I'm in the last phases of revising Untouched (that book you see to your right at the top of the page). While I'm of course paying attention to my language, watching out for inconsistencies, and the like, I'm finding that by far the thing I most want to accomplish with this revision is emotional honesty. It's tempting as a writer to say, "This character needs to say or do this particular thing because I really, really need her to wind up here." But as I've worked on this book over the past months and thought about it lots, I've realized that I don't want to betray my characters that way. I've taken to drawing what I'm calling "bullshit lines" on the page—demarcations of where my characters stop acting like themselves and start saying and doing the things that are convenient for me.
I write from an outline, and perhaps this is a pitfall of being an outline writer. But I think it's more than that. With Untouched, I'm exploring territory that's been hard for me to reach. My main character, Celia, has a sexual identity and expression that can't easily be labeled, and her feelings about it are complicated. Celia fights back against people who want her to become "normal," and sometimes, I must confess, I become one of those people. As the author, I sometimes want her to be more "normal," easier to understand, and I do her, myself, and my readers a disservice when I give in to that.
If I weren't in the thick of this, I might be able to transform this into a more general rule, but right now the best I can manage is the very zoomed-in view from where I sit.
My personality is rather philosophical, and I think that comes through in my writing, but I also want to add something about sexiness. I believe in emotional honesty for its own reasons, but I also think it's hotter than the alternative, and, as an erotica writer, that really matters to me. I've had conversations with other writers about whether our work remains sexy to us. My personal ideal is for my work to always make me squirm. I want to always be genuinely turned on by the concepts and scenes in my stories. I confess, however, that sometimes when I've gone over a draft numerous times, the sexiness sort of disappears under the weight of commas.
Untouched has proven different. This is the wildest, most honest work I've done. It's challenged me heavily. It's hard to hang with Celia because she sometimes scares me. The bar she sets for emotional honesty is so high. On the other hand, even though I've been over and over this manuscript, it's still so hot it makes me sweat. My panties are soaked at the end of every day, and I'm editing.
But that can be a scary thing, too. Because of this honesty thing I'm talking about, I've produced something more honestly hot for me, something closer to what really makes me tick sexually. Writing this book has affected my actual sex life in a number of profound ways, and that's backwards from the way it usually works for me (usually, I transform things I know from my sex life into fiction, and it's a different experience to have my fiction lead me). It's hard to stay true to that, too, because the book feels more personal, much closer to home. If people think it's weird or perverse, it's going to be a little harder for me to shrug and say that's fine. This is a concern whenever writing erotica, but honestly after doing it for five years I thought I'd gotten over that.
I've never pushed myself as hard as I have for Untouched—in every aspect: language, story, psychology, eroticism. There's a responsibility that I feel as I wind down this revision. I want to do justice to all of this. I want the words to burn on the page. So here I am, going through it one last time, making it as real as I can. The humbling thing is that I already know there are ways that I will fail—goes with the territory, I think. I'm just hoping I can fail better. And be as emotionally honest as I can in the process.
Showing posts with label writing erotica. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing erotica. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 14, 2014
Saturday, July 21, 2012
Words: Fully Loaded
Well-written erotica needs to be a full-body experience, immersing the reader in all five senses.
While the first time I read erotica, I was turned on just by seeing explicit language on the page, that quickly grows old unless it's freshly described. After reading a whole bunch of erotica, I was left with almost no desire to read about "the old in-out" unless the writing is revealing some new aspect.
Nothing can beat a truly fresh description, a brilliant metaphor unique to an individual writer, but broader lists of words can also help.
I use the thesaurus more now than I ever did before. You can also find specialized lists, such as this erotic thesaurus.
The great challenge of erotica is to write over and over again about the same type of action and make it feel new and thrilling every time. Plenty of elements go into that, but a big part of it is fresh, sensual description.
