Hard truths:

Oh, you thought this was enjoyable? A pleasant pastime? Think again. You don’t write well until you get to the place where you force yourself to squirm under an uncompromising demand for your own honesty.

It’s not a nice place. It’s a place of autopsy. In erotica, you had better own the most intimately humiliating parts of your own sexual self. This isn’t autobiography; it’s auto-evisceration. Writing is not about gratifying your own ego or literary exhibitionism. It’s about bruising yourself against the wall that separates your consciousness from that of your reader. And the lines of communication are never, ever going to be complete. You’re going to lose your nails and rip your fingers to shreds digging at the brick and mortar that are the cultural, perceptual and existential barriers that separate you from the person reading your work. If you can’t do it, or won’t do it, or are too damn lazy to go the distance, find another hobby.

It’s good to see I’m not the only one who thinks sometimes dialogue is a game to be won or to be lost:

“I had an orgasm on the subway,” she said.

I nodded, and pretended that I had something perfect to say that didn’t need to be said. I poured her a glass of wine, and sat down next to her on the couch. I could wait. There was no way she wouldn’t finish.

“Where is the wine from?” she asked.

She was playing hard to get, but I could handle it. I knew it was a game, and I knew the only way to win was to stay strong.

“So, tell me about the subway.”

“The wine?”

“Argentina.” Fuck, not only was I losing, but I was losing badly.

South American wine can be quite good.

One of my favorite sayings (and I can’t claim ownership of it, even after the 507th use) is: “idle hands go straight to the genitals.” But honestly, is that even such a bad thing?

I’m already naked. I shed my clothes to the bedroom floor and now lie on the bed. The ache deepens. My fingers slide down my neck. I shiver with anticipation. My nipples are already taught when my hands find them. I feel the ache intensify. I roll them between my finger tips and gasp as a pulse begins in my cunt. I squeeze my thighs together wanting so much to cum. My breasts are soft and full in my hands as I caress them. My chest heaves with anticipation. If only you were here to watch me.

I slip one hand down. I know what to do to ease the ache. I know how to satisfy myself. I know you know this and the thought of having you as a voyeur stokes the flames further. The decision now is to make it quick and hard or draw it out slowly. My fingers slide through the wetness pooling between my thighs. Slick juices coat my fingers and I spread it around my clit. I moan softly. Electric waves run through me as my fingers start to circle my clit. The room has disappeared. The outside world has disappeared. Desire, need, want is all I feel.

And sometimes, that “want” can swallow us whole.

I’m fascinated by the scenery our minds dream up, the places we feel describe what is going on in our minds. Maybe it’s the wanderlust in my own imagination, but it’s a question I’ll silently ask other people: where would you put yourself?

I think of lying on a beach, gleaming golden, and baking in the heat as the warm salty waters lap at us and I pull her to me to taste her now salty flesh and long to take her right then and there on the bleached sand, in the surf, beneath a fiery jealous sun as the undulating waves mimic those of our own…

Thoughts of a beach, heat, warmth, sun. Spring might be here, but summer is only a dream away.

And again I think of those damned delectable lips; lips as delectable and damnable as fabled forbidden fruit. If such lips Eve had possessed, she never would’ve needed anything more to lure Adam to her whims.

Poor, poor Eve. She gets such a bum wrap.

I came home from the gym to an empty apartment. The roommate had taken the train down to Paris in the morning, so I knew I had the place to myself. Not having enjoyed the usual midweek ration of sex, I felt particularly horny. Masturbation at bedtime the night before wasn’t enough.

Well, that is a start.

I stripped to panties and bra, went to the bedroom for a blanket, and threw it over the dilapidated chair in the living room. One foot planted to the floor, my calf lowered over the cushion of the seat. Straddling the armrest, I pressed my chest against the back of the chair. Through the layer of cotton covering my crotch, through the thick woolen blanket, through the leaf patterned upholstery, I felt the unyielding hardness of wood. Sliding my cunt down, raising and lowering my pelvis, adding torque with my hips, I dragged my pussy against the arm.

That is one lucky chair.

And as I found myself there again, as I slid in two digits and crooked to find that sweet, little spot, as I fingered and fucked, as I circled and strummed the blushing nub, as I tightened and clamped and released my glistening lust, as I relished the wanton reflection of the woman pleasuring herself, moaning so loud the neighbours would most certainly hear, I wondered just how long you’d be able to resist me if you found me just this way.

Would you resist me? Would you resist?

The list of questions goes on. And really, the answer is all about self-control.