When I write, I like to find the erotic even in situations and in sexual acts that I, in my personal life, don’t naturally gravitate towards.  For instance, I may write a story about a young man sucking cock for the first time–this is something I’ll never experience, being a straight, cis-woman.  But it doesn’t matter.  The eroticism doesn’t come from the act, specifically.  None of us in the erotica game are reinventing how to have sex.  What makes it erotic is how these two young men found themselves there.  What are they feeling?  What are they afraid of?  What is at stake?  How are the boundaries being pushed?

I’m currently re-reading Lady Chatterly’s Lover (and if you haven’t read it, do–it’s a true work of art).  I very much enjoy how D.H. Lawrence refers to orgasm as a “crisis.”   “She finally reached her crisis”; “She brought him to his moment of crisis”; etc.  We often think of an orgasm as the end goal.  But to call it a crisis implies the do or die nature of it:  Will you succumb to the one who seduced you?   Or will you hold back?  The outcome of your decision will change who you are.  It doesn’t end at your moment of crisis.  It changes your course.  It’s terrifying–like a crisis would imply.  And that terror is why we crave it so much.

Sometimes, in an erotic story, the outcome of your crisis is that you become a humiliated slave.  Sometimes you are freed from the shackles of purity and you are empowered. But we want to change our lot with our crisis.  And I’ll always be fascinated by the power our bodies contain.  If I could only feel the hot, wet damp between her legs, I could escape…

Or, put another way:



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