The other day, I was writing a story that included a section where I really wanted to focus on smell and taste. Those senses are very central to my experience, but maddeningly difficult to describe. I was looking for a fresh set of words, and found this useful post, which helped me to consider types of smells and tastes apart from my usual go-tos. (Bonus note: It amuses me that the comments to the post I linked seem split between schoolchildren and erotica writers.)
While the first time I read erotica, I was turned on just by seeing explicit language on the page, that quickly grows old unless it's freshly described. After reading a whole bunch of erotica, I was left with almost no desire to read about "the old in-out" unless the writing is revealing some new aspect.
Nothing can beat a truly fresh description, a brilliant metaphor unique to an individual writer, but broader lists of words can also help.
I use the thesaurus more now than I ever did before. You can also find specialized lists, such as this erotic thesaurus.
The great challenge of erotica is to write over and over again about the same type of action and make it feel new and thrilling every time. Plenty of elements go into that, but a big part of it is fresh, sensual description.
The other day, I was writing a story that included a section where I really wanted to focus on smell and taste. Those senses are very central to my experience, but maddeningly difficult to describe. I was looking for a fresh set of words, and found this useful post, which helped me to consider types of smells and tastes apart from my usual go-tos. (Bonus note: It amuses me that the comments to the post I linked seem split between schoolchildren and erotica writers.)
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Art and Pornography
There was recently some discussion online about using "the wet test" when evaluating about erotica. I did a couple posts, one about reading erotica for reasons other than arousal, and one about writing erotica for reasons other than arousal.
I came across a great passage over the weekend that sums up my position, from Geoff Nicholson's book Sex Collectors:
I found this a useful distinction. I think what I was trying to get at with my earlier posts was that I see erotica as art. However, when I started to read it, I read it as porn -- I wanted to get off. I think its purpose is still confused, and writers and readers approach it as art or porn or both, not always being clear what they're going for.
I came across a great passage over the weekend that sums up my position, from Geoff Nicholson's book Sex Collectors:
Some people used to say that art was good because it was celebratory and porn was bad because it was masturbatory, but now we all say, what's so wrong with masturbation? Camille Paglia says, "What people call pornography is simply the moment when the physicality of the act becomes obtrusive to them." I say the difference between art and pornography is this: you can masturbate to art if you want, but you don't have to. It still has an appeal and a function even if it doesn't get you aroused. Whereas if a piece of pornography doesn't get you aroused, then it's a complete failure, and few things are worse than failed pornography.
I found this a useful distinction. I think what I was trying to get at with my earlier posts was that I see erotica as art. However, when I started to read it, I read it as porn -- I wanted to get off. I think its purpose is still confused, and writers and readers approach it as art or porn or both, not always being clear what they're going for.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Shame Still Holds Me Back
In my latest post on Eros and Thanatos, I talk about what still scares me as a writer:
You can read the rest here.
If I had to model the way shame works for me, I'd get a set of Russian dolls and use them to sort out the layers of it. On the outer, biggest doll, I'd paint the word "sex." Then, as I moved deeper into the set, I would get more specific. "Kink." "Pain-slut." "Non-consent as turn-on."
The way I displayed the Russian dolls would express how well I was dealing with that shame. Years ago, that set of dolls would have been at the bottom of a drawer in a dresser tucked in the back of my closet. Today, it's on top of the bookshelf in the living room, right near my copy of The Ultimate Guide to Anal Sex for Women (the book is actually in my living room; the strained-metaphor dolls are not).
You can read the rest here.
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Looking at Old Stories
Writers often talk how looking at an old story makes them cringe. I certainly know the feeling. But why is that? It's because I've gotten better since I wrote whatever that was. Is it bothering me to read an old story because I'm painfully aware of a writing tic that I've since overcome? Great. That means I've overcome it in my current writing.
