Fulfilling Promises: Making the Reader Happy

Someone once sent me a dirty story.

This is years ago, before I had a publishing company. My guess is that it was a fan of my stories who wanted to write his/her own story to try and impress me.

It was just some random email I received and there was no subject line and the only content to the message was this story that this person had written. The story was maybe a thousand words long, two thousand at the most.

The set-up was intriguing enough. It was a gay BDSM erotica story told from the POV of the submissive. The dom pulled him into the bedroom and told the sub that he must be sure to comply with any and all sexual demands, lest he get spanked with the paddle sitting on the chair in the corner of the room. The sub was eager to obey and determined to please, but he eyed up the paddle every few paragraphs. He kept fearing that he’d do something to deserve a bruised ass.

The sex was brief and reasonably well told. But by the end of the story, the paddle had not been used.

That paddle might’ve been a motivator to submit to his dom and do his best to please, but for me as the reader, with all that build-up of how intimidating the paddle was… I wanted to see it in action.

While the author may have told the story they wanted to tell, the focus on the paddle created a promise to the reader — a promise that the author failed to follow through on.

If you mention something like that in such a context, readers expect to see it in action at some point. It’s like that old piece of writing advice — Chekov’s gun — if a rifle is hanging on the mantle in chapter one, it must be fired by chapter three. And if it doesn’t get used, it shouldn’t be there in the first place.

I never did reply to that anonymous emailed story. I didn’t really know why this person was sending it to me, nor did I know what they had hoped to get out of it. And I was still a rather newbie author at the time that I didn’t really understand the type of attention erotica authors can get online. (Now, though, I’ve seen so many unsolicited dick pics, I’ve had so many people hit on a female pen name I sometimes use, and I have so many submissives eager to enter into a dom/sub relationship via Twitter with one of my more masculine pen names. I guess you could say I’m a little older and a little wiser now and understand it better.)

I try to always fulfill the promises I make to my readers — even if they’re promises I don’t intentionally make and I’m not aware of. When I revise my work, I try to figure out what I’ve unintentionally set up and then I try to follow through on that promise — or excise that promise so I don’t have to follow through on it. I once had one character bite the nipples of the other in a way that implied the sex was going to be rough, which was not the case, so I revised it to a lick of the nipples.

That promise is part of all stages of writing and publishing a book. Your cover design, blurb, and how you market it are all part of the promise. Each of these things elicits a response from a reader and creates expectations of what they think they’ll find in the pages of your book.

Over-promising isn’t the only problem. Under-promising is just as bad.

With over-promising, you create expectations that are too high, which can lead to disappointed readers and bad reviews. But with under-promising, you might not be doing enough to even attract readers. (I talked a little bit about this last year; I found an “erotica” ebook whose cover was a poorly formatted shack in the woods. That’s it. It creates zero erotic promise for me so if I wasn’t specifically looking for bad examples, I wouldn’t have even given it half a second of consideration.)

Promises to the reader are something I continue to struggle with. In particular, the promise created by previous experience. Every book I’ve written has been loaded with sex and as I’ve gotten better at writing, the quality of the sex scenes have gotten better too. I’ve spoken frequently of a book I’m working on, New York Heat, which will be epically long and loaded with smut. Not only does it have to meet the promises internal to the book, but it has to meet the external promises -- the ones held by readers who are expecting each book to be better than the last.

In the past week I’ve taken a break from New York Heat to work on a YA gay romance novel — which, because it’s YA, has zero sex. I really struggled with it for a while. I’m so used to the promise being sex. Here, the promise is a kiss. How can I create an engaging and captivating story if there’s no fucking? I have the tone and style and plot down now, but there was a lot of self-doubt along the way.

I had to remember that I wasn’t promising the same thing. It was a completely different promise than I normally make to the reader — and as long as I fulfil the promise I make, then everything will be fine.

If not, maybe I’ll get my ass paddled.

;)




Cameron D. James is a writer of gay erotica and M/M erotic romance; his latest release is Autumn Fire. He is publisher at and co-founder of Deep Desires Press, member of the Indie Erotica Collective, and hosts two podcasts, Deep Desires Podcast and Sex For Money. 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.

