Sometimes I ponder my choices, like my recurring insistence on writing erotic stories. I like sex and I like sex stories. I’ve always been a sexual person but my writing doesn’t play any role in my sex life.
I certainly read a much wider selection of fiction, in fact, most of what I read is not erotic at all, selecting mostly novels of literary significance. I have written a substantial number of non-erotic pieces and some of my erotic stories are only superficially erotic. Most of my stories, in fact, are not lewd in the sense that they might arouse many people.
But I always come back to erotic stories when I write. By which, I like to write stories about adult situations using vulgar language. That’s what I mean by erotic. Interpersonal relations and naughty words.
I like emotional realism and I prefer positive emotions. My characters will have angst and frustration and embarrassment but rarely anything stronger. My least favorite stories have strong negative emotions. The social interplay of people can be interesting and positive. Sex provides conflicts and resolutions. Sex gives us something to be happy about.
The main reason is the emotional strength of the language. I love subtle shades of poetic words as much as the next literati but I also love bold, spicy flavors. Fuck and cunt and cock and screw. The poetry of vulgarity can a beautiful thing, powerful and inescapable, at least until the words change meaning and become almost funny. Tickle my dong and I’ll gamahuche your nothing.
So, on with the show.