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On Writing

Wicked WednesdayIt’s almost 16 years to the day since I wrote my first erotic story way back in 2001. It wasn’t particularly good, but it was a start.

I wrote it because, having read a fair bit of erotica on sites like Literotica; while a lot of it was extremely well written, much of it was atrocious. There was, sadly, particularly among male “authors”, a tendency to write pieces that were less arousing and more mechanical descriptions of sex. The sex was simply a description of the positions they did it in, how many strokes of his cock until he came, how much he enjoyed it, and how quickly he got hard again so he could do it all again. The characters were, at best, one dimensional. The man was extremely proud of how large/hard his cock was, how hard he could fuck, how long he could last and how good his orgasm felt. The woman was, almost invariably a stunning blonde, with huge tits and existed solely as the possessor of orifices for the male character to fuck with absolutely no regard to her enjoyment. The only hint as to her personality, skills and/or abilities we ever got was that she was, of course, an absolute expert at giving blow-jobs.

From the outset, I was pretty sure I could do better than that. Granted, being male myself, and only knowing what sex feels like from a male perspective, my primary point of view was going to have a male focus. I was, however, determined that my characters, both male and female, would be “real” people, having (artistic licence aside) “real” sex. Both parties would have feelings and emotions, both parties would have their likes and dislikes, both parties would have orgasms (unless the focus of the story was orgasm denial, of course).

I wanted the woman in my stories to have their own “story”, their own motivations; desires, wants and needs. I wanted them to be people, not just a handy collection of holes with no personality that served as a plot device.

Likewise, I wanted my men to be more than just life support systems for their penises. I wanted them to have depth and feelings. I did not want them to be super-stud automatons.

Finally, I wanted the sex to be believable. I wanted both parties to participate fully in the experience. There had to be a reason, however superficial, as to why the protagonists were having sex; they needed to have motivations, there needed to be a context for them to fuck in.

Descriptions of sex can become repetitive. After all there are, without reducing things to #EuphOff  proportions, only so many ways you can describe the physical act of copulation; there are only so many words for the various erogenous zones and sexual organs, and only so many onomatopoeic collections of letters that can be used to express the sounds made by the (hopefully) joyously lustful participants as they move towards a climax.

As my writing has evolved, particularly as I’ve moved away from full length stories towards flash fiction, the actual “sex content” in my stories has reduced, but yet not (I hope) at the expense of the eroticism.

I don’t always succeed. As with all writers, some of my work is better than others. I hope, however, that on the whole you enjoy it.