I’ve been following a series of posts about the violent nature of various deities, and how modern sensibilities sand down the edges on old stories our culture carries around, until we’ve worn them down into something we’re comfortable with.  Nicole Danielle, in particular, wrote something that has stuck with me:

No body wants to be Job, nobody wants to rip their lovers to pieces, no one wants to be torn to pieces themselves, or cut out their own tongues, or sew their eyes shut, or walk in an abyss. No one wants initiation or trial by fire because one has no control over it. None.

And, well, it can’t be too hard to see why some part of me went, “No one?“

Maybe it’s no one, or maybe it’s just socially unacceptable.

Just don’t discount madness and masochism as an essential part of the human spirit.

So, Western culture takes Dionysus and turns him into this guy:

When, really, the myths involve a genderqueer, shape-shifting, foreigner from out there somewhere who went to war in India, had the greatest warrior/poet/lover that ever lived beheaded, and regularly drove women to do things like fuck monsters in the woods and rip off their own children’s heads.

The Bacchae of Euripides gives us the most vital picture of the wonderful circumstance in which, as Plato says in the Ion, the god-intoxicated celebrants draw milk and honey from the streams. They strike rocks with the thyrsus, and water gushes forth. They lower the thyrsus to the earth, and a spring of wine bubbles up. If they want milk, they scratch up the ground with their fingers and draw up the milky fluid. Honey trickles down from the thyrsus made of the wood of the ivy, they gird themselves with snakes and give suck to fawns and wolf cubs as if they were infants at the breast. Fire does not burn them. No weapon of iron can wound them, and the snakes harmlessly lick up the sweat from their heated cheeks. Fierce bulls fall to the ground, victims to numberless, tearing female hands, and sturdy trees are torn up by the roots with their combined efforts.

Yeah. That’s some scary stuff, even by modern standards. That’s some “Oh, noes, the ladies with their uncontrolled emotions are going to use their primordial black hole vaginas of terror to take us all back, back, back, to infancy, to the dark, to humans as animals, where surely The Great Mother will devour us all” type of scary stuff.

I suppose there’s an argument that the West belittles dead Gods and foreign Gods, because we’re asserting that the “our” guy is omnipotent.

Only, the same thing happens to Jehova, particularly in the modern Christian version. He is under attack, poor thing. He is taking the wheel.  He’s a lovely, attractive, non-threatening white man hanging out under a rainbow, laughing with little children.  He/his son is the perfect, chaste boyfriend for someone who’s completely terrified of sex. He’s your best friend, with whom you have a loving relationship. Or, increasingly… he doesn’t exist at all–you ditch the God altogether, and just stick with the little happy light in your heart.

⁴ Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. ⁵ It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. ⁶ Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. ⁷ It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

1 Corinthians 13:4-7 (NIV)

God is love.

Love is life.

Attaining transcendence, getting at the point of life, is basically boiled down to floating high on a big old wave of unconditional love.

Love as highest purpose. Love as an object of worship. Love as the defining aspect of life.

Romantic and familial love probably tops the list–these are our milestones: falling in love, the birth of children. Those are supposed to be your biggest moments.  Followed by love of country or an in-group of some sort–going into soldiering, athletics, healing professions and teaching; lives of “service.”  We also collectively admire love of life, particularly if accompanied by, say, the discipline of physical exceptionalism or the poignancy of terminal illness. Or, both at the same time. These are what we define as beautiful and noble love. We tolerate love of money and self, as those at least give the outward appearance of productivity. You can be a masochist, but you better be a figurative one for love–self sacrifice for your partner, for your children, for the impoverished masses. You can be temporarily insane, but it better be falling in love. You can commit a crime of passion, with some measure of sympathy.

We’re not so keen on those that really define their lives with hate or fear or wrath, even if that’s a common enough occurrence.

And we are absolutely intolerant and very skeptical of “transcendence,” of tapping into bigger than bodily feeling, that happens in unacceptable ways. There’s a very, very narrow path to getting outside yourself, at least so far as society is concerned. Even within religion–tongue-speaking, self-flagellation, stigmata, and even fasting are controversial. We’ve literally made a lot of routes to transcendence illegal–the drug war being a prime example, and with it, the hoops and hurdles and corporate attachment involved in any sort of festive gathering. We still frown on and/or mock genres of music, for crying out loud–most recently dubstep, that I’ve noticed, and I don’t think it’s any coincidence that it came out of the rave scene.

We’ve made some methods of bodily tribulation very taboo.

Second, S&M, by its nature, hurts people. Mild bondage is no big deal. But for sadomasochists, pain is the whole idea. Some stick to spatulas and wooden spoons, but others move on to electric shocks, skewers, knives, and butterfly boards.

What the hell is a butterfly board?

We don’t really own our bodies. Society has decided we can’t be trusted with them.