Here's an example I recently noticed. An editor commented earlier this year on my use (or perhaps overuse) of the word "felt." I painstakingly edited a manuscript to correct that tic, and the experience stuck. I'm using the word a lot less frequently now, across the board (there's something about going over a 30K-word manuscript with a fine-toothed comb that will really sink a lesson or two into a person).
But any story I wrote pre-2012 is littered with that word. So I cringe when I see them. In my big edit, I created a new part of my brain devoted to reconstructing sentences that use "felt" unnecessarily. It goes into overdrive when I look at an old manuscript.
Do I wish I could go in and fix those mistakes? Hell, yes. But I can't. The best I can do is appreciate the lesson learned since.
That's not to say I always hate old stories. I see tics like that, but I also get taken back to the emotion I felt while writing those pieces, the things I was concerned about, and the things I learned. For example, "The Artist's Retreat," my piece in Whispers in Darkness, probably uses "felt" too many times. But it was also the piece that made me discover my love of pastiche. Trying to write in H.P. Lovecraft's voice set me free like nothing else had. It was exhilarating, and I grew as a writer as a result.
Anyone who plans to write over a lifetime will have these types of experiences. Any piece is better than something that went before, and lacking the lessons learned in pieces yet to come. Assessing these things honestly is a key to mental health.
Here's an example I recently noticed. An editor commented earlier this year on my use (or perhaps overuse) of the word "felt." I painstakingly edited a manuscript to correct that tic, and the experience stuck. I'm using the word a lot less frequently now, across the board (there's something about going over a 30K-word manuscript with a fine-toothed comb that will really sink a lesson or two into a person).
But any story I wrote pre-2012 is littered with that word. So I cringe when I see them. In my big edit, I created a new part of my brain devoted to reconstructing sentences that use "felt" unnecessarily. It goes into overdrive when I look at an old manuscript.
Do I wish I could go in and fix those mistakes? Hell, yes. But I can't. The best I can do is appreciate the lesson learned since.
That's not to say I always hate old stories. I see tics like that, but I also get taken back to the emotion I felt while writing those pieces, the things I was concerned about, and the things I learned. For example, "The Artist's Retreat," my piece in Whispers in Darkness, probably uses "felt" too many times. But it was also the piece that made me discover my love of pastiche. Trying to write in H.P. Lovecraft's voice set me free like nothing else had. It was exhilarating, and I grew as a writer as a result.
Anyone who plans to write over a lifetime will have these types of experiences. Any piece is better than something that went before, and lacking the lessons learned in pieces yet to come. Assessing these things honestly is a key to mental health.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Death of a God
On Eros and Thanatos, my blog at Forbidden Fiction, I wrote about the premise of "In the Death of Winter," and how writing about sex helps me find truth in other areas of life:
You can read the rest here.
It made sense to me for religion to linger beyond the life of the god once I saw it as a sexual relationship. So often these days, I hear people speak about religion as a transaction — I'm a good girl, so God is supposed to take care of me. It's hard to imagine how one is supposed to sustain any kind of faith under those circumstances. Bargains between people and deities never seem fair.
You can read the rest here.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
The Demotion
I've noticed a negative shift in how others react to my writing, one that I think has to do with subtle sexism.
I used to spend most of my writing time on technology journalism. Most of my professional interactions were with men. They were the vast majority of my interview subjects, readers, and editors. My career also played well with men. At dinner parties, I invariably found myself in long discussions with the men about the merits or flaws of the iPhone, or similar subjects.
My career commanded respect. People took me seriously and never asked things like, "Is there enough work?" or "Do you make a living writing that?"
Things are different now, and I'm writing a much larger proportion of erotica. Most of my professional interactions are with women. Women are the vast majority of my writer friends, readers, and editors. I have a "coming out" issue when asked about what I write. Do I talk about it at all? Is whoever I'm talking to going to react strangely? I avoid the subject at dinner parties.
When I do tell people about my writing, I often get asked, "Is there enough work?" or "Do you actually get paid to write that?" or "When will you go back to writing 'real' stuff?"