Bury My Heart at Broken Promise

by Jean Roberta

I sometimes think the title of this post would be a good title for my life-story, or at least for a history of my relationships, previous to the current one. When I was a child, my parents made some unrealistic promises to me on behalf of the world in general, but I don’t blame them. I suspect that most loving parents promise the same things.

If you want people to like you, treat them with respect and consideration. If you want to be trusted, you have to trust. If you do your best in school, and then at work, you’ll succeed. You might even get special rewards, such as scholarships, bonuses, and promotions. If you always tell the truth, other people will respect you for it.

As I grew older, I learned that the only promises guaranteed to work are negative:

If you DON’T treat other people well, brace yourself for their reactions. If you DON’T make enough of an effort in school, you are guaranteed to fail, and then you won’t have access to a job that pays a decent wage and that offers any security. If you DON’T take your job seriously, you won’t get to keep it. Telling the truth will sometimes drive other people away, but in the long run, it’s always better than lying. Lies aren’t usually sustainable, and some can get you arrested. If you aren’t trustworthy yourself, you won’t have trustworthy people around you.

In many cases, doing things for others, doing your best, and being honest have to be their own rewards because no one else will notice or care.

The burst of responses to the "Me Too" revelations in social media remind me, once again, that men and women generally live in different cultures.

Even though LGBTQ and polyamorous communities are more visible than ever before, one-to-one heterosexual Romance still has a gravitational pull on all sexual relationships. And it still requires promises: promise me you won’t date anyone else while you’re dating me. Promise me you’ll let me know whenever you’ll be more than two hours late. In traditional Christian marriages, the man promises to love, honour, and protect “his” woman. The woman promises to love, honour, and obey her man, who is her “head” and ruler as Christ is head of the Church. O Promise Me.

While I was still a teenager, I learned about dangerous rapids in the river-journeys of some relationships. I began to ask for a promise of safety from the boys I dated: please don’t ever hit me, or force me to do anything against my will. Please don’t lie to me. Please treat me like an equal.

Most of them were shocked that I could even suggest they could be less than gentlemen. Of course they wouldn’t hit me! What did I think they were, Neanderthals? Of course they thought of me as their equal. Of course they would never lie. All that was simply common courtesy, and common sense.

Then they would casually grope me, even in public, after I had awkwardly pushed them away and asked them to stop. They would grab me in bear-hugs and kiss me in front of witnesses, laughing as though we were both playing a fun game. Whatever I did after that, my image as a “nice girl” was tarnished. In private, they would explain to me that most girls who “think” they’ve been raped have really been asking for it, so they have no right to complain. Or the “rape” was really consensual, even though the girl wouldn’t admit it, because girls are dishonest by nature.

Boys warned me not to become a “bad girl.”

On the subject of “domestic violence” (can it be domesticated?), most guys I’ve known have told me they are absolutely opposed to “real abuse.” Then they’ve told me that some women are really annoying, and that I have to understand that. A man can only take so much before he lashes out. Reckless women should stop poking the bear if they don’t want to get mauled.

While Mirtha and I were in London for four days for Eroticon, I had the strange feeling of being transported back in time. I lived in London for about nine months in 1974 with Pepple Ikiriko, the Nigerian student I met via a computer-dating site, and whom I later sponsored into Canada and married in 1975.

Pepple passed away from a heart attack on December 30, 2006, in Saskatoon (the other big town in Saskatchewan), and I only learned of this because the hospital didn’t know what to do with the body. He hadn’t named a next-of-kin, and apparently the only friend he had left at the end was Tony, a very decent Nigerian whom we had found through the local telephone directory in 1975. Luckily, Pepple hadn’t been able to drive Tony away, although he tried. It was Tony who contacted me by phone to say that funeral arrangements needed to be made.

Seeing the streets of London again gave me a strange feeling that I could see Pepple at any time, walking jauntily around a corner, looking the way he did when I first met him.

