By Morticia Knight
As
several of my fellow authors noted regarding this month’s topic, writing
erotica and erotic romance can leave you as an author feeling vulnerable. How
much is real? How much is an extremely vivid imagination? In my case, the clear
answer is both. Perhaps I declare that with more emphasis than others because
as a bisexual woman writing M/M romance, there’s no choice but to use a lot of
imagination!
But
what about other, