Breathing an Erotica Writer’s Dream


You play with words as every writer does, but in this game, the game of erotica writing, it seems the words have a way of playing with you. You plod on carefully through each keystroke waiting for just that right phrase, twisting its way out of your playful mind, to push your thoughts into fast-forward, but then find yourself blissfully lost in your own creation… as is your body.

You take a deep breath.

You stare into the distance and try to recover your composure, you laugh quietly to yourself… It’s just fantasy, dear; get over yourself. Then something shimmers in the dark corner of the room, your mind fires, and you’re off and running again, your fingers flying lightning-fast over the keys. You find yourself thanking the gods for that tedious college typing course and the pert blonde that sat in front of you squirming incessantly in her seat while sucking on a seemingly unending supply of Tootsie Pops.

You take a deep breath.

You let your thoughts wander. The first hypnotic words that come to mind now slip quickly out the tips of your fingers, never making any obvious sense, but seeming to magically land you on that softly lit path that takes you where the words flow like water. Nothing stops their advance now, pouring gently but unrelentingly over the stones in your mind until the page is nothing but a broken sediment of whiteness beneath the typed words and phrases. You feel content.

You take a deep breath.

…and dive deeper. Something dark shudders in your subconscious, something heavy with reaching arms, a million fingers to slip wetly into your waiting soul. They speak in whispers, whispers that coil around your senses, leaving you with a heightened perception of the darker reaches of the sensual desires that haunt a body… a heart.

You take a deeper breath still.

You tread carefully now. There are places here that smell of panic, and fear gains hold at once. Things one doesn’t want to witness… or say they’ve witnessed. How to tell their stories? How not to tell their stories? You let each finger strike its fated key carefully now and watch as the truth slips willfully out of your control, seemingly chained to the display as the words materialize of their own will. You are no longer the master you thought you were… you are merely another slave.

You sigh… gratefully.