I was reminded of being young and full of hope. The first time Pepple and I had sex, I told him I was not a virgin, and he seemed amused that I felt the need to give him a warning. He wasn’t a virgin either! And besides, why would it matter? I was so glad he didn’t believe in a double standard.

We had the occasional argument over housework. He was a student who spent less time at school than I did at work, so I didn’t see why I should do most of the cooking and cleaning in our tiny sub-let apartment. He usually tried to resolve our “quarrels” (his word) by giving me extra compliments and affection, and by taking me out to visit his friends. Besides, as he pointed out, he sometimes “helped” me with the housework, and what more could I expect?

His self-pity kicked in almost as soon as he arrived in Canada. He expected a lavish wedding, to be paid for by my parents, and that didn’t happen. He was alarmed to find that I was already taking the birth-control pill because I didn’t think we could afford to start a baby right away. I had told him this in a letter, to which he hadn’t responded.

Since then, I’ve wondered whether any men who aren’t medical doctors understand how the pill works, even after many explanations, and/or having a printed explanation (with diagrams) waved in their faces. At the time, I explained over and over again to Pepple that I had to start taking the pill two weeks (or half a menstrual cycle) before he arrived in order to make sure I was protected from an unplanned pregnancy. He claimed to understand the science behind the pill, then told me I had no good reason to start taking it before he was with me. Whom else was I fooling around with?

After that, he saw a string of clues that I was a nympho slut from hell who was entertaining hordes of men whenever he wasn’t in the same room with me. We had both promised to be faithful to each other, so he felt completely betrayed.

Soon after our wedding, I made a schedule of all the domestic chores, dividing them equally between us. I asked if my schedule looked fair to him. He said it did, and he seemed amused.

I started expecting him to cook supper on his appointed day, and he complied a few times. At other times, he absolutely refused on grounds that he wasn’t prepared, and he didn’t see why I couldn’t just do it myself. I got the impression that he was waiting for me to “settle down” and accept my responsibilities as a wife.

I reminded him that he had promised to treat me like an equal. He always responded that he was actually the doormat in the marriage.

If Pepple could materialize out of thin air in London, would I want to speak to him again? Sure. I would probably introduce him to my current spouse and invite him somewhere for tea. What would we discuss? OMG.

I can easily imagine a barrage of complaints. He would remind me that in my twenties, I was a hysterical girl because I had been brainwashed by “women’s lib.” He had been my victim. He had trusted me! But I broke all my promises! After all these years, he would tell me, he just wanted some acknowledgment, and an apology from me for breaking his heart and then running off with our baby daughter. He would warn me that my current marriage is a huge mistake because Mirtha is not a man and therefore not a suitable husband.

I can still hear him in my head, and I know that nothing would be resolved if we were to meet again. All I can do is to remind myself that the past is past. No relationship is permanent because they all end one way or another, and this means that all promises end too.
----------------------

Please Stop

by Giselle Renarde

I hope this will be my last post about my ex, but I suspect it won't be. I ended that shitshow a decade ago, but he won't let it die.

Why won't he let it die?

For those who need a recap, I met this man in high school. He was my teacher: a very depressed, very married man. I thought I could cure him with my newfound sexual prowess. Cure him of the sadness that shrouded him. Cure him of his marriage, too.

None of that happened, of course. Fucking your students doesn't cure depression.

This guy was raised in a very religious family, and that's the sort of thing you never shake. He felt super-guilty about surrendering to the temptation that was young Giselle. Now I realize he was using the guilt around having sex with me as a form of self-flagellation.  I think he got more fulfillment from the guilt than he got from the sex.

And that's saying something, because I was awesome in bed.

After a decade or two of reflection on what I once considered a relationship, my opinion on that whole situation is a lot less rosy than it once was. My opinion has changed even since I wrote Audrey and Lawrence, a short story collection based loosely on us.

He was my teacher. I was not an adult when we met.

I was looking for a father figure. I told him that in words.

