Early morning muse
Silent on a summer day
Lost in thought again
Early morning muse
Early morning muse
Silent on a summer day
Lost in thought again
 The wise man fears as Hora
slumbers behind the mirror.
Her vengeance is such
that even Hahn sleeps
with one eye open.
From The Book of Cyrus, The Iliot, ch. 1, verse 1
Well, the answer, in short, is no.
A number of people have expressed a desire for me to go deeper into sex scenes, or to provide more detail in them. My point is the plot, not the sex. Yes, I like to talk about sex, but in my opinion what defines the difference between erotica and pornography is what is described and what is hinted at.
I write erotica, and while it is meant to titillate, I consciously avoid crossing the line to where it becomes gratuitous. Discussing what a man does with his penis is not plot significant beyond a certain point. Erotica, to me, is all about foreplay (or consequences/afterplay), not about the act.
Let’s discuss erotic art for the moment. And when one does, the first name that comes up is Maplethorpe. I just had a quick look at the portfolio on his website, and it is notable for what it doesn’t show. It doesn’t show genitalia, but that might be partly for legal reasons, reasons that we should probably heed on this site, since there are members as young as 11 here. More importantly, what we see is suggestion, no physical acts. That is erotica. Start the mind racing, but let the viewer/reader fill in the blanks. Give them a push, but let them run where they want to.
The sexual experience is different for each of us and what drives me might not appeal to you, and vice-versa. The moment I begin to describe in detail a sexual encounter, I will lose a reader or two, or more. How many people found my story “In Come” disgusting? Some said I went too far, either with the sheer quantity of cum involved, or by the fact that I allowed my theoretical reader to pleasure me. Of course, I didn’t describe what my reader did (specifically). My intention was to let you imagine what you might do to me in that situation, your arm shoulder deep in cum.
I would rather describe what one feels, not what one does. To me, that action (in most cases) is porn. Erotica is about the senses, not action, so next time you get to a point in the story where I’ve got you hooked and then fade to black on a sex scene, play it out in your head. Don’t ask me to sully my page with it.
I remember reading The Time Traveller’s Wife the first time and getting to the sex scene. It pushed me right out of her narrative. I just didn’t see the point. OK, they had sex. So? Cock and cunt just didn’t fit in with the rest of the story, and it took me a while to settle back into it. (I have some grammar issues with her writing, too, but we’ll leave that for now.) There have been so many times where I’ve used the words screw or fuck where people said it bounced them out of my story. They are right, although there are some times when the words are appropriate.
Rather than bumping you out of the story, I would rather lift you to where you can take flight, fueling your fantasy, not lose you in a dark corner of mine.
That’s In Walked Love, backwards. There’s a jazz tune by that name. Our big band at Uni played it.
TWO of CUPS (inverted). Love. Harmony of male and female in the largest sense and all that goes with it, pleasure, warmth, etc. Inverted, it could mean folly, dissipation or waste.
Or it could mean the loss of love. Allen asked for the ring back. I can understand why. I haven’t worn it since my epiphany … um, episode. I still love him, I think, but I can’t reconcile what I’ve done … sleeping with Max, then allowing myself to be possessed.
The worst part of it all is blabbing … blogging all about it. That alienated Allen, and was generally unforgivable. I don’t blame him. Maybe it is time to pull the plug. I know you wank … want to heal … hear all about my infatuation with Marcel and my time as the High Priestess of the coterie. Maybe you want me to give in to my bisexual fantasies and shake up … shack up with Evie or go back to London and Christa. She’s too young for me, and I wouldn’t want the responsibility of healing … helping to rear her daughter.
Frankly, what happens in the coterie is probably secret, and I need to heal … hence the reason I keep typing that word when I mean to type something else. Yes, my soul needs time to heal, and adding my verbal diarrhoea to the Internet probably isn’t helping matters.
So that means I’m going to cool it for a while. I’ll pop back when I feel strong enough. Eirica is almost finished. She’s won her man (as much as she wanted to), and all that is left is a short epilogue, which I’ll post in a few days. I don’t know what I’ll do with that blog afterwards. Maybe start a new story … a story of healing … a story of becoming Scottish … a magical story of ghosts, castles … of healing. Who knows where I’ll take it. Anyway …
The bite-marks still hurt.
I drew THE HERMIT again. Will this never end?
It’s worse. You haven’t heard from me for another three days. Neither have I. They are completely blank. I fell asleep after my last posting, and woke up this afternoon. There was a care package from Marcel gorged on the kitchen table, and another sitting outside my front door. I think I’ve been outside, too, and I’ve had sex. That’s not good, since I think I’ve also skipped my period. Maybe she is making me eternally fragile … err, fertile, so that I bear a demon child. I’ve skipped periods before, especially as I approach “the change,” but this seems different. I don’t feel tender … juicy … um, good about it.
The house smells even more like heaven … uh, semen than before, but I don’t see any signs of sex here. The living room seems as messy as usual, just like the rest of the house. (I’m a snob, err, slob.) How do I know I’ve had sex? I feel stretched out, very stretched out.