If you come close to losing control over yours, letting it run amok, society will issue the smackdown.

What it comes down to is that there’s very little room in our collective Ideal for personal experience where you’re not fully in control of your facilities, whether you want to lose control and stare down that scary id place or not.

There’s no room for maenads.

The assumption seems to be that any road that might lead to pain needs to be avoided at all costs. You might hurt yourself. You might hurt others.

Love is the avoidance of pain.

Don’t discount madness and masochism as an essential part of the human spirit, though.

It’s there. It’s always there.

Rodney Dragondong did stealthily creep across his vast landholdings at Orchard Grace Retirement home, his two-handed man-blade peace-tied to his back. He had an honorable mission to accomplish, and no low-born Unmen were going to muchly stop him.

The chicken must die, in the way of chickens. For that is the way of chickens.

She’d never be allowed on Gor.

Rodney, Lord Dragondong of Orchard Grace, knew that his pursuit of chicken freedom would be frowned upon on Earth where things are all rong, and men are bee-stung, and women are terrifying, except for luscious, lovely Kajira Crystal, his devoted slave, who sat in perfect slave postures, prostrate and prostrated in his Weapon-heavy Knight’s Dojo/Den. He knew the risks were high. But Randy would pay and pay well, for that is the way of unmen. They pay. And pay well.

So Rodney, the Dragondongiest, did creep. For his very self did not resist creeping, and creeping is good and wise, as Earth’s gravity and rongness did weigh heavily upon his Dongness.

Randy and his Rongwife appeared to be sleeping, as is the way of Earthfolk whom haven’t found magical crystal elixirs that give you Tarnsman strength and endurance and mental acumen and facial cysts. Rodney, Everdonged and Armed, did creep around to the backyard at Randy’s enviable holding.

He could hear the chicken, clucking as is the way of chickens.

Creepingly, he crept into the back holding, creeping through the darkness in a low crouch while he crept.

The chicken clucked a greeting, safe in it’s coop, as chicken are natural slaves, and desire a coop the way Earthwomen do.

He unlatched the coop with much manliness and verve, chuckling to himself. Oh, yes. Randy would pay and pay well for the insults earlier, when he so rudely evicted Rodney from his hedges, threatening him with Earthlaws and hurling insults. Rodney Dragnondong could not bear this insult, and bear it he would not. Clutching is war spoils, he raced from the Randyshire, triumphant and full of victory and win. The chicken flapped and protested, but Rodney knew it was all a show, as chickens are there for the plucking and he had rightly plucked.

Oh, yes. Randy had paid, and paid well.

I enjoy a good cowboy story, usually.

Thomas is best-known for the book Comfort Food, which I haven’t yet read, because I’m thinking it might not be my cup of tea.

Her work is not “erotic romance”. Often on some level it is about love and/or obsession. Often the couple in some way ends up “together”, but the work should not be expected to follow the conventions of any type of genre romance, erotic or otherwise. If you are looking for genre romance (erotic or otherwise), please read a different author. Erotic romance is “more explicit romance”. This is something different.

Oddly, it’s not set in Montana. I have a feeling that’s not the last thing about it that’s going to throw me.

So far as I can tell, the internet can’t decide what “Dark Erotica” actually means.

Wikipedia lists it as a horror sub-genre, which would stick all those vampire books in the same category.

Goodreads has a dedicated group that says it’s about “storylines with rough sex, forced seduction, rape, kidnapping, BDSM, and those who enjoy alternative lifestyles to the extreme, multiple partners that may or may not involve same sex interaction.”

Amazon reviews suggest that it’s any piece of erotica without a happy ending, even though you find books with “happy endings” described as “dark,” too. Anneke Jacob’s As She’s Told absolutely qualifies as “dark,” but it has a happy ending. Kind of.

The “shelves” over at Goodreads tell the same story.  People are listing 50 Shades as “dark.”  Go fig.

Goodreads lists the current queen of “dark erotica” as CJ Roberts.  She’s written a series called The Dark Duet (which, really? How had no one come up with that yet? That’s an awesome series name.)

This is the first book:

Captive in the Dark

Now, that is a dark erotica cover.  According to the synopsis, it’s full of all sorts of “very disturbing situations, dubious consent, strong language, and graphic violence.”  The plot sounds like that movie where Jet Li was stuck in a collar. Actually, the whole “dark erotica” genre bears a strong resemblance to a particular subset of arty Asian horror films.  These are plots that would work for Miike, Chan-wook, or Sono. (I’m a gigantic horror movie nerd. It’s unladylike. So sue me.)

Horror books are being marketed as erotic fiction for women.  Really.

Look at the pretty girl in the prettily scripted Big Sky cover. She’s about to be kidnapped, and bad things are going to happen to her. Really.

Consciously or not, there’s a clear and short road to ‘sex = death’ and ‘love = obliteration’ territory in the female fiction landscape.