Some of this may have to do with the taboo subject of sex versus the socially acceptable subject of technology (ironically, frequently written about using terms borrowed from the language of sex). However, I think some of the sense of demotion has to do with writing in a "woman's world" versus in a "man's world." I get added support for this theory because I sometimes play softball by saying I write "romance," which seems to inspire even more questioning about whether I am actually doing anything -- despite the fact that romance sells beautifully.
I sense loss of respect from conversation partners, but also within myself. Over and over again, I have to remind myself that I'm writing erotica more because this is what I enjoy writing the most. I am doing this for pleasure, and because I seem to be pretty good at it. And yet I feel strong pressure to write more about technology to regain respect.
When I ask myself why, I keep coming up with ideas like this writing is frivolous, less valuable, or self-indulgent. I should note that this runs directly opposite to my deeply held beliefs, and my personal experience of the power of writing and reading erotica. I frequently uncover beliefs about how this writing isn't as serious or well-crafted, despite knowing how hard I work on it -- in many cases, much harder and with more concern for art than was the case when I wrote about technology.
The sense of frivolity or lack of value keep bringing me back to subtle sexism I've found in my thinking. I grew up with the sense that I should try as hard as possible to act as little like a woman as possible. I didn't want to talk like a woman, have emotions like a woman, or behave like a woman. In writing erotica, I really embrace my femininity -- much more powerfully than I did in my technology writing. The sense of demotion that comes with that feels sinister to me, related to that deeper underlying sense that I should avoid being female wherever I could manage to do so.
I used to spend most of my writing time on technology journalism. Most of my professional interactions were with men. They were the vast majority of my interview subjects, readers, and editors. My career also played well with men. At dinner parties, I invariably found myself in long discussions with the men about the merits or flaws of the iPhone, or similar subjects.
My career commanded respect. People took me seriously and never asked things like, "Is there enough work?" or "Do you make a living writing that?"
Things are different now, and I'm writing a much larger proportion of erotica. Most of my professional interactions are with women. Women are the vast majority of my writer friends, readers, and editors. I have a "coming out" issue when asked about what I write. Do I talk about it at all? Is whoever I'm talking to going to react strangely? I avoid the subject at dinner parties.
When I do tell people about my writing, I often get asked, "Is there enough work?" or "Do you actually get paid to write that?" or "When will you go back to writing 'real' stuff?"
Some of this may have to do with the taboo subject of sex versus the socially acceptable subject of technology (ironically, frequently written about using terms borrowed from the language of sex). However, I think some of the sense of demotion has to do with writing in a "woman's world" versus in a "man's world." I get added support for this theory because I sometimes play softball by saying I write "romance," which seems to inspire even more questioning about whether I am actually doing anything -- despite the fact that romance sells beautifully.
I sense loss of respect from conversation partners, but also within myself. Over and over again, I have to remind myself that I'm writing erotica more because this is what I enjoy writing the most. I am doing this for pleasure, and because I seem to be pretty good at it. And yet I feel strong pressure to write more about technology to regain respect.
When I ask myself why, I keep coming up with ideas like this writing is frivolous, less valuable, or self-indulgent. I should note that this runs directly opposite to my deeply held beliefs, and my personal experience of the power of writing and reading erotica. I frequently uncover beliefs about how this writing isn't as serious or well-crafted, despite knowing how hard I work on it -- in many cases, much harder and with more concern for art than was the case when I wrote about technology.
The sense of frivolity or lack of value keep bringing me back to subtle sexism I've found in my thinking. I grew up with the sense that I should try as hard as possible to act as little like a woman as possible. I didn't want to talk like a woman, have emotions like a woman, or behave like a woman. In writing erotica, I really embrace my femininity -- much more powerfully than I did in my technology writing. The sense of demotion that comes with that feels sinister to me, related to that deeper underlying sense that I should avoid being female wherever I could manage to do so.
