her animal instincts took over, flipping him onto his back to ride him, rising and falling as if she were straddling a wild stallion. Sweat trickled down her cheek, pooling at the base of her neck, and with another upward thrust, sprinkling across his chest. She never knew it could be like this. She never knew.
“Oh, Jitsu!” she gasped, feeling the halves of his smooth, rounded torso.
He grunted in reply, clutching her by the waist.
“Don’t stop . . . please . . .”
He did not stop, forcing himself into her again and again, working his fingers deeper. And then to assert his dominance, he pulled away and turned her over. Now she was on hands and knees, and in pain, hating being the submissive, but she could not show sign of weakness, and so she let it happen.
Drenched in sweat, their naked bodies glistening, Jitsu started to tire. Each stroke came softer, and she smiled, knowing she could outlast him. With his grip weakened, she shimmied over to the headboard and sat up, thumbing her clitoris, daring him to give her more. He was reluctant to continue, but could not resist. She swallowed him up again, his cock disappearing inside her belly.
“Come on,” she taunted, grinding her slender body against his giant frame, “show me how much of a man you are.”
He was panting, out of breath, but forced himself onward and inward.
“Harder,” she sighed. “I want to feel it.”
He started to mumble incoherently.
“Come on,” she continued, almost out of breath herself, “is this a rape, or are you teasing me?”
At long last, the bed shuddered and he rolled over, flat on his back. There was no other movement but for his throbbing lungs.
“Are you going to kill me now?”
“No. You will be my wife.”
She got to her feet, eyeing the sword on the wall. “But those other women . . .”
“But you raped them?”
“Females don’t know what they want. They are like wild horses; they need to be broken. Then they are faithful.”
“But some had husbands!”
“They succumb to the strongest, and forget their former masters.”
She gripped the hilt of the sword, unhooking it from its scabbard. “I could kill you now.”
He didn’t even turn. “You won’t kill me. Not after what we did.”
“Oh?” She raised an eyebrow, and with one quick movement, unsheathed the blade, its tip whirring overhead.
His eyes focused on her now. His teeth clenched. “Go ahead, strike me!”
She paused, and turned away.
“I thought so. You haven’t the balls. But do not fret. With you as my bride, I will agree to a peace. No more raids. I’ll even release Fisto. First his wife, now you . . .,” he laughed, “I have completed my revenge!”
Teela’s lips bent like a pregnant bow, and in a single perfect motion, Jitsu’s head rolled from his shoulders, his laugh still frozen on his face. “No! He’ll never know what you did to me!”