I have a penchant for writing dirty stories. Generally, I write them, not to be arousing although I have knocked off a few naughty romps in my time, but because erotic relationships have an energy that other relationships don’t have. People are rarely apathetic about their interactions with their sexual partners. Quite the contrary. When two people want to have sex, every moment, every phrase, every encounter, every change suddenly becomes earth-shatteringly important. When they have had sex, anything and everything can be a time-bomb. As a writer, I don’t have to put energy into such a relationship. I merely have to control, direct and let explode the varieties of passion that unite two lovers. Most of the job, for me, is easy.
On the other hand, when I write a story about two friends, two co-workers, two strangers, two family members, I have to spend time explaining, showing or otherwise describing why they care about each other. I’m not knocking it – telling these mundane stories is an art unto itself – but I certainly don’t feel like spending my time giving a sense of caring to people who share a passion for a pastime, or who live in fear of starving or bogeymen or goats.
I make no apologies for writing stories about sexual relationships. The way people treat each other, in these relationships, fascinates me. My interest in these story and loving interactions goes a long way to define who I am.