Saturday, May 5, 2012
Swans
To celebrate the publication of my novella, "The Six Swans," my best friend gave me this lovely little swan. She saw me struggle through edits for this thing and so forth, and the gift means a lot.
Often, when I accomplish something, I feel a little numb. For me, most of the interest lies in the verb of a thing -- the writing, the editing, and so forth. The fact of it leaves me a bit bewildered. A published thing? A thing you can see on Amazon? I've never been one to spend much time checking my byline. I always want to know what I'm writing next.
I like this instinct. It's served me well. But sometimes, it's nice to spend a moment basking in an accomplishment.
I put the lovely little swan on display on my bookshelf (right next to my collection of zombie pets). It's a good reminder of the power of faith, and hope, and friendship.
The book is here, if you'd like to take a look.
Friday, May 4, 2012
Remember the First Time?
The seminal moment came with a story called "Robot Lovers Prey on the Lonely." The title came to me first, and I had a vivid sense of the first scene. Quickly, it became clear that to tell the story right, I had to write about sex explicitly -- not just behind a closed door. For this story, I needed explicit sex to have proper characterization. Pulling back from that would have meant betraying the story.
I typed "nipple." Then a while later, I typed "clit." I felt good about the sex scenes as I wrote them -- they felt expressive and clear.
But pretty soon, horror hit me. What was I doing? This was a good story. By adding all this sex, I was dooming its chances. I would never be able to sell it anywhere respectable. If I could publish it, it would be caught in a ghetto somewhere. No one would read it.
I had to finish the story -- it was one of those special cases in which I truly felt compelled. But I was afraid of the implications of what I had done and the line I had crossed.
That first story turned out to be one of my first published erotic stories (and the inspiration for the name of this blog). It came out in Experimental, an anthology published by Ravenous Romance, and I'm incredibly proud of it to this day.
It amazes me to think of how frightened I was when I wrote those first "forbidden" words. I'd love to grab my younger self by the shoulder, give her a kiss on the cheek, and say, "Baby, you ain't seen nothing yet."
Thursday, May 3, 2012
Write for Coming Together!
Coming Together's Alessia Brio recently sent out a note about upcoming anthology calls -- a lot of neat stuff here!
Coming Together: Arm in Arm in Arm... (tentacle theme, benefits Oceana)
http://www.eroticanthology.com/tentacle.htm
Nobilis Reed, editor
Closes 6/30/12; Releases 9/xx/12
Coming Together: In Vein (vampire theme, benefits Doctors Without Borders)
http://www.eroticanthology.com/invein.htm
Lisabet Sarai, editor
Closes 8/1/12; Releases 12/25/12
Coming Together: Hungry for Love (zombies theme, benefits American Diabetes Assoc)
http://www.eroticanthology.com/zombies.htm
Sommer Marsden, editor
Closes 7/31/12; Releases 10/31/12
Coming Together: Triumphantly (healing/recovery theme, benefits Nat'l Women's Health Network)
http://www.eroticanthology.com/triumphantly.htm
Dorla Moorehouse, editor (Dorla is new to Coming Together, so she'll have a co-editor this time)
Closes 11/30/12; Releases 2/14/13
The Submissions page is here: http://www.eroticanthology.com/submissions.htm
Coming Together: Arm in Arm in Arm... (tentacle theme, benefits Oceana)
http://www.eroticanthology.com/tentacle.htm
Nobilis Reed, editor
Closes 6/30/12; Releases 9/xx/12
Coming Together: In Vein (vampire theme, benefits Doctors Without Borders)
http://www.eroticanthology.com/invein.htm
Lisabet Sarai, editor
Closes 8/1/12; Releases 12/25/12
Coming Together: Hungry for Love (zombies theme, benefits American Diabetes Assoc)
http://www.eroticanthology.com/zombies.htm
Sommer Marsden, editor
Closes 7/31/12; Releases 10/31/12
Coming Together: Triumphantly (healing/recovery theme, benefits Nat'l Women's Health Network)
http://www.eroticanthology.com/triumphantly.htm
Dorla Moorehouse, editor (Dorla is new to Coming Together, so she'll have a co-editor this time)
Closes 11/30/12; Releases 2/14/13
The Submissions page is here: http://www.eroticanthology.com/submissions.htm
Monday, April 30, 2012
Forget About That Happy Ending
I blogged at Eros and Thanatos about getting permission to write without a happy ending:
I felt a sort of moral obligation — in my own mind, I had permission to write about dark things as long as they worked out okay in the end (and another editing story is about how Lon Sarver gave me permission to write about even more dark things than I originally allowed myself). In the ending as it stands now, you could argue that things are okay, at least for certain people, but the characters haven't all been "good." Maybe they weren't even trying to be.
