It was a dark and stormy night…

Thumper made a comment in a recent post that struck a chord with me.

It’s interesting to me that I can post pictures of my junk online but writing down my fantasies like this makes me feel more vulnerable and nervous. I guess that’s because it’s a peek into my head while all the HNT in the world doesn’t give you much more than a surface view.
Thumper

I’ve posted a fair number of onlink junks shots (purely as an educational resource of course), along with shots of naked me in sessions, but publishing my erotic fiction always creates a far greater feeling of vulnerability. Even commenting on my fantasies in blog posts, or saying what I like about certain images, seems far safer then crafting fictional porn. Of course there’s the natural fear of failure and ridicule that comes with any public creative endeavour. But on top of this I think erotic writing has its own particular issues.

For one thing, I give up any plausible deniability. A reposted image or a blog comment can easily be written off. I can just claim it was interesting rather than personally exciting, or I posted it because it was weird and made me laugh, or it raised important questions. There’s no chance of that with a carefully crafted ten thousand word short story. Everyone knows I spent hours writing, editing and proof-reading it. Every paragraph is there because I want it there. It’s impossible to distance myself from the ideas it contains.

Writing also gives immense power. Photographs of me in a session are constrained by physical, legal and moral laws. I know I’m publishing something that thousands of people have described and attested to before me. There’s safety in those numbers. As a writer I stand alone. I don’t have to limit myself to any particular physical or moral constraints. I can create something uniquely depraved if I wish, and I’ll have no one to share the stage or the blame with.

Finally, I think there’s often an implicit chain of reasoning that runs as follows. An erotic story is designed to excite and arouse people. The author based their ideas on what excited him or her. People like to do what excites them. Therefore the author wants to do whatever is written in the story. Nobody thinks Stephen King wants to dress up as a clown and lurk in sewers threatening children. Or that he’d really enjoy going insane in a deserted hotel. But throw a sex scene into a book and it’s impossible not to start wondering what it reflects about the author and their particular sexual quirks. Where do they draw the lines between their achievable, unachievable and undesirable fantasys?

Some of the things I’ve written or enjoyed reading would be truly horrendous in real life. In some cases I wouldn’t even want to see them filmed or photographed Hollywood (i.e. fake) style. They work in the abstract. They distill out the nasty underlying emotions into sexual heroin for my reptilian id. They’re like a sexual horror movie, drawing on primitive responses to short circuit the intellectual bit of my brain.

There’s really no blog post or picture I’ve published that I look back on and regret. I can’t say all of them were successful, but there’s none I sometimes wish I could take back. I’m not sure I could honestly say the same thing for the very limited amount of fiction I’ve written.

I’m afraid I can’t think of any particularly appropriate image that would go along with this post, so here’s a very attractive lady in latex. You’re welcome.

I found this on the Stuff I Like tumblr site.