Writing Erotica Is Really, Really Hard
Most of my life-changing moments of clarity come to me around three in the morning after a hefty dose of crying and a couple Klonopin. Typically, they’re forgotten by morning, and I’ll go about my day and search for my next money-making scheme. After reading a post on Reddit about a woman who makes $1,000 a month by publishing erotic books via Amazon, my gears started grinding and churning and a plan was hatched. I quickly ran an inventory of my skillset:
Do I have a computer? Yes.
Can I type? Sure.
Do I know how to spell? Almost always.
Can I write smut? Maybe!
That day, I decided to forego my morning Dramamine pill, hauled my ass to Starbucks, ordered the biggest coffee on the menu and sat myself down to write some porn. About an hour into it, the only the words I had were “She sat, legs spread…” I realized: writing erotica is really, really hard. I leaned back in my chair, finished my coffee, and tried to comprehend why I couldn’t do this. I had written a lot before — I went to college, where it was standard to write thousands of words on subjects I didn’t care about. Yet, there I was, a huge fan of sex and unable to write anything past “She sat, legs spread…”
I started getting really bummed. Not even because I was missing out on all that potential, delicious Internet cash, but because I began doubting myself as a writer I’ve never been a grammar nazi, I frequently change tenses, and I don’t know what a jarond — I just had to Google how to spell that. I’m not the best, but it’s what I know. Not writing porn was taking all meaning away from my life. I got up and ordered a frappacino.
I got in my car and drove home, rifling through all the sexy situations in my head that I’ve ever been a part of. Sex on a ferris wheel, hot threesomes with my neighbors, the best friend’s mom; all things that have never happened to me. I realized the problem: I was a prude scoop of vanilla ice cream. I couldn’t write about debauchery and romance, because commitment has always made me nauseous and I have a serious fear of getting people pregnant. As I paused at the red light, I thought about the first time I ever had sex, and how I bought extra-thick condoms in preparation. Yep, they make those. Yep, I bought them and used them. Yep, it wasn’t fun. You know how a lot of guys last 30 seconds their first time? I lasted 30 hours. Well, it felt like 30 hours — you’d be shocked to know how little one person can feel in their penis. My sexual un-adventures were weighing on me like a gym bag full of unused bottles of lube.
When I got back home, I peed out all that caffeine that had been in my system and sat my computer down on my desk.
“You piece of shit, write something for money,” I said to myself, brewing a new cup of coffee. I started typing. “She sat, legs spread…” became “She sat, legs spread, revealing a freshly shaved–” when I heard a knock on my door. I opened it and there stood my friend Kristin.
“Hey!” She said, a little too overzealous.
“Oh, what’s up?”
“What are you up to?”
“Ha. Writing… or, I guess… trying to write,” I replied, sitting back down in my chair.
She hovered, gently biting her lip.
“Sit down, if you want. I’ve got some serious writer’s block.” Kristin pulled up a chair and sat across from me. She crossed her legs, exposing a pair of light blue tights.
“Do I smell coffee?”
“Yeah,” I said, “I pretend to drink it when I want to look cool. Do you want some?”
“I’ll be up all night,” she said, her eyes fluttering like a butterfly, “do you have anything a little… stronger?”
I looked at her hand, moving steadily up my thigh.
I looked at her other hand, steadily moving up my other thigh.
She sat, legs spread… exposing a pair of see-through panties.
“Fuck.” I sputtered, “I guess those aren’t tights then.”
Kristin shook her head, climbed on my lap, grabbed my hair, and bit my ear. She leaned in and whispered:
“Nope. But they do come off.”
Passion grabbed ahold of us as we raced out of our clothes like they were covered in flesh-eating ants with razor sharp fangs dripping in poisonous venom. She ripped off her shirt to expose a pair of incredible, succulent breasts.
“I didn’t have time to put on a bra this morning,” she whispered as she unbuttoned my pants.
Our sexual hurricane enveloped the room as papers flew off desks, tables got turned upside-down, and window shades were drawn. She pushed me against the wall and rubbed her truly incredible posterior all up against my man-shit. I looked down and nearly drowned on my drool.
“What’s the matter, Jeremy? Everyone told me you’re an ass-man.”
“Baby, I’m an ass boy-in-a-candy-store.”
I covered her neck and shoulders in bite marks and tried my best to whisper sexy little ditties into her ear.
“I’m going to turn you into a goddamn piece of steak, homegirl.”
I shushed her gently pursed lips, “Let me undo that skirt.”
“You’re going to love what’s underneath,” she whispered.
“Ohfmmdffffggggguuuhhhhh,” I moaned, as I fumbled with her intricately buttoned skirt. I fumbled further.
“What the fuck, why won’t this come off?” She grabbed my hand, crushing it with an ungodly burst of strength.
“Because you’re not worthy of my glorious lady-box.” Her leg came down on my chair, splintering it.
“What the F?!” I screamed.
“You have failed the test, Jeremy. Millions before were able to remove my skirt in seconds, but you? It has been two minutes. Prepare to feel the ultimate extent of my powers.”
“Ultimate what? I think my coffee’s burning.”
The next few minutes of my life were consumed in horror as her skin melted off her body, like candle wax, revealing a nightmarish exo-skeleton.
“I’ve been sent to the future to terminate you,” she yelled in a clearly robotic voice.
My god. She pulled out a sword.
“No! Kristin! Don’t! My coffee! It’s burning! Why would they use swords in the future?!”
Her eyes glowed red as the sun and she charged towards me.
Long story short, Kristin and I worked out our differences over a hot cup of joe and eventually became friends again. It turns out the space-time continuum could remain intact with my existence, and that her travel from the year 2062 was a mere procedural training exercise for the People’s National Party of New America — which, I argued, sounded suspiciously Nazi-ish. We laughed and laughed all night, and I eventually forgave her for fake-seducing me and attempting to cut my head off. Alas, there was still a part of me that remained a little bummed.
I hadn’t gotten anywhere in my novel and, most importantly, I didn’t get my bird wet. I guess writing erotica is harder than it seems and not everyone can just whip out a good book. It just goes to show you that, even something you think is easy takes dedication and serious elbow grease. I think I’ll get it one day, all I know is, it’s going to take a lot more than a gallon of coffee and a sexual encounter with a futuristic robot hottie.
Bummer. Writing erotica is really, really hard.
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