Writing Erotica

I write erotica. I have done for most of my time in "the desert", mostly in little notebooks that I kept in my bedside table or in the bathroom. The reason is simple. It turns me on. The images I put to paper all exist in my head, but when I write them out they become more powerful, distilled maybe, but more like they attain a small semblance of reality.

A lot of my erotica was an attempt to describe various ways that my life could be different if my wife weren't disabled. For a long time, the experience was so powerful that I could write no more than a few sentences at a time, before I would go and masturbate. The stories grew, bit by bit, in a very unusual way. After masturbating, the urge to write was gone. When I came back later, I'd read through what was written, and it would inspire the next few sentences. Sometimes the new bit wouldn't be part of the original plan, and the story would take a brand new direction.

Lately I've started writing from a somewhat less intimate point of view. I thought it was coming out pretty good. Some famous author once said that a new author has to write a million words of crap before anything good shows up - if so, maybe those fantasies counted against that million. I started posting my work on Stories Online (link in the sidebar) and so far it has been fairly well received.

I don't know why I suddenly felt the need to share this stuff - not just the stories, but this blog - but something about it feels right. Is it a plea for sympathy? An exhibitionistic streak? I don't know.

I'm not looking for help. "Offer me solutions, offer me alternatives, and I decline."

I guess I'm just looking for a place to scream.