It’s interesting to me where the line between “subversive” fiction and “omg, dirty dark sex books for laydeez” ends up being drawn.

Skye Warren’s “Keep Me Safe” (She’s got the best layout on her website.)

I have no idea why books that have horror plots get classified as erotica, dark or otherwise, so long as a feminine pen name and pretty cover is provided. Presumably, if a man were (out and proud) writing these things, he’d end up with the Lars Von Trier “Kicked Out of Cannes” Award, or something. He’d be Eli Roth.  He’d be a pig.  A misogynist.

Maybe it’s that it isn’t perceived as new and unusual material for male minds to “explore.”  Out of a man, it’s not marketable as sexy. It’s horror. It may be erotic in execution, but you’re not encouraged to say that out loud.  Identifying it as sexy makes you a deviant.  It’s not framed with a pretty script font and declared intellectually subversive.  Maybe, maybe it’s the stuff of revenge fantasy.  Or, in the case of John Ringo, a little ridiculous. Or, it’s just plain scary.

But feminize the same content, and it’s somehow more compelling. It’s allowed to be openly erotic.  The sinister “sadistic” morphs into eroticized “sadism.”

Kink.com has done something similar, recently, with two gang rape “fantasy” series that feature rough sex, forced seduction, rape, kidnapping, and BDSM. Female director. Supposedly female narratives.  So long as it springs forth from a woman’s mind, it’s still somehow safe.  It’s consensual non-consent. It’s fantasy.

It’s allowed to be hot.

Horror, smut, and crime novels have been linked like this before.

One of my very favorite under-appreciated authors, Andersen Prunty, writes books that are full of dubious content and dubious sex, but he’s most often labeled ”bizarro,” part of the “new pulp.” (And, “new pulp” is overwhelmingly marketed as masculine.) Now, I have no idea why “new pulp” doesn’t include sleaze titles, because the “old pulp” was full of soft core smut books with the best covers in the history of publishing. Smut books used to be for men. But, you don’t see those in the so-called pulp revival.

The assumption seems to be that “men are visual creatures,” so they should stick to video porn. Masculine erotica is dead.

These days, even the m/m gay erotica is written by and marketed to women.

Two bucks says there’s “dark” slash erotica.

But, I’m not going to go looking for it.

I have a really hard time identifying as “a submissive.”

It just seems so simple.

Too simple.

The about page is more-or-less accurate given my current relationship.  It says I’m “a spanko-y, bondage-loving, d/s-y, masochistic-type.”

In true “bad at this” fashion, I forgot to capitalize the D.

That’s some serious eyebrow. Recognize.

It’s really not a case of hating labels, or anything. I just have a tough time identifying with the Mythic Submissive concept. The True Sub who’s magically “connected” to the True Dom?

You know the one. They need permission to breathe.  They wilt on the vine without micromanagement. Etc.

I’m not that girl.

I have respect for the “service” theory.  Service-oriented submission makes sense to me. Pride in a job well done. It’s all very Protestant Work Ethic.

There are passive people out there.  I get that.

There are endorphin addicts that like pain.  I definitely get that.

There are bondage lovers and humiliation connoisseurs and age players and yeah. There are subs.  Some insist they’re not doormats. Others prefer being ottomans.

But, the True Sub of BDSM lore? Not so much.

And I actually have a tough time not sneering at the Mythic Natural Born Slave concept. Just-so-stories in pretty boxes bring out my sneer-face.

There’s something about in the earnest, full-blown-slave that makes me want to push, push, push straight into “just how self-negating do you think you are?”  Because, it has a logical conclusion as an train of thought, really.

And, well, I know that there are people that go there. They don’t want to be a person. They don’t want to have a will.  They want to be meat.

I don’t find it noble. I am not jealous of their Very Twuest Submission. I just find it creepy.

I think it’s some expression of a death wish, at heart.  Longing for annihilation.

Wannabe Slaves actually bring out my inner sadist something terrible. And I have an inner sadist, so clearly I cannot be the Truest Sub.

So, yeah.  I’m a “bottom” at best. And, a bratty one that’s pretty good at head games.  And, I’ve got noooooo interest in life as property.

She wrote:

I think there’s something very wrong with our cultural imagination when there are so, so many ordinary people into BDSM combined with an almost complete inability to characterize their lives in print or onscreen in any way that I recognize as part of my own experience.

This is probably a much more concise version of my blathering.

Occasionally, I gotta blather ’til I figure out what the hell I actually mean.

I guess I’m stuck on two ideas:

First, I don’t think of myself as all that out there. I think of myself as sort of boring, so far as kink goes.

I live in my own little bubble. I venture out of my bubble, and realize that “average” is actually way the hell over there, where light bondage and spanking is super kinky, and sleeping with more than 5 people in a lifetime is a sign of being a potentially violent slut with low self-esteem, and sex without romance is “meaningless” and “pathetic.”

