I've recently come to realize that, in the grand scheme of the erotica genre, I don't really write dirty stories.
In terms of erotica put out by traditional publishers, I think I'm on par with the level of dirtiness and sexy filth. Anytime I pick up a Cleis anthology or other erotica book from a physical bookstore, the stories contained in the pages are more or less on par with mine.
But in the Wild West of self-published erotica? Compared to all that's out there, my stuff is pretty tame.
My stories tend to have some story set-up, the sex scene, and some story wind-down. In the case of longer pieces, sex might be a regular highlight of the book, but the story comes first. (And the sex tends to be people just having sex.)
I don't do dub-con, mpreg, aliens, shifters, various bodily functions, hypnosis, non-con, vore, tentacle, or anything else like that. I barely even do BDSM. If I were to compare my fiction to the gay porn industry, my stories are like videos from Helix Studios. They feature clean-cut and attractive men -- often twinks -- who have sex. A large chunk of self-published erotica is like the gay porn studio Treasure Island Media -- macho, hairy men who are aggressive and dominant with each other and demean one another in the act of very kinky sex.
Both have their place and both have their fans. I admit to sometimes watching and reading the more aggressive type of porn/erotica.
There were two recent events that helped make it clear to me that I write fairly vanilla erotica.
The first is a review I received. The reviewer asked for some dirty stories and I sent along something I was proud of and thought he'd like... only to receive a review that rated my stories as average, typical erotica. That review truthfully didn't hurt (I've long since learned to not let reviews affect me), but it did set my mind to questioning/wondering about my place in the erotica genre.
The second is from analyzing my sales stats. My bestselling book, by far, is Seduced By My Best Friend's Dad (which I co-wrote with Sandra Claire). It was my standard erotica formula -- sort of like a Helix Studios video turned into written format -- except I had the "father-like figure" as the romantic partner. Sandra and I had decided to venture slightly into taboo, but still stay clear of it. (I like to refer to this story as pseudo-pseudo-incest -- it's not biological incest and it's not step-incest. There's actually no legal or biological connection, but the twink has always looked up to his best friend's dad as a father figure.)
I highly suspect that it's the "search engine optimized" title that's leading to high sales -- and thankfully the reviews have been overwhelmingly positive, so I've fulfilled the promise in the title.
These two instances helped clarify for me that I do not, in fact, write dirty stories in the eyes of those who read them regularly. I do, though, write dirty stories in the eyes of those who do not regularly read the genre. Perhaps it's because those who don't read the genre don't realize how kinky it can get, or perhaps they just haven't gotten bored with general erotica yet (which, I think, is why the super kinky stuff does well -- readers get their fill of the more vanilla erotica and then go in search of dirtier stuff).
The flash fiction I wrote here four weeks ago is honestly the dirtiest thing I've written as Cameron D James. I know my colleague, Master Dominic, makes a killing on sales of very dirty stories, despite only having a handful of titles and with none of them on Amazon.
However, I have always said and believed that one shouldn't write to market, just to chase the dollar. A writer should write the story they want to tell and then worry about market placement later. For that reason alone, I plan to keep writing fairly-vanilla and fairly-clean erotica. I admire those who can write the type of story that readers crave (but that readers often refuse to admit they desire it so much). Those writers are keeping readers satisfied and are also filling a niche that needs to be filled... just as I do with my Helix Studios style erotica.
Cameron D. James is a writer of gay erotica and M/M erotic romance; his latest release is The President And The Rentboy. He is publisher at and co-founder of Deep Desires Press. With his erotica writers' group, he is a member of the Indie Erotica Collective. He lives in Canada, is always crushing on Starbucks baristas, and has two rescue cats. To learn more about Cameron, visit http://www.camerondjames.com.
Showing posts with label dirty stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dirty stories. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 23, 2017
Sunday, January 3, 2010
A Thing of Beauty
By Lisabet Sarai
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
-- John Keats, Endymion
“Slide your hand across my stomach, baby!”
“Oh, fondle my breasts!”
“I'm hot all over when you touch me...”
The taunts pursued me down the halls of junior high school. There were quieter, more insidious whispers, too, suggestions that I join some boy or another in the back parking lot or under the bleachers. I tried to ignore my tormenters, but for weeks I suffered from a permanent blush. I was paying a heavy price for hormones and imagination.
It all began in study hall, when Bobby intercepted the letter I passed to my friend Nona. It was a draft of an epistle I planned to send to my “pen pal” Glen. I'd never met Glen. He was an older guy Nona knew from her summers at “the lake”, where she had carnal adventures that she hinted about but never really explained. She hooked me up with Glen long distance (this was long before email, of course) and somehow, with his encouragement, we started writing steamy fantasy letters back and forth.
How did I get into this? Honestly, I don't remember. I'm astonished now that I could have been so easily manipulated. But then there were all those hormones...and I wanted Nona to think that I was hip, sexually speaking. Writing to Glen, receiving his notes back, sharing them with Nona, it was all incredibly exciting. It was fun. At least it was until Bobby snatched the folded paper I held out under the desk for my friend to grab.
I realize now that Bobby was probably trying to get my attention, that he probably “liked” me. At the age of thirteen, I was shy, nerdy and really quite clueless about the opposite sex or sex in general, although I thought about boys all the time. Bobby was louder and a lot more confident than I, a smart kid but also a joker. He and I had something of an adversarial relationship in our classes, competing for grades, but I doubt that he really wanted to hurt me with his prank.
It did hurt, though. Overnight I went from being the school egghead to a girl with a “bad reputation”. It didn't matter when I protested that the letter was all imagination. Nobody wanted to believe me.
