By Lisabet Sarai
Our
topic for the next two weeks is “Disbelief”. As the contributor
who always posts first, I usually attack the most obvious
interpretation of a new theme, leaving more creative or surprising
interpretations for those who come after me. So be it. Today I plan
to talk about the tension between realism and fantasy in erotica, or
between belief and disbelief, if you will.
A
significant proportion of people who read erotica do so, I think, in
order to get away from the real world. They approach our stories
wanting to leave the possibly frustrating aspects of their own sex
lives behind -- to vicariously experience the forbidden, the
outrageous, the exquisitely pleasurable situations and actions we
dream up for them. At some level our readers understand that we’re
ramping up the heat, exaggerating the sensations, ignoring the risks
while focusing on the rewards, but they push that understanding to
the back of their minds while they’re consuming our lust-full
tales. Of course they know that many men aren’t ready for another
go ten minutes after they’ve come. At some level, they’re aware
of the implausibility of sex on a ferris wheel, sex under the
table in a crowded bar, sex while sky diving, and all the other
naughty scenarios we create. Their personal history might remind them
just how uncomfortable it can be to fuck in the back seat of a car or
on a dank, sandy beach.
They
deliberately put aside that knowledge, though, because they want to
believe what we offer them. They’re eager to descend into the
maelstrom of desire and be battered by a delicious assault to their
senses.
It’s
a delicate balance for us authors, however. It’s all too easy to
push things too far. All it takes is one absurd detail, one truly
impossible act or ignorant mistake about procedure, and we’ve
broken the spell. The reader remembers it’s all a silly fantasy,
that although sex can be transcendent, it’s all too often the same
moves with the same person at the same time every week... if it
happens at all. The nature of that critical slip can differ from one
reader to the next, also. Reader A will bristle at something Reader B swallows hook, line and sinker.
So
how can we reconcile the impossible extremes which turn us and our
readers on with a need for some modicum of realism? It’s a tricky problem. Each of
us approaches it a bit differently.
Some
authors – Remittance Girl comes to mind in particular – don’t
try to varnish the reality of sex. Most of RG’s stories – well,
the ones that particularly stick with me – present sexual
interactions that are as confusing, conflicted, imperfect and
problematic as sex actually can be. Her genius resides in the fact
that she can still arouse
the reader (or at least, this reader), despite eschewing the
exaggeration and candy coating so many of us use.
Other
authors come right out and tell you not to believe a word of what
they’re offering. Greta Christina’s searing tales of willing
abasement fall into that category. Her fabulous collection, Bending,
begins with a preface in which she warns that her filthy and
disturbing tales should be considered as total imagination, and that
the reality of dominance and submission is normally quite different.
She concludes the book with an extensive list of resources for people
interested in safely exploring their kinky desires - something her characters definitely do not do.
In
contrast, most of my erotic work at least pretends to be realistic.
At the same time, I’ve penned some pretty unbelievable scenes in my
time. My technique, such as it is, involves a gradual
transition from realism to fantasy. I focus squarely on my hero’s
or heroine’s perceptions and reactions, trying to show that the
wild activities that finally ensue flow naturally from the
characters’ mental and emotional states. As the characters accept
what’s going on, I invite the reader to do likewise – to join
in believing things that are unlikely at best.
I’ve
got an example for you, the lead up to one of the nastiest scenes
I’ve ever written. In this excerpt from Incognito, my
sexually-frustrated heroine Miranda wanders into a seedy bar. She
doesn’t intend to get fucked on the billiard table by two extremely
shady characters – it just sort of happens. I cringed when I
re-read this chapter – unprotected anal sex with strangers,
penetration with foreign objects, voyeurism and exhibitionism, the
works. But I slipped into it so gradually – even my disbelief was
suspended, while I was writing!
***
A
faint breeze ruffled her hair. Looking around, Miranda found that she
had walked almost to the waterfront. She was in the no-man’s land
between North Station and the North End, a region of narrow streets,
dingy brick warehouses, and seedy ‘cafés’. In fact, there was a
typical place across the road.
Bill’s
Bar had a sickly green wooden façade, pierced by a couple of small,
neon-lit windows. Several motorcycles hugged the curb in front.
Country music drifted through the open door.
I
need a drink, thought Miranda. She resolutely suppressed any
other thoughts as she entered the joint.
Inside,
it was surprisingly spacious, with a bare, scarred floor and a
ceiling crisscrossed by pipes and ductwork. A bar hugged the right
wall. Wooden tables and chairs were scattered around the rest of the
periphery. It smelled of stale beer and cigarettes.
The
middle of the room was dominated by a pool table, a well of
brightness in the otherwise dim interior. Two men, apparently the
only customers, were engaged in a game. They did not look up when she
entered.