It’s jarring.

I think I just have to accept that I am kind of out there.

I was still surprised that vanilla-y BDSM titles didn’t do anything for me. I had some expectation that porn is still porn. The nuerons should fire. The evolutionary conditioning should elicit a response.

Guess not.

I’m not one of those people that’s so connected to fetishistic sex they can’t get off on standard fare anymore. It’s just that a lot of what I was reading was an active turn-off, and I spent a lot of time trying to parse out why.

So, second: I made the mistake of hoping that maybe written smut would be more creative, or authentic, or challenging than I found it to be. I don’t blame the authors, when it comes to anything that made it through the publishing gauntlet. It’s a business.  They go with what they think will sell. I just had no idea that such a limited selection of ideas are on the “what will sell” list. Still, I recognize that people gotta eat.  They’re not being paid well: it creates a situation that rewards the prolific over the profound.

But I’m disappointed (I should have known better), and, on some level, I’m insulted. I really am annoyed by the obligatory little speeches in those books detailing how the main characters aren’t like that. I am well beyond annoyed that, as a female, I am expected to automatically reject a book about sex that isn’t also about soul-mating for life (and I see this sentiment expressed all over the damned place, from fans and authors alike.)

The unquestioned assumption that women need “emotional connection” in the form of “romance” to be okay with any sort of explicit sexual content, pretty much implies that any book a woman writes about sex had BETTER be a romance, or she’s absolutely dealing in something that’s not okay.  ”Too dark, and not appropriate for our line.” And, an actual sexual memoir? You’re a slut.

What I don’t understand, or rather, I do understand all too well, and don’t like, is why in these situations it is almost always the girl branded as the criminal for the “confessional” and asked to feel bad, to feel guilt or shame for writing the truths of their experiences, are sometimes even diagnosed as being borderline, inappropriate, toxic, messy, etc., while men have written of their affairs and sexual relationships always and their ethics are rarely questioned. This to me is a form of discipline and punishment that we internalize, which is why so many women writers self-censor. You know what it’s called when male writers write of their sexual exploits? LITERATURE.

-Kate Zambreno

I’m confused about why this brand of rigidity and weirdness is socially reinforced by people that think of themselves as being especially libertine. There’s this barely-spoken blacklisting threat for anyone that suggests there’s something wrong or off-that the material is cliched, repetitive, or insulting. Frowning on bad reviews appears to be a part of that. I am actually fine with just shutting the fuck up. I can go along to get along. Aspiring types must play the game. Sure.

But, there were authors that actually supported the recent PayPal service changes that would have taken actual BDSM books, sci-fi titles about humanoid animals, and a handful of other sub-genres entirely off the market. The honest truth of the matter appears to be that authors can give bad reviews, so long as the book deviates from genre standards–aka, perverted pornography that “lessens the genre” and makes erotic authors all look “dirty” and “bad.”

“Erotic romance” and “erotica” come across as this hard-won, tiny landscape carved out for the naughty freedom of female fantasy–virtually the only place for that sort of thing, because visual porn is written off, generally, as having no plot. It’s framed as a “safe space,” I guess? And, maybe it has to be for readers to feel okay reading it? So, there are people that are really invested in defending that space–including standing by all the little rules that have crept into the writing of these stories.

Many of those rules and standards (happily ever afters, the speech about how you’re not “crazy” kinky, the female sub that’s generically “independent” and “spunky,” the man that is rich and/or beautiful, the general lack of male subs that AREN’T gay or bi, what I can only describe as “LGBT Minstrel tales for straight chicks,” the m/m stories that border right up on just being insulting homophobic stereotypes, the lesbian-experience story that ends with reinforcing heteronomativity, the crazed bitch ex-girlfriend subplot, the PTSD/BDSM connection, I CAN GO ON.) are sort of… flat-out awful. Hurtful. The kind of bullshit that is just a turn off. If you raise an eyebrow at it, the wonkiness is declared to be “fluff” and “fantasy” you should just brush off and accept as a genre norm–as if that’s the price of getting your hot sex scenes. Why are these stories still very much set in a standard 21st century sexual landscape where the presumed “normal” is two hetero, middle-class married folks fucking for babies? If it’s fantasy and fluff, why not really dive into fantasy? Why just bits of fantasy hitched onto the idea that anything not het-missionary is just deviant and naughty enough to be exciting? It’s a round-about way of processing,  maybe just sublimating the norm, but totally barred from actually delving into the reality of navigating the real-world norm, which is pretty rich stuff for character development.  It’s almost… de-sexed.  Sanitized.  Porn as acted out by mental Barbie dolls.

And why are readers going along with it?