Read the rest here.
Incidentally, the story I'm talking about in the post is "The Three Wives of Bluebeard," which will be out soon from Forbidden Fiction.
I felt a sort of moral obligation — in my own mind, I had permission to write about dark things as long as they worked out okay in the end (and another editing story is about how Lon Sarver gave me permission to write about even more dark things than I originally allowed myself). In the ending as it stands now, you could argue that things are okay, at least for certain people, but the characters haven't all been "good." Maybe they weren't even trying to be.
Read the rest here.
Incidentally, the story I'm talking about in the post is "The Three Wives of Bluebeard," which will be out soon from Forbidden Fiction.
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Writing and the Wet Test
I blogged a few days back about reading and "the wet test," saying I read plenty of erotica that wouldn't necessarily make me come. I've been thinking about how this idea applies to writing.
There's plenty to say on this subject, but one point I'd make is that it's difficult to write erotica about subjects that really get me off. If just saying the words "nipple clamps" makes me want to come, I can grossly misjudge how hot my scenes are. When I'm blinded by lust, it's easy to go too fast. It's easy to imagine that what's going on in the reader's head is as vivid as what's going on in mine.
Some of my best scenes, on the other hand, have been about things that don't have so much inherent turn-on for me. My head is clear enough to pay attention to craft. I never submit a story until I'm turned on by the sex in it, but I think my writing is sometimes better when I have to work for it. There's a foreplay analogy in there, I think.
That said, hottest of all is when I can closely describe a sex act that really, really turns me on. But these stories are the hardest for me to write.
There's plenty to say on this subject, but one point I'd make is that it's difficult to write erotica about subjects that really get me off. If just saying the words "nipple clamps" makes me want to come, I can grossly misjudge how hot my scenes are. When I'm blinded by lust, it's easy to go too fast. It's easy to imagine that what's going on in the reader's head is as vivid as what's going on in mine.
Some of my best scenes, on the other hand, have been about things that don't have so much inherent turn-on for me. My head is clear enough to pay attention to craft. I never submit a story until I'm turned on by the sex in it, but I think my writing is sometimes better when I have to work for it. There's a foreplay analogy in there, I think.
That said, hottest of all is when I can closely describe a sex act that really, really turns me on. But these stories are the hardest for me to write.
Rising to the Challenge
Erotica writer Remittance Girl recently issued a challenge:
The challenge comes from a theory she has about what makes BDSM feel like BDSM:
When I read the challenge, I thought immediately of cunnilingus, which has the reputation of being a service given to a recipient, but often makes me feel extremely vulnerable. Below is the same cunnilingus scene, one kinky and one vanilla (though my partner questions whether the vanilla version is fully vanilla). The dialogue and actions in each are exactly the same. Let me know what you think!
Vanilla Version
He smiles as he settles himself between my legs, and I whimper with anticipation. His delicious tongue has learned my ways. He can make me come fast, or extend the pleasure to an achingly slow burn. Tonight, we both want it slow. The half hour we spent kissing on the couch was only the beginning.
