When I first considered this topic, my reaction was that I didn’t particularly care for reading or writing about fairy tales. Life, both inside and outside the physical, emotional and historic world has plenty to offer. But going back through my stuff, I realized that I do have a few stories, which if not based on known fairy tales or folk stories, did encompass fantasy.
(See: “My Date With a Fifty-foot Woman” in ERWA’s current Gallery:
In fact, truth be told, I’d bet that most of the erotic stories we read (or write) are fabricated out of something less than whole cloth.
Sure, some of us may live, or have lived elements of ‘the lifestyle’, but I’d bet most haven’t had enough sexually transgressive experiences to count on both hands. And this from a guy who came up in hippie times, behaving as a hippie. Fornicating as much as possible with as many partners as possible. Living in communal situations offered voyeuristic opportunities, but not as many as one would think. I do know a couple who indulge in mild bdsm, and everybody gives or gets an occasional slap on the ass while making love. I could go on and on on kink, but the point is that I don’t really draw much story line from actual personal experience. I have to make it up. I have to imagine then fabricate the erotic, shuffling disparate elements around a core, creating a fairy tale of sorts.
Archetypal plot lines: overthrowing an oppressor; good conquering evil (or not), the ugly guy wins the maid. The maid in captivity. The prince (stud?) frees the virgin with a “kiss”. Not too difficult to imagine the next steps.
So, maybe the bs above will give rise to some discussion. In the meantime, (hopefully) for your enjoyment, I’ll just offer a little twist on an old standard:
Would Merriam ever get out of the woods? Hours scrambling over rugged boulders and broken branches had her tired and bleeding. Appeared a green glade, a stone bridge over a rippling stream. A path.
On the bridge stood the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. Tall, dressed in green tights and frilly white shirt, he appeared as a pirate’s cabin boy. Dropping to one knee, he extended his hand to hers.
He kissed her tenderly, his long tongue slipping between her fingers. His other hand lifted her skirt. The maid exuded a heat he could sense over his cooler demeanor. Ensuing caresses slipped between her legs.
Merriam joined him on the grass, a time spent near-swoon.
She returned to consciousness, orgasming around what she thought was the boy’s organ, but no one was there. To Merriam’s horror, something was inside her, kicking. One last climactic contraction yielded a large frog from her snatch. “GLOORP,” it belched.
The path led to a paved road. Merriam saw the car in the distance. As it approached, she began waving her arms, jumping, screaming—trying to flag them down.
In the car, the wife said, “What was that?”
“Fucking frog in the road.”