So, I can’t figure out if this is coupled with a fan community that actually digs on the rules, or a fan community that feels that “support” is the most important thing, lest the dirty stories dry up altogether? Do women demand these tropes, or do they just put up with them? That’s such a huge gap, and that’s where I am getting stuck. I find myself thinking, “Jesus, are you people for real?”

Not being able to figure it out bothers me on a personal level. Am I dumb? Am I clueless? Am I weird?

So, basically, I am either failing at getting people altogether, or I’m understanding it too well and finding it depressing. Or I am just a giant snob. Or… all of the above.

Okay, no. I am definitely a snob. I really shouldn’t put my… worldview out this way. It’s not sexy. (Joking. Sort of.)

This is from Flickr. I’ll be damned if I remember where.  I suck.

I am having a little bit of an existential crisis.

I blame “erotic fiction.”

Well. That, and the fact that I’m a perv.

From Annabel Joseph, in a Smutketeers interview.

To be honest, most of the BDSM romance out there dilutes or homogenizes what we do. I’ve been told by publishers to “tone stuff down” because readers don’t want real BDSM, just the vanilla fantasy of BDSM. Obviously there is a more sizable audience for soft-edged kink than for realistic kink. So…as much as we would like be authentic in writing BDSM, books like 50 Shades appeal to more readers. What’s an author to do? Write what sells or write what’s authentic?

I am not surprised.

So. To relay my journey thus far:

I wasn’t much of an erotica connoisseur.

Last April, I started a porn blog. Last May, I got a Kindle.

As we are all aware, smut is cheap on Kindle.

I’d read all the old Anne Rice stuff, and as I spent about five years harboring dreams of romance novelling (don’t ask) I had a decent grip on the romance genre, up to about 2005 (aka, When Twilight hit.)  I wasn’t expecting a shock.

So, I figure, hey! Cheap porn!

And, I started reading.

Mexican Porn Still, or so says Google

Really bad. Just. Gosh. Bad.

I was burned so many times, I don’t trust anything under three bucks.  I don’t think I’m alone. Guy New York’s sales figures bear this concept out.

So, I think, “Fine. I’ll get something highly recommended.”

That worked out. I found  Laura Antoniou.

So, I try another one.

No such luck.

And another?

Yeah. Another dud.

I get it into my head that surely I can at least write the sort of thing I would like.

And, that’s about where things got very confusing for me.

I am used to being mystified by my fellow man.

I am not used to testing that mystery.

I constantly express this conundrum to my husband. He just shakes his head. He says I should be used to it. I think of it as The Nickelback Problem. Nickleback sucks. The songs are all the same. The music is firmly entrenched in 1995. It’s predictable, dependable, and it bores me.

It’s the best selling rock music of the last ten years.

Though, at this point and for this subject, it’s the Fifty Shades Problem.

Jasmine Sinclair. VAGINA. DEAL WITH IT.

I deleted what was there in a fit of panic and embarrassment. Apparently, negative reviews are “causing drama.”

I don’t even know what to think.

I read many “erotic” novels, but they weren’t working. Not a single tingle in my holy of holies. Nothing passed the so-called wet test. Plenty of it was technically well-written. I just wasn’t turned on. I felt like some pitiful specimen in a Christian morality play about the dangers of excessive porn usage. I started to wonder if I was broken. Desensitized. Ruined for written porn.

This was all very disheartening.

It was especially disheartening when I thought about about all those “ladies” out there reading this stuff and fanning themselves. Gushy reviews about the red hot hotness, full of steam and omg and whooooo and… hotness. Sighs over the rich dudes in expensive clothes, and the beautiful bodies (SPARKLEVAMPIREs!) and the domly demeanors. These women were turned on.

Or, at least they said they were.

I wasn’t.

The Nickleback Problem killed my confidence in two ways–I felt like a shitty writer that couldn’t recognize anything (flaming cheesy Cheetos) hot, and I felt like my lady business wasn’t in on the whole stuff-that’s-hot thing. I felt awful. I feel awful.

I felt like I shouldn’t finish my book, because clearly, I don’t have my finger on what’s arousing. I write not-hot.

I’ve been dragging my feet. I’m… defeated.

Found on Ruby Riot last year. No clue where it came from.

Monday, I found a book that shook me up, turned me on, and got him seriously laid. Shameful, pervy, “oral rape harness,” Golly My Heart Sings for Princess Donna porn, yes-I-do-know-what-does-it-for-me, wet tested, turned-on, actual hot.

The sort of tingle-producing erotica I suspected I had… leveled up on. Transcended? Gotten bored with?

I am a dirty, dirty girl.

But, my lady parts are not broken.

But, y’all. I am not a “romantic vanilla fantasy of BDSM” girl. I’m just not. Maybe I can write it. I guess I’ll have to write it. But, it’s doesn’t work for me.

And, much as I enjoyed the “consensual non-con rape fantasy” book, I was disappointed with the lack of “impact play.”