She
settled herself on a bar stool and ordered a beer. They did not sell
wine. The bartender was a slender, nerdy young man who seemed out of
place in these rough surroundings. He put the amber bottle in front
of her, and then retreated to the opposite end of the bar. From
there, he cast furtive glances at her while he polished the glasses.
Miranda
turned her attention to the two pool players. Their looks were much
more in keeping with the environment. Both wore tight jeans and
T-shirts that had seen better days. Both had lurid tattoos on their
biceps. One of them was small, lithe and wiry, with a drooping
moustache and a red bandanna on his head. The other was a huge,
bear-like man. He had a luxurious mop of ragged, greasy-looking black
curls. A livid scar ran down one of his cheeks, giving him a
disquietingly crooked smile that was almost a grimace. As if
responding to her attention, he looked up from the game and directed
one of those smiles at her. His teeth were sparkling white.
Miranda
felt strange, hot and cold simultaneously. She felt her nipples
tightening, pushing out the fabric of her top. Moisture gushed into
her panties. Normally she would find these men frightening, or
perhaps faintly disgusting. Tonight, she saw them quite differently.
“Hey,
baby!” said the thin one. “Come on over and play a game with us.”
Without
hesitation, she picked up her beer, slipped off the stool and
strolled over to the billiard table. She was acutely aware of the way
her hips swayed, clad in tight denim. She felt her unfettered breasts
bounce with each step. I must look like a slut, she thought,
ridiculously pleased with herself.
“Hello,
guys,” she said. “How’s the night treating you?”
The
burly man winked at her. “Better all the time,” he said. “So,
you know how to play pool?”
“More
or less. You try to get the balls into the holes.” Miranda smiled
archly, and her companions snickered.
“Yeah,
right, using one of these sticks.” Gypsy-hair handed her a cue,
and pointed to the white ball on the green baize. “Go ahead, babe.
Give it a try.”
Miranda
took her time. Slowly, she rubbed the little blue nugget of chalk
over the tip of the cue, as if she were rubbing her finger over her
clit. The image had the expected results. Her sex throbbed in time
with her pulse.
She
bent over the table to take aim, her buttocks in the air. She found
it hard to concentrate on the shot. She could feel the denim riding
up over her thighs. Her bikini panties were probably visible. Did her
companions catch a whiff of her musk as she leaned forward? She could
swear she could smell herself.
A
lock of her long hair fell across her shoulder, interfering with her
aim. Before she could react, Bandanna lifted it with one finger and
flipped it back. He smoothed her rippling mane down her back, then
brazenly fondled her butt. She looked him in the eye and smiled. “No
fair. You’re messing up my concentration.”
Bandanna
grinned. “Sorry, baby. Go ahead, shoot.”
She
made one last calculation, and sent the cue ball precisely in the
desired direction. The six ball caromed off the far rim and headed
straight into the closest pocket. The seven ball rolled directly into
the corner pouch, just as she had intended.
Her
audience applauded. “That was some shot! You’re really good.”
Their lascivious stares seemed tempered by genuine admiration.
Miranda
looked from one to the other. The heat between her legs was
unbearable. She hiked herself up so that she was sitting on the
billiard table, and spread her thighs wide. “Boys, you have no idea
how good I am.”
The
two bikers looked at each other in disbelief, then back at her.
Impatient, Miranda pulled her skirt to her waist, lifted herself off
the table, and pulled off her underwear. Playfully, she threw the
wisp of silk at Gypsy-hair. “What are you waiting for?” she said.
“I haven’t got all night, you know.”
Bandanna
had his fly open first. His cock was slender and smooth, rising up
from a nest of reddish frizz. Miranda took hold of it and began to
pump, feeling the already swollen tissue grow even harder.
The
bigger man was not far behind. He grabbed her other hand and wrapped
it around the erection now jutting from his jeans. His cock was like
the rest of him, huge. Miranda could not encircle it with her
fingers. He was uncircumcised. His foreskin slid back and forth over
taut, veined flesh.
Miranda
worked them simultaneously, revelling in their grunts and moans.
Meanwhile, her juices ran out of her, staining the felt under her
bare behind. She caught a glimpse of the young man hovering behind
the bar, his eyes wide, transfixed by the scene. She smiled to
herself and stroked the two cocks more vigorously. “Enough!”
groaned Bandanna. “I’ve got to fuck you, baby.”
“I
thought you’d never ask,” said Miranda. “Come on!” She lay
back on the table, her legs spread wide. The moustached biker climbed
on top of her and positioned his cock at the entrance to her cleft.
With a grunt and a jerk of his hips, he was inside her. She was so
wet by now, there would have been no resistance even to a cock as
large as Gypsy’s.
***
So
what do you think? Is this too much, too fast, too over-the-top? (It
gets worse – or maybe better!)
Or
have I made a believer out of you?