Normally I'm not the vengeful sort. Nevertheless, I was determined to pay Bobby back for the misery he had inflicted. For days I pondered an appropriate revenge. I wanted to embarrass him, show him that I was smarter than he was, and make him sorry for what he had done.
Finally I hit on what seemed like the ideal strategy. I enlisted the help of my friend Nick. He was one of the only guys who didn't tease me about my dirty little scenarios.
In those days, both boys and girls had to wear uniforms for gym class. Each of us had a locker in the changing rooms where we kept our things. Nick agreed to spy on Bobby to find out the combination for my tormentor's padlock.
Once Nick had obtained this information, I purchased a bottle of cheap perfume at the local Woolworth's. I inscribed the above lines from Keats on classy linen stationery using my most elegant calligraphy and signed the note. On gym day, just before that class, Nick sneaked into the locker room and dumped the whole bottle of scent onto Bobby's gym uniform. He left my message behind so that Bobby would understand who was responsible.
Alas, I didn't get to see the immediate consequences of my stratagem but Nick told me that Bobby's face turned bright red when he opened his locker. The gym teacher forced him to wear his reeking gym clothes for the entire period, much to the amusement of the other guys. A day or two later, Bobby actually came up and apologized for spreading the contents of my letter around. We became friends, though he still enjoyed teasing me. Meanwhile, Nick and I remained close, though our relationship was always platonic. I understand now what a risk he took for me.
I hadn't thought about this experience in a long time, but it popped into my head when I was thinking about this week's post. I had intended to write something quite different, but looking back on this episode from my teenage years I realized that it said a lot about me:
I wonder whether Bobby, Nick and Nona recall these events. At the time, the experience was intense and somewhat painful. Now, burnished by memory, I find that it's a thing of beauty.
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
-- John Keats, Endymion
“Slide your hand across my stomach, baby!”
“Oh, fondle my breasts!”
“I'm hot all over when you touch me...”
The taunts pursued me down the halls of junior high school. There were quieter, more insidious whispers, too, suggestions that I join some boy or another in the back parking lot or under the bleachers. I tried to ignore my tormenters, but for weeks I suffered from a permanent blush. I was paying a heavy price for hormones and imagination.
It all began in study hall, when Bobby intercepted the letter I passed to my friend Nona. It was a draft of an epistle I planned to send to my “pen pal” Glen. I'd never met Glen. He was an older guy Nona knew from her summers at “the lake”, where she had carnal adventures that she hinted about but never really explained. She hooked me up with Glen long distance (this was long before email, of course) and somehow, with his encouragement, we started writing steamy fantasy letters back and forth.
How did I get into this? Honestly, I don't remember. I'm astonished now that I could have been so easily manipulated. But then there were all those hormones...and I wanted Nona to think that I was hip, sexually speaking. Writing to Glen, receiving his notes back, sharing them with Nona, it was all incredibly exciting. It was fun. At least it was until Bobby snatched the folded paper I held out under the desk for my friend to grab.
I realize now that Bobby was probably trying to get my attention, that he probably “liked” me. At the age of thirteen, I was shy, nerdy and really quite clueless about the opposite sex or sex in general, although I thought about boys all the time. Bobby was louder and a lot more confident than I, a smart kid but also a joker. He and I had something of an adversarial relationship in our classes, competing for grades, but I doubt that he really wanted to hurt me with his prank.
It did hurt, though. Overnight I went from being the school egghead to a girl with a “bad reputation”. It didn't matter when I protested that the letter was all imagination. Nobody wanted to believe me.
Normally I'm not the vengeful sort. Nevertheless, I was determined to pay Bobby back for the misery he had inflicted. For days I pondered an appropriate revenge. I wanted to embarrass him, show him that I was smarter than he was, and make him sorry for what he had done.
Finally I hit on what seemed like the ideal strategy. I enlisted the help of my friend Nick. He was one of the only guys who didn't tease me about my dirty little scenarios.
In those days, both boys and girls had to wear uniforms for gym class. Each of us had a locker in the changing rooms where we kept our things. Nick agreed to spy on Bobby to find out the combination for my tormentor's padlock.
Once Nick had obtained this information, I purchased a bottle of cheap perfume at the local Woolworth's. I inscribed the above lines from Keats on classy linen stationery using my most elegant calligraphy and signed the note. On gym day, just before that class, Nick sneaked into the locker room and dumped the whole bottle of scent onto Bobby's gym uniform. He left my message behind so that Bobby would understand who was responsible.
Alas, I didn't get to see the immediate consequences of my stratagem but Nick told me that Bobby's face turned bright red when he opened his locker. The gym teacher forced him to wear his reeking gym clothes for the entire period, much to the amusement of the other guys. A day or two later, Bobby actually came up and apologized for spreading the contents of my letter around. We became friends, though he still enjoyed teasing me. Meanwhile, Nick and I remained close, though our relationship was always platonic. I understand now what a risk he took for me.
I hadn't thought about this experience in a long time, but it popped into my head when I was thinking about this week's post. I had intended to write something quite different, but looking back on this episode from my teenage years I realized that it said a lot about me:
- I've always had a dirty mind. I've been writing sexy stories almost forever—-certainly before I had any sexual experience. And you know, it's still exciting.
- I've always used words to get my way.
- Even when I was shy and insecure, I never allowed myself to be a victim.
- Having a bad reputation, ultimately, might not be so bad after all.
I wonder whether Bobby, Nick and Nona recall these events. At the time, the experience was intense and somewhat painful. Now, burnished by memory, I find that it's a thing of beauty.
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