My parents were divorced and my own father had fallen off the map by that point. Turns out he was incarcerated. For the "criminal harassment" of an 18-year-old girl. My sister spirit, somewhere out there. I don't know who she is, but I hope that in her lonely hours she feels my kindred heart in hers.

My ex didn't want to be a father figure to me. He told me that in words.

I don't want to make any outright accusations, but I was young. If it wasn't abuse, it bordered on abuse. That's hard for me to say, having participated in the proceedings as ravenously as I did. For many years, I felt like I caused it. I certainly asked for it. But a mature adult in a position of power knows where to draw the line, and a big part of me wishes he'd done that. It's not impossible to fend off a teenager, even a starving one.

It boils down to the fact that I was young. I need to be able to forgive myself for stuff I did when I was practically a child. Adults always called me an old soul when I as a kid, but that didn't make me old. Didn't even make me mature. I had a lot of responsibilities heaped on my head. That's different.

I was inexperienced. I thought I knew everything, but that just shows how very susceptible I was.

A couple years ago, some stuff came through my letterbox. My ex had entered my building. He'd come right up to my door to hand-deliver this weird work of "fiction" about us.

I ran it through the paper shredder.

Part of me wishes I hadn't just because I would love to be able to quote it right now. I read very little of it, but it seemed to be about how he was totally going to leave his wife for me right before I ended things, but, you know, stuff kept happening or whatever. It was never a good time.

But, like, when is the right time to leave your wife for your mistress?

Probably never, just an educated guess.

He wasn't shy about showcasing his ongoing feelings for me. Keep in mind I hadn't spoken to the man in YEARS. After I ended it, he kept sending me shit, like Christmas cards and birthday cards and emails on the anniversary of the final time we had sex (gawd, don't remind me!). It was not comfortable.

But coming into my building? No. Just no. Enough. Move on. Find another student to fuck or get some therapy or something. I don't care. Just don't involve me in your life please and thank you.

My girlfriend is good with diplomatic stuff. You can probably tell my reaction would be something along the lines of "Fuck the fuck off, you fucking fuck." But I wanted to be a grown-up after all these years, so Sweet wrote this email for me to send:

After all this time the gifts, the cards and your presence make me uncomfortable. Please stop sending things, stay away and please do not come to my building again.

His response was as follows:

It saddens me greatly to acquiesce.

He later sent this:

I know I pledged no cards, no books, no visits. Unanswered, this will also be the last e-mail.

I'm sure you'll be shocked when I tell you that was bullshit, because on my birthday this turd hit my inbox:

I know I promised no cards, but e-mails you can ignore. I truly do hope you have a very happy birthday. I have spent years regretting 2008 (and indecisions of much of 2007, 06, 05, 04...) and cannot believe I may never see you again.

Oh my fucking lord. Dude. Dude! Where do I even begin with this?

First and most obvious: you MAY never see me again? No, darling. No. You are guaranteed to never see me again. A person who respects my wishes would keep their promise to leave me the fuck alone. Let me get on with my life. You are not part of it. You never should have been, but I can't change the past. I can, however, change the future, and that means no contact with your sorry ass.

I always got off on this self-pity stuff when I was young. Probably because there was a bit of my father in it. My father was a hard-core alcoholic to his dying day, and when you're a kid you want more than anything to cure that affliction in your parent. My ex pretty much drank himself into a stupor every night too. I wasn't around to see it, so I thought it didn't affect me.

Silly silly young Giselle. The impact was great.

I really thought I could cure this man by listening to his troubles and being a saucy little minx and feeling so superior to his cold cold wife who didn't understand him. I couldn't let myself see that I was really trying to heal my father, heal my family, heal myself.

That's messed up, even for an adult to reflect upon. Way too much for my teen and young twenty-something brain.

I sound really worked up about all this, which might lead you to think it's been weighing heavily on my mind. It hasn't, to be honest. When that email came in, I showed it to my girlfriend, we discussed, and then it kind of fell out of my brain until I noticed that this week's topic involved broken promises.

He said he would stop and he didn't.

That's a broken promise you don't recover from.