He touches down on my clit, tongue delivering the firm, wet, velvet strokes that are a sure thing for me. Little scrapes of his teeth help me hold myself back, slowing my path to orgasm. Even with the nibbling, I'm going to come soon if he doesn't stop. The foreplay has me more than ready.
"Please," I say. One finger in my cunt would make me come, but I don't want to yet. I want to feel his face between my legs. I want to have enough time to long for him.
He knows this is how I work. "What do you want?" I hear the grin in his voice. He grips the cheeks of my ass. I squirm, desire and excitement getting the better of me.
I meet his eyes. "Bite my clit," I whisper.
He knows how I like it. His teeth pinch my clit. It brings tears to my eyes, but it cools me down just enough that he can put his fingers in me without making me come. I groan at the exquisite sensation of his hand pumping in and out of my cunt. I wouldn't really have been able to feel it through an orgasm's spasms. I couldn't have noticed every twitch of his fingertips the way I do now.
The moment stretches. He lifts his head slightly, and I arch to go with him. The synchronization between us overwhelms me.
"I love you," I breathe, and I've relaxed enough now that he can release his teeth and pleasure my throbbing clit with a soft and gentle tongue. Perfectly still except for the twitching of my inner thighs, I can enjoy him. I lie limp on the mattress, cunt open to him, soaking up every bit of pleasure he can offer me. There's no hurry tonight. We can delight in each other as we will.
Kinky Version
He smiles as he settles himself between my legs, and I can't help but whimper. There's no way to tell if he plans to use teeth or tongue until his mouth contacts my clit. He touches down and it's both — pleasure I can't resist delivered by firm, wet, velvet strokes, but restrained by scrapes that shock me out of any climb toward orgasm that I might make.
"Please," I say. I want him to play nice with my cunt, just lick me and maybe stick some fingers in. Let me come. That's what would feel the best. But at the same time... I have to supress the wild urge to ask him to bite down. Hard. I know he likes to hurt me. I like for him to like it.
He knows this is how I work. "What do you want?" I hear the grin in his voice.
This is the decision point. Pleasure or pain. He always leaves the choice in my hands. He grips the cheeks of my ass. My body squirms to match what's happening in my mind.
"Bite my clit," I whisper, both defeated and excited.
His teeth pinch my clit. It brings tears to my eyes. I'm afraid to move at all, for fear of increasing the pain. All I want is to get away from his mouth, as far and as fast as I can. He shoves his fingers into my hole, but it's a tease. No way can I come from that now.
The moment stretches. He lifts his head slightly, making my body arch to keep his bite from becoming more painful. And it hits me — mental surrender that comes in waves, satisfying more than the physical sensation of orgasm ever could.
"I love you," I breathe, and now he releases his teeth and pleasures my throbbing clit with a soft and gentle tongue. Perfectly still except for the twitching of my inner thighs, I can finally relax and serve him. I lie limp on the mattress, cunt open to him. I don't tense my muscles or work at achieving an orgasm. I present my spread lips as an offering, no longer fearing either teeth or tongue. He uses me as he wills.
Have a go at writing the exact same sex act, using nothing but the tone of language and the POV of the narrator to present it as either kinky or vanilla.
The challenge comes from a theory she has about what makes BDSM feel like BDSM:
I came to the conclusion that writing BDSM sex is far less about the external scene than it is about how the person whose POV is represented in the narrative is interpreting it. The M/C in Fifty Shades of Grey has a very vanilla state of mind (and I would extrapolate and venture that E.L. James is probably not much of an avid practicioner of BDSM herself). And so, appropriately, she reads/interprets/experiences all the sex as vanilla, even when, externally, it doesn’t appear to be.
When I read the challenge, I thought immediately of cunnilingus, which has the reputation of being a service given to a recipient, but often makes me feel extremely vulnerable. Below is the same cunnilingus scene, one kinky and one vanilla (though my partner questions whether the vanilla version is fully vanilla). The dialogue and actions in each are exactly the same. Let me know what you think!