Yeah. He didn’t smack her around enough.

I’m that chick.

I’m the woman that all the BDSM erotic romances warn you about. 

(Oh, and they do.  I could start a tumblr full of “I’M NOT THAT KIND OF KINKSTER” excerpts at this point, by authors that claim to be in the scene.  But I won’t.)

So, now I’m working with a whole deeper notion of, “There’s something wrong with me.”

I found the actual-hot book though someone brave enough to give bad reviews on Goodreads. Lots of them. You know… I figured the good reviews she gives would mean something.

What I’ve written isn’t particularly kinky (IMO.) It’s kinkier than Fifty Shades, but not not kinkier than As She’s Told or The Marketplace Series or even Gor. It’s almost all “head fuck” stuff, with what I think of as pretty accessible BDSM play.

But, it’s not Rich Dude and Spunky Chick have a threesome with his Hunky Best Friend.  It’s not Wounded Bird craves submission with Hot Cowboy/Highlander/Werewolf/Lawyer. And, it’s not He Only Likes (Light, Non-Hurty, “Sensual”) Sadism until The Right One heals him.

So, I don’t know.

I don’t know what to do.

It’s all very confusing.

Well, “Part One,” at least.

I don’t know if I can make it through three of these.

I’ve heard rumors that it gets worse.

But can it possibly be as bad as this photoshop extravaganza?

Later plot lines are reportedly about crazy submissive exes (of course,) and Anastasia curing Master Domlypants of his Domly Ways via the power of innocent and pure mucus membranes. And love.

True love.

So.

Since writing the first piece, I’ve run across at least two dozen other blog posts about these books.

Some are critical. Some gush. My favorite is the version that asks:

Oh, dear reader, who would you cast as the dashing and oh-so-domly Christian Gray in the upcoming film adaptation?

Ryan Gosling tends to be the top answer.

I say, no. Christian Gray is a baby-faced redhead, and Gosling would look goofy as hell with red hair.

Some of my suggestions:

That kid that played Weasley. Surely, he is out of work. Or… on Doctor Who? Maybe?

“Hey, girl! Would you like to be Dominated?!”

Kenneth from 30 Rock:

“Hey, there! I will totally dominate you, Miss Lemon!”

Or, Jesse Tyler Ferguson

“I will dominate… your boyfriend.”

The obvious choice is Robert Pattinson. Truth in art and whatnot. I’d like to think he’d commit honorable hari kari before he’d do it.

Anyway.

The second half of Fifty Shades.

One of the big deals in romance writing is that the stories have a plot. Plot makes them “Not Porn!!!111!” for most readers.

The plot is generally:

They meet.

They spark.

They cannot be together because: she is betrothed to the Evil Count, he has Daddy Issues, she is a Career Lady whut cannot be distracted, he is a Vampire, there is a killer on the loose, they already divorced once, he’s an arrogant prick, she’s a vapid little girl,  etc. Decent books in the genre have genuine ”conflicts.” One of the biggest cliches in romance is the plot that can be resolved with a simple conversation.

They continue to spark. They try to deny their spark. They have pensive moments contemplating the unrequitable spark.

It’s usually at this contemplative point that they touch each other, but don’t have sex. Now they’re really screwed, because they’re totally gonna do the deed, and we all totally know it. (“Not Porn!!!111!”)

Our hero and heroine then spend the middle of good romances doing two things: being ever more convinced that the big obstacle is insurmountable and growing, and having the sexual tension ratchet up repeatedly. Harlequins, in particular, tend to put the first sex scene right in the middle where the book club mailer is, so that women flipping through at the store can easily get right to the good part. (“Not Porn!!!111!”) Other imprints tend to stick to that formula, unless it’s Christian or Amish romance. (Beverly Lewis hit the jackpot; plus, she’s, like, the nicest lady on the internet.)

Now, Fifty Shades sort of mucks this up. It’s fan fic, and it shows. There’s no sexual tension–Bella and Edward get down to business right off the bat. This is fan service. I wouldn’t expect anything less.

So, having thrown the sexual tension bit (and really, it’s the best bit) out the window, James tries to build tension with a will he/won’t he about vanilla sex with Christian, and a will she/won’t she for Anastasia concerning BDSM.

While they’re angsty, Christian acts like exactly the sort of psychotic stalker you’d expect to see from someone that genuinely enjoyed the idea of boning Edward Cullen.

Basically, where other romances would have some action and adventure, or some zany madcaps, or some weepy hospital stays, Fifty Shades of Grey fills that time with the hero getting pissed off about everything the heroine does.

All of it.

I can’t count the number of times where he frozed and iced and glared and scowled and generally made a testy nuisance of himself.

You know. ‘Cause he’s a Dominant with a capital D.

So, Christian is being a controlling dick, but it’s sexy or something, because the author is totally turned on.  And, Anastasia is being a waffling wish washer that weally wants to wub him. They fuck a lot.

