I didn’t really start to lose it until the last 10 days.

I tried explaining this last night.  “The book is pretentious.  For real.  It’s like I took out my id and threw it at the wall.”

“And, what did the Rorschach blot say?”

“That I’m Pavlov’s drunken whore.”

That stumped him for a few seconds.

“And, that I’m afraid of dying.  But, you know… sex is death.  I told you.  Fucking pretentious.”

I didn’t know, going in, that I’d be taking things out, looking them over, and taking them apart, and piecing them back together, when maybe I should have left that toy in the box.  This isn’t to say that it’s all a gloomfest.  It’s really not.  (I hope.  What the fuck do I know?  Maybe the world really does just want “erotic romance” and stories about MILFs and horny poolboys.  Maybe anything beyond that is a gloomfest.)  But, the process put me through the wringer.

I have a decent imagination.  Or, maybe I’m just good at dissociation.  I can get songs stuck in my head so thoroughly, that I hear them outside my head until I’m interrupted and realize I’m doing it.  I used to be terrified of being so wrapped up in my book that I’d miss my bus stop.  (Actually, that happened on BART more than once.) 

I go away.

Psychologists call it “flow.”

Spending hours and hours away?  Takes a toll.  The weird combination of living entirely in my head, trying to chisel physical experience in word form, right out of the ether?  Fucking hard. I caught a reflection of myself in a truck window yesterday, and it was jarring–falling back to Earth.  Who the hell is that woman in the ponytail, and why does she look so tired?

I think I need break.

drumheller nudes with anya she © sanja lukac 2011

I don’t even know.  I want to go back to bed.

Things which are true:

1. The cost of writing porn is just enough whiskey to turn your ears red, and the uncomfortable realization that you’ve probably fetishised alcohol.
2. But 150 million Russians can’t be wrong, right?
3. My neck hurts.
4. My ass is bruised from this weekend.
5. I am looking forward to cornbread stuffing on Thursday.
6. I am somewhat dismayed at all the sensitive girls on Tumblr that wish to be nearly-translucent, doe-eyed maidens, waiting for some literate hipster with creative facial hair to come along and realize how quirky and clever they are, how they’re pretty from that one angle, how adorable their sock collection is, how they like that one band.  Presumably, this all includes kissing in the rain and at least one overwrought fight about the unbearably lightness of being.  On the one hand, I think, “Surely I was that annoying at 20.  Surely, I was ten times more annoying.”  On the other hand, I want to shake these girls and tell them to seize the moment.  Carpe diem.  It’s easy to be pretty when you’re 20.  It’s easy to be enchanting when you’re still visible.  You’re not invisible, yet, but oh, it’s coming.  You’re going to feel like an idiot for pretending you were, in the pursuit of some weird, pre-fab Indie Cinderella bullshit. Put down the infantilizing sock monkey from Etsy, go buy yourself a vibrator, and get off the God-damned internet.  (And, clearly, off my lawn.)
7. But, it’s possible probable that I have fallen into the generation gap.  I got to be a real person, before I was just another profile.
8. November and sex and whiskey are obviously making me unnecessarily maudlin.  Apologies.

I hate it when that happens. I have whole books I’ve just collapsed on that way.

But, the second story is complete. And, it’s titled “Failure as an Erotic Art Form.”

Advice: don’t listen to Damien Rice when writing porn. Seriously, I don’t know what I was thinking.

Actually, scratch that, I do. There’s this thing that humans do (aside: there’s a title) and basically, if anything moves you at all, you relate it to people–to human interaction.  The two idiots on the screen kiss after a million people die in a fiery explosion, because the audience is awash in excited brain chemicals and overcome with feeling.  Any feeling of excitement. This is why you still look fondly on that one period of your life when you didn’t yet have enough to lose to keep you from acting like an idiot.

Somehow it ended up okay. And… horrible. I don’t know.

Here, though. An official excerpt from tonight’s writing session.  I am freaking out, man.  I feel exposed. And, really dorky.

I think I might have picked the wrong hobby.

He wanted dinner done when he was home, and slippers, and ironed shirts. He wanted pretentious old-fashioned drinks made, and he wanted her in his lap while he drank them. He wanted her to call him Daddy like Marylin Monroe used to say it.

He wanted to take care of her. That’s what he said. He wanted to take care of her, and she’d take care of him.

She loved it.

She loved him.

But she didn’t mean for this to be the way things were.

He had her over a barrel.

He’d had her over a lot of things.

The blank page beckons. Gerald August Naus :: Mar 23, 2009

Somehow, I think I may have started out with the most complicated sex scenes of the lot. I was perusing my outline last night, and really, the rest of the book is all one on one sex.

Of course, that might change.

The next story is a twist on the student/teacher thing. Because there should be more porn involving desks.

From sex and submission (kink.com)

http://disgrace.me.uk/post/2544419346

Oh, my.

I have a filthy mind.

I figured that the first story would end up around 10k.  I’m at 5k, and I am not halfway through yet.

This could be a more porntatstic porn adventure than I initially thought.

Because, honestly? I am not down for a really long “erotic romance.” Being stuck with two characters for 50 thousand words sounds more like a prison sentence than any fun at all.

The first story involves multi-penis.

I tried to Google Image search it. If you know where it came from let me know.

I am not really sure when I got stuck on the MMF threesome idea. I will tell you, though, I am not one of those girls that fixates on adding extra girls to the scene. Not that girls aren’t soft and fun and whatnot. But, when left to my own mental devices?

I’m an enthusiastic fan of cock.

I don’t dream of vast oceans of pussy.

Years ago, after a medical mishap. I was banned from sex for 6 weeks.

At about Week 3, the dreams started. Sex dreams. Lots and lots of sex dreams.

Nary a girl to be seen.

I was still somewhat undecided on the Whut Am I question. Was I bi? Seemed like I could have been. Was I secretly a lesbian, and had no idea, because I hadn’t met the Magical Vagina Owner that opened up my Mystical Box of Lesbos? I have a somewhat fangirlish adoration of masculine women. But, like most fangirl situations, that doesn’t mean I wanna actually encounter the reality of doing them. It just means I I’ve got a silly infatuation. I think they’re awesomesauce, and I want to cheer for their team. I am, I suppose, a genderqueer “shipper.” And, like nearly everyone in Western society, I fetishize the female body, due to a lifetime of media conditioning.

The sex-ban dream period cleared up any lingering sexual identity confusion I might have had. I am definitely nine tenths straight. Girls don’t gross me out or anything, but I do sort of think of them as sexual parsley.

For a woman my age? Coming from my social background? It’s sort of a disappointment.

So, I’ve been trying to figure out what to do with myself.  And, what to do with this space.

And, I have come to a decision.

I am going to write porn.

Maybe it’s “erotica.”  Or, “sex writing.”  Or something more ladylike.

But, I’m okay with just writing porn.  Really.  I am pro-porn on the whole.  Really, I intended to review many books here.  And, I kept ending up with really, truly, genuinely unimpressive and distractingly bad “erotica.” So, after about the eleventy-second bad porn book, I thought, “Screw this.  I am making good on my threat.  I can’t do better than this, or I can die trying.”

So, I’m doing NaNoWriMo this month.   That’s 50k words worth of porn.

That’s marathon porn writing.

And, I’ll post, you know… inspiration here.  Heh. And, then I guess we’ll see.

Have a red dress and stockings…

©2011 Calico Lane by The Dirty Gentleman (#168)