Tag Archives: erotica
The whine was a little girl noise: a pouting, stubborn groan of frustration. I heard it when I opened the door and let the light from the hall break the spell of darkness in her room.
On the pink bed, the girl was covered in blankets, pillows, comforters, even stuffed animals. She sniffled somewhere under there and in a voice that sounded much more adolescent than what a college student should sound like, she whined, “go away.”
I had to laugh. I left the door open a little, enough to see at least. I crept over to the bed, looking around at the bowl of half eaten soup and cups of tea.
Title image by julio.garciah. CC BY-NC 2.0
We saw movies. That’s what we did. We saw movies and went to museums.
I met Elise when she briefly worked in my office. She was one of those girls who grew up rich, but Upper West Side rich, not Upper East Side rich. The difference was super-preppy private schools versus super-intellectual immersive savant schools. She went to the latter and left with a rich inner life and a love of art and music and books that most people had never heard of. That, and the inability to really connect with most anyone.
Title image by Face It. CC BY-NC 2.0
The thing was, she was young. Very young. Certainly legal, but still, I really should have been ashamed of myself. I was a thirty-two year old man! It started out so simply though. She sent me a picture because I wrote something silly like, if a picture is worth a thousand words than a thousand words must be worth a picture.
Hi, I’m Jack and I’m a well dressed butch.
Hi, I’m Jack and lately I have become significantly more fabulous.
Hi, I’m Jack and I am an aspiring dandy, but I’m still all man.
Hi, I’m Jack and just because I’m relatively straight and cismale doesn’t mean I’m not queer.
Hi, I’m Jack and I have a lot of heroes. Some of my heroes are new people in my life, like Sinclair and Sara Eileen and Lolita Wolf and Viviane and Maymay. Others have always been around, like Anaïs Nin and Oscar Wilde and Henry Miller and AS Byatt and William Gibson and Cory Doctorow and David Foster Wallace and Don DeLillo and Mary Gaitskill and AM Homes.
This is a write up of my first presentation at KinkForAllNYC2 as well as a lot of peripheral information from my talk at Sex 2.0 DC.
See the KinkForAllNYC2 Schedule Grid for write-ups, video and pictures of other presentations.
Anonymity’s Effect on Online Sex Writing
I’ve been reading online erotica since there has been erotica online. Starting with BBS (Bulletin Board Systems), using a 2400 baud modem to dial up and log into places like Technet and The Unforgiven Board to scour the forums for hand transcribed copies of badly written stroke stories from magazines and pulp novels.
Truth be told, Elise didn’t even really like him. That’s not to say she wasn’t already wet when she got off at his subway stop and climbed the familiar stairs into the lingering evening sun. She hadn’t been to his apartment in weeks. She hadn’t walked through the dirty streets of his neighborhood, next to the big school with the high metal fence and the little stores with the weird religious candles and the exotic smells.
All right, maybe she liked him in some weird way. He could be a good friend, in his own fashion, if he wanted to, but he was so very full of himself sometimes, so very Mark. They had dated for a while around two years ago, and maybe they were even in love for a couple of minutes, but Mark was an ass and that all disintegrated quickly. He was a much better fuck than he ever was a boyfriend.
She seemed like a little mouse. That’s how I thought of her, what I called her in my head. My little mouse. Oh, how I was wrong.
That’s the way it is being a man sometimes. You see a woman and she can’t look you in the eyes. She is sweet and pretty and her cheeks go red when you joke with her and you think you know her. You imagine her small and innocent and you are tall and strong and can show her the world. In a way it is comforting. It makes you powerful. All the secrets of desire are yours to show her.
Mister McIntyre’s Secret, Part Nine
I’ve been given a notebook and a pen and I’ve been told to write down everything. Everything? If I am going to do that I guess I need to give you a little background, after all, who knows who might be reading this?
My name is Abigail. I’m twenty-two, boring and not very pretty. I don’t have fancy dresses or lots of makeup, but somehow I am in a lavish mansion sitting in a room full of interesting people watching a beautiful woman about to get–well, I’m getting ahead of myself.
I came home to find the apartment in disarray. A lamp, which was still on, was laying on the floor, shining a spotlight on the half empty bookshelf. The books were strewn about floor and one was soaking up the water that a vase once held, the violets having been trampled.
My Betty was a bruiser, a broad shouldered girl, too tall to ever be comfortable in her own skin. She’d been beaten into shape as a kid by her step-father, that was until she was old enough to kick his ass.
She sat on the kitchen floor with the last of my good bourbon. Unlaced roller-skates, a black skirt, and one of my old white t-shirts. Her tattoos were nothing but shadows under the white cotton, thick black and red lines peeking out.
Part of being a decadent hedonist with no spiritual beliefs or moral compass is that I feel no compunction about self promotion. This is, after all, my blog.
My first piece of commercially published erotica is now available in ebook format!
BUT THAT’S NOT ALL! Oh wait. Yes it is.
It started with Jones from accounting. He was called into an office, so routine, and then security came and unplugged his computer. Donna Moore was next, she was some kind of account rep. In a week Baker, Lee and Hernandez were all gone.
They all walked out of that office with same dull numb looks on their face, like they’d seen a ghost.
They took on all of accounting and all of the account reps, cutting roughly a third of their numbers. Though I had some evidence I was safe, you never know.
Katie had been this ever-present force in my office life. Nothing serious, nothing real, just flirting. A passing glance, a little smile, a look that lasted a second too long. We never even really spoke much but she suddenly became my best friend when the trouble started.