Vanilla Version
He smiles as he settles himself between my legs, and I whimper with anticipation. His delicious tongue has learned my ways. He can make me come fast, or extend the pleasure to an achingly slow burn. Tonight, we both want it slow. The half hour we spent kissing on the couch was only the beginning.
He touches down on my clit, tongue delivering the firm, wet, velvet strokes that are a sure thing for me. Little scrapes of his teeth help me hold myself back, slowing my path to orgasm. Even with the nibbling, I'm going to come soon if he doesn't stop. The foreplay has me more than ready.
"Please," I say. One finger in my cunt would make me come, but I don't want to yet. I want to feel his face between my legs. I want to have enough time to long for him.
He knows this is how I work. "What do you want?" I hear the grin in his voice. He grips the cheeks of my ass. I squirm, desire and excitement getting the better of me.
I meet his eyes. "Bite my clit," I whisper.
He knows how I like it. His teeth pinch my clit. It brings tears to my eyes, but it cools me down just enough that he can put his fingers in me without making me come. I groan at the exquisite sensation of his hand pumping in and out of my cunt. I wouldn't really have been able to feel it through an orgasm's spasms. I couldn't have noticed every twitch of his fingertips the way I do now.
The moment stretches. He lifts his head slightly, and I arch to go with him. The synchronization between us overwhelms me.
"I love you," I breathe, and I've relaxed enough now that he can release his teeth and pleasure my throbbing clit with a soft and gentle tongue. Perfectly still except for the twitching of my inner thighs, I can enjoy him. I lie limp on the mattress, cunt open to him, soaking up every bit of pleasure he can offer me. There's no hurry tonight. We can delight in each other as we will.
Kinky Version
He smiles as he settles himself between my legs, and I can't help but whimper. There's no way to tell if he plans to use teeth or tongue until his mouth contacts my clit. He touches down and it's both — pleasure I can't resist delivered by firm, wet, velvet strokes, but restrained by scrapes that shock me out of any climb toward orgasm that I might make.
"Please," I say. I want him to play nice with my cunt, just lick me and maybe stick some fingers in. Let me come. That's what would feel the best. But at the same time... I have to supress the wild urge to ask him to bite down. Hard. I know he likes to hurt me. I like for him to like it.
He knows this is how I work. "What do you want?" I hear the grin in his voice.
This is the decision point. Pleasure or pain. He always leaves the choice in my hands. He grips the cheeks of my ass. My body squirms to match what's happening in my mind.
"Bite my clit," I whisper, both defeated and excited.
His teeth pinch my clit. It brings tears to my eyes. I'm afraid to move at all, for fear of increasing the pain. All I want is to get away from his mouth, as far and as fast as I can. He shoves his fingers into my hole, but it's a tease. No way can I come from that now.
The moment stretches. He lifts his head slightly, making my body arch to keep his bite from becoming more painful. And it hits me — mental surrender that comes in waves, satisfying more than the physical sensation of orgasm ever could.
"I love you," I breathe, and now he releases his teeth and pleasures my throbbing clit with a soft and gentle tongue. Perfectly still except for the twitching of my inner thighs, I can finally relax and serve him. I lie limp on the mattress, cunt open to him. I don't tense my muscles or work at achieving an orgasm. I present my spread lips as an offering, no longer fearing either teeth or tongue. He uses me as he wills.
Monday, April 23, 2012
How I Write Fairy Tale Retellings
I posted at Forbidden Fiction describing how I come up with ways to retell myths and fairy tales:
You can read the rest here.
I think that most retellings of fairy tales and myths are about answering questions raised by the stories but not resolved — or about adjusting the traditional answers given. This is why I can read literally dozens of versions of Bluebeard or Cinderella without ever getting tired of it. Each author has a different take on the questions that bother them or how they answer them.
You can read the rest here.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)