Many times. (“Not Porn!!!111!”)

And in the end, Anastasia’s curiosity gets the better of her. She asks for the ultimate punishment. She wants to know how bad it’s going to get. She frames BDSM in a way that makes it sound like domestic violence throughout the book, and this last scene is really where that becomes a point of discomfort. She doesn’t want Christian to hit her. Not spank. Not sexy punish. Not scene. Hit. She doesn’t want him to hit her. For the heroine, her boyfriend wants to control her, keep her from her friends, and hit her to keep her in line.

And, Lord Thunderfart, er, Christian, who is a Twue Dominate in the Old Style, with many years under his belt, who only ever dates in the scene, and is meticulous in all things? That guy? Who can meld with her mind and knows her better than she knows herself? Who is a genius billionaire that reads people easily?

Him?

He fucking does it.

Seriously. He wallops the shit out of her with a belt. She freaks out. She leaves. Fin.

I’ve spoilered the book for you, but I’m sure you don’t care.

I am going to tell you something: I like spankings. I’ve been spanked, and flogged, and cropped, and caned, because I have no actual angst about it. I enjoy it. I like the marks. I even like the crying part.

And, I would never ask for the full-on, hit me as hard as you can routine.

He’s bigger than I am. Considerably.

Something would end up broken. Possibly emergency room broken.

And, if I lost my mind and did ask for such a thing? He’d say no. Because he is not a psychotic, abusive, nutso douchebag.

So, I’ve got two possible take-aways in this scenario. Either Christian is a wimpy dude (perhaps his God-like body is the result of saline implants.  She’s not allowed to touch him.  It would explain a lot, actually.) or Christian is a shitty, abusive, horrible Dom.

I know, I know.

It’s fantasy.

That’s the excuse, right?

I guess, now, I am supposed to want to scuttle out and acquire Part Two, to see if Anastasia and Edward, er, Lord Thun–fuck–Christian stay together. And, they must stay together, for this is “romance” (“Not Porn!!!111!”) and that’s the pay off.

But I think I like the ending I got.

Run Anastasia, run. Run as far as you can.

And don’t ever return.

People lose the ability to make friends somewhere around the time they buy their first piece of expensive furniture.

I don’t know if it’s really true. It seems that way sometimes.

Part of the problem with making friends is that you lose your ability to put up with shenanigans as you get older. Your time is running out. You have things to do. You’ve got the life experience to connect all the red flags in rapid succession.  Why bother putting up with months of uncovering layers of petty rage, stupidity, or energy-sucking insanity, just to eventually confirm that your first impression was right all along?

Having friends is work.  You work enough.

Random Porn Still Capture, farthest back I got was Mar. 2011

The upside is that the friends you do make after the Expensive Furniture Line tend to be quality people.  You can make a friend. You don’t make “friends,” anymore, though.  You stop collecting the people that populate the scene.  You lose the bit players in the weird stories, where you’re driving some random creep who knows-someone-that-knows-someone to a halfway house at 4 am, because an illegally parked car was towed, and he groped the wrong breast, and you aren’t up for a stabbing occurring in your own apartment.

You lose all the “friends” you somehow collect because they just happened to be there.

I had lousy “friends.”

Some of them haunt my facebook.  They’re fatter, balder, sadder people at copies of parties I’ve already been to.

A good chunk of the people who surrender to their pet perversions are middle class people in their 30′s. Kink isn’t free. There’s equipment to buy. Specialized clothing. Sitters. Arrangements. People often say that they’ve always “been that way” in their own minds (and really, aren’t we all?), but they weren’t able act on their fantasies for whatever reason. Then one day they come to grips with their own mortality, or want to “spice up” their long-term relationship, or they bail on their long term relationship and want something totally different. It’s the product of boredom with the monotony of work-a-day existence.

Use it before you lose it.

Here. Have a spanking photo. Russian, 2010

So, there they are, obsessed with something that is really important and kind of meaningless all at the same time–like music or movies or custom cars. Pop culture in genital form. It’s all high emotions and pretty fixations on nothing. And, it’s got social circles attached. People on the internet. Parties. Conventions. Community. Scenesters.

“Friends.”

Only this time there are more rules. There’s less aimlessness. You’ve got something to accomplish on this go-round. You’ve got to get off.

I don’t know.

He wants to go out. He wants like-minded friends. If I had to guess, he’s re-acquired his recurring obsession with threesomes.

Suddenly, there’s the threat of meeting people. I’m a little wary.

On the other hand, he’s got far, far less patience for people than I do. Most likely, I’ve got nothing to worry about.

It’s not about titillation. It’s the gawking urge. It’s what kept freakshows alive. Or, reality TV.