Maybe it was Max. He hasn’t tried to contact me, since my last post. Maybe he came here, and Chastity devoured him. Maybe it was the policeman. There is an unmarked police car sitting out front of my house, parked on the wrong side of the feet, fleet … um, street. We have underwear … err, snow removal bans here. Even days, one side, odd days, the other. I checked the car out after midnight tonight. It’s unlocked, and the keys are in the ignition. If I could, I’d inform the police department. Marcel, if you wouldn’t mind, please … come over and I’ll give you a good time … check it out, discretely. It wouldn’t be a good idea for them to knock on my door.
I think that I might have also gone out in the cold without any clothing on. There aren’t any flirty … dirty ones lying around, and I don’t expect Ms. Ball to know how to use a modern washing machine. I haven’t worn anything in several days, except to go out to check out the car. I find clothing increasingly disgusting, as it bars the touch of another. I keep turning the heat up, especially as the temperature plummets outdoors. It’s below freezing out there right now.
I’m doomed. Doomed and maybe pregnant.
Ordinarily, that wouldn’t be likely for me, but who knows?
P.S. My Eirica story is progressing well. (The only thing in my life that is.) It’s about desire, so Chastity seems to allow me that luxury without stuttering. I’m nearly finished with it. It takes a while to format it, so I’ll post the chapters as I can. I hope to have chapter 5 by the weekend. Wouldn’t you know, it has a lucky 13 chapters. Just great! (Maybe I’ll combine some!)
… come and let me make you a superman … you will be the great one … my beloved … my strength … she will do whatever you ask …
XIX. The Sun. Glory, gain, riches, pleasure … enough of that, let’s get to the appropriate ones … shamelessness, arrogance, and vanity.
Did you miss me? I spent the whole weekend on a binge write – the one that I mentioned in my last post. I’m not going to describe it here, but you can find it at http://ericajohnstonesobsession.wordpress.com/ . That’s my punt at glory, gain and riches.
Well, I didn’t blow the entire weekend on it. I had rehearsals and a concert on Saturday, as well as another on Sunday afternoon. I do have to work, you know.
When I wasn’t writing I was being bad, very, very bad. Puddle-duck told me so. I still smell like corn oil. Saturday night wasn’t too bad, safely deluded … err, secluded in the privacy of my bedroom. Why oh why did I mention that it was unseasonably warm on Sunday? Believe it or not, it was Lore’s suggestion that I take it outside. She’s usually quiet, but she can be the most cruel, as if she is testing me for my suitability for their sisterhood. Outside, under the full moon, drenched in corn oil, screaming obscenities when I came at 2 am. I’m normally quiet, but they pushed and pushed until I let it slip … um, rip … well, both actually.
I fortunately have a fairly large back garden, so when I woke the neighbours, they didn’t get much of a show – not much, but their son did. The teenager got a good view out his back window.
Unfortunately, Lore wasn’t finished with me. While the boy watched, I took it off the mat and into the mud. (It had rained all day and my garden was a swamp.) I wasn’t all that noisy the second time, but the boy knew what I was doing. The moon was so bright, almost like daylight, and I left a light on above the back porch that illuminated me enough for the camera (and the boy).
What am I doing? It’s like an addiction. I can’t say no, and I can’t stop once I’ve started. I need help, but will I get it? No. I don’t want it. I do, but I don’t, if you know what I mean.
I’m trying to pour my soul into Erica Johnstone, but I’m afraid there is precious little of it left. Buffy (you know who I mean – from my novel) lost it to Alaron who vaporized. It’s gone.
What more could they have in store for me tonight? I can’t tie myself up, and I’m too afraid of the sight of blood to cut myself. (I hide all my knives in drawers in the kitchen. I’m really paranoid about it!) Am I ready for induction to their clit, err cult? No paradigms … paragraphs … paratroopers … (???) … uh, paraphernalia tonight.
I fear that even more.
I could have predicted my card today:
XII. The Hanged Man. Sacrifice, punishment, loss, failure, perhaps even death.
We’ll just forget about the redemption-through-sacrifice part. I’m strung … hung up, and unable to move forward. It isn’t really stagnation. I’m being punished for what I’ve done. I’m being punished centerfold … err, three-fold for cheating on Allen, and until I either come clean or the gods have exacted my teeth … um, their payment in full, I’ll be sitting in front of my webcam making myself hot and bothered for Max and whoever else is watching on the other end. (I’m even more certain that he isn’t alone now. I heard someone cough in the background tonight.)
Why do I keep doing it, even if Max doesn’t reciprocate? I can get it off on my own without provocation … prevarication … predjudice … hmm … or an audience. Perhaps it is the peanuts in it (where did that come from?) … danger in it, or maybe I’m just cruising towards my nourish– … punishment. That would be par for the course for me. At least Max didn’t get the boob … err, job, so I won’t have to ever seem him again in person. (Maybe I should get a boob job! But it is probably too late for me.)
Do you remember the book I was writing during my last series of late night folly? I sent it out to an editor, who has just given me loads of amendments, so many that I’m tempted to just drop the book in the recycling. But that would waste the $4000 that I invested in the editor. She thinks it is good enough to publish … with some tweaking, that is. They say you will rewrite your trash … uh, book several times before it is ready. That will mean more late nights for me – several hours of editing (if I don’t have a big … err, gig) then a wank for Max, before laying my soul bare for you in my blog.