Promises, Promises -- #bdsm #promises #soulmate

By Lisabet Sarai
 
I was sure he was the One. But then I’ve felt the same about so many others—my serial soul mates.

Let me back up. I’ve written many times here about my initiation into BDSM, about how profoundly it changed my view of myself and the world. I may have given you the impression that my relationship with my Master was all about sex. That’s not at all true. What made the experience so thrilling was not the physical pleasure (or the pain), but rather the sense of connection and utter trust. G taught me the exquisite joy of total surrender. He coaxed me to open myself to him, mind and body. When I did, I reaped exquisite rewards.

My love for him was profound, though at the time I believed he saw me only as his plaything. I didn’t know him nearly as well as he seemed to know me. I see now that he loved me, too, in his own way, though he never told explicitly used the words. Now I understand him much better, almost forty years after that first incandescent fuck that demonstrated his power. He’s sentimental, vulnerable, an incurable romantic, despite his sometimes rude or mocking ways. I was just blind.

So I thought it was arrogant possessiveness, not love, when he asked for my promise. He wanted me to guarantee that if I thought I’d found someone else, I’d come to see him first so he could win me back. I willingly gave my word. I didn’t want anyone else anyway. Though he and I lived four hundred miles apart, me in southern California, he in the north, we visited as often as we could. He was my Master. The relationship wasn’t easy, but I couldn’t imagine wanting to sever our ties.

Then I met M. I was susceptible, alone in the city, working at my challenging first job as a professional, trying to adjust to living in a culture radically different from my New England upbringing. M was sitting on the steps of his building a few blocks from my apartment. He gave me a crooked grin, invited me out to dinner, gave me a ride in his sports car, got me high, fucked me with a single-minded intensity in which I should have recognized echoes of my Master, but didn’t. I was dazzled, suddenly in love. M took me over, both physically and emotionally. We fit, physically, and we seemed to share a kind of telepathic communication, especially when we were in bed together.

For more than a month we spent every night and every weekend together. He told me he loved me. I was head over heels, sure he was the One, thinking (bizarre as it sounds now) about marriage.

Still, there was that promise I’d made to G. If I was about to become monogamous with M, I owed it to my Master to tell him personally. I flew up to San Francisco, as I had so many times before, though instead of the usual excitement I felt dread. What would G say? What would he do?

I imagined him grabbing me, throwing me on the bed, screwing me as hard as he could—reminding me that he owned me. Those images reawakened my excitement. He was my Master. He would reclaim me. I was his. Away from M, the influence of my new lover faded. Nervous, conflicted, I hoped that G would help me make up my mind.

Instead, he cried.

Have I told this story before? How helpless I felt in the face of his abdicating his authority over me? How silly I felt for keeping that promise? Not to mention disappointed, even betrayed? He was my Master. He was supposed to be strong.

That was one of the worst weekends in my life. G was sullen, nasty, self-pitying. I can’t remember if we had sex, but if we did, it didn’t fix things.

I returned to my new home, my job, my new lover.

Three weeks later M disappeared for the weekend. Unable to contact him, I was frantic. Remember, we’d been spending almost all our free time together. I worried that he’d been in an accident, that he was ill somewhere, even that he’d been kidnapped. I didn’t know what to do.

Monday morning I found out he’d been in Las Vegas, marrying his former girlfriend. I grieved. At the same time, I cursed myself for being such a fool.

That wasn’t the end of my relationship with my Master, of course. Even now, we still call one another “lover”. We communicate by email, talk by phone occasionally, meet every half decade or so if we can. Still, I think my reckless decision to tell him I’d found someone else damaged us in some fundamental way. Or perhaps the sight of him in tears at the thought of losing me undermined his authority as my Master.

I sometimes wonder—fantasize, actually—what would have happened if he’d been more forceful. If he’d claimed me as he’d hinted he would, when I showed up at his door. Would we still be together? Would I have been able to give him the devotion he needed, over the long term? Would we still be playing kinky games, even though we’re both senior citizens?

I’ll never know. I kept my promise. What would have happened if he’d kept his?