Following Lisabet’s line of thought I must admit writing gay erotic fiction has taken me to places I never thought I’d go. When I wrote gay mysteries, the sex was muted—you know, if it was a movie—slow camera pan from the lovers to the flickering flames in the fireplace. Made you want to yell “Eyes off the flames and back on the flamers!”
Then a friend asked, “Why don’t you at least have them giving head? Open up the bedroom door a little.” Wow. Tentatively, in the beginning, I drew from my own fairly…uh…wide experience of my youth, and it was amazing how much came rushing back to me as I pounded the keys of my pc. Memories came whirling through time and space—standing at a urinal at the Albert Hall in London when a handsome dude glanced over and said “You have a nice dick.”
A nice dick. I didn’t like the word dick. I preferred cock. Dick was, in my opinion at the time… well…insignificant…dare I say it? Small. Cock, on the other hand was proud, out loud proud. Still I was glad he liked my..uh, dick.
Writing erotica words to describe private parts can become stilted—his manhood, her mound of Venus. Sometimes hilarious, his pole (please, a pole summons up thoughts of at least something a foot and a half long!) Her void (WTF?), his rod, (a friend of mine’s name, kind of like dick), her abyss ( fucking scary), and so on.
Then there’s the ACT…sometimes even scarier.
“He stretched me to beyond anything I could have ever imagined in my wildest dreams.” I don’t know about your dreams, but being stretched “beyond anything” is not something I could ever want to happen to my nether regions. No sir, thank you, go away, unless you’re a vampire and can heal it with a kiss.
“His lips were everywhere at once.” Huh? How’s that possible? Maybe if it was Mick Jagger.
“Every part of me hummed and throbbed with passion.” I’m not sure what this means.Enlightenment anyone?
But back to the words Lisabet was writing about—here’s the one I love the best. In 1928 a Frenchman—wouldn’t you know it?—wrote a book called, in translation, “Irene’s Cunt.” Can you imagine that title in today's mainstream literature? A review stated that “Despite its title and subject matter, this is not an erotic book. Its French nature lies in the rich, almost surreal, language it uses, as well as the way it treats of matters which reach to the heart of human sexual relationships.”
I’ll go with that, because despite the way people may regard erotica as base, it always deals with the meeting of two (or perhaps more) souls, some fleeting, some lasting, but always about the heart of human relationships.