Most weird porn is just weird for the sake of being weird. Shots set up like it’s Bergman!  Decorative lizards! Singing about magical tacos! Why is grandpa in the back of the room? What the hell is going on here?

Those are awesome.

And some of it is specialty material for the fetish market.

There is something terrifically honest about genuine fetish porn.

There’s a lot of fake fetish material out there. It’s not actually fetishistic. It’s porn with BDSM dressing. Hot chicks in chains. Dominatrixes in goofy costumes, where, in the end, the man reasserts his penis. ”Fetish” as a sex industry marketing term.

No. I am talking about the stuff that’s not actually sexy, unless you’re part of the club. It starts somewhere in the latex encasing/pet play/adult baby zone, fully includes the feet and nylon people, pure spankos, pure bondage enthusiasts, the furries and woolies, the baked goods/mud/washing machine sitters, and ends up out there in a spot where it’s possible you’re not even clued into the fact that you’re watching fap video at all.

Like balloon poppers:

Or, shoulder riders:

Or, pedal pushers:

That is an actual fetish.

If you’ve got an actual weird, out-there sort of fetish?

You’re uniquely isolated.

You’re riding the internet version of asking for the magazines wrapped up in brown paper. You’re stuck with a limited pool of people on the inside, and there’s just not an enormous amount of room for being shallow about physical appearances.

There is no pick-up line for being into genuinely weird sexual activities. You are automatically without game.

At best, you’ve got, “This is my weird thing. Please don’t leave.”

This is, of course, in comparison to people that enjoy “fetish” like it’s it’s a customization option on an electronic gadget–they want the black one that plays industrial ringtones. BDSM lifestylers. People with scene names. Conspicuous collars and goofy sets of rules and “earning your leathers” and Gor. Talks about “true” this and that.  Bragging about your credentials. “Munches.”  The whole hideously generic social “scene,” complete with predictably stylized attempts at seduction. That’s not really about “fetish.” It’s a flavor. It’s about game. Which is why it’s so rife with men that send the “get on your knees, bitch” email out en masse. And 18 year old boys that insist they’re “dominant” because they like the idea of getting blow jobs on demand.

It’s “fetish” the way that Suicide Girls is “alternative.”

So, you know, I run across these people that have these really weird, out there sorts of fetishes, and yes, sometimes I flinch. And, sometimes I cock my head to one side and just marvel at the oddity. And, sometimes I just don’t get it at all.

But, you know, even if I am flinching or gawking or totally confused, I have to salute the commitment. I can respect someone owning their sexuality. It’s brave. Even if I don’t get it.

This is mostly because I spent a lot of time looking at the blogs and websites of erotica authors.

And, they’re all strikingly porn free.

Most of them?  Were trying to pass as romance novelists.  They don’t write porn.  They write erotic romance.

Or, maybe they were just attempting to be safe for work.

This isn't safe for work. But, still--doesn't qualify as porn, does it?

I don’t really know.

I just know I don’t have much interest in writing erotic romance.  That’s what I did with my summer vacation.  I read a ton of “erotica.”

Most of it?  Is “romance” oriented.  That means that you’ve got two (or three) people (or werewolves, vampires, or aliens) that not only have floridly described Hottest Sex Ever–they fuck like no one has ever fucked before, because they’re meant to be.  They’re soulmates.  It’s an emotional connection that cannot be denied.  It’s the twuest of twue love.

This is doubly so if there are BDSM elements, because there’s that mythical thing where BDSM is made somehow more acceptable by the notion that the two people in the relationship are more “deeply committed” to each other via floggings and “trust” and, presumably, fucking magic.

The story, I am writing right now?

No magic spankings.

Not that all consensual spankings aren’t a wee magical.  But you know… these people in my head?  They’re not meant to be together forever.  They’re wank bank material.  The teacher in my current story (broke 15k words last night, hello!) is sort of sad.  He’s no one’s soulmate.  He is shallow.  He’s lonely.  And, he’s depressed.  The student that seduces him?  Is gawky and talks too much.

Because perfect just isn’t hot to me.  People are just way more interesting when they’re flawed.  Sex doesn’t have to happen in the context of a fateful eternal romance.

Erotica is aimed at women.

Now, when you go looking for erotica?  The two recommendations that come up over and over and over?  The Marketplace series and the Sleeping Beauty books by Anne Rice.

And, those aren’t books about true love.

It’s weird.  The most successful romance novelist of the last decade is a Mormon that believes in waiting until marriage, writing about dazzling, emotionally abusive stalkers.  And, that is okay.  That’s okay for freaking teenagers.

But porn for grown women is seemingly taboo in the larger marketplace.

So, really, I don’t understand this thing.  Is it embarrassment?  If you’re a woman reading about male werepanther threesomes, should shame come into your game at all?

And, seriously, who is buying all the sci-fi m/m/m books?  Blue skin and tails, I tell you.  I think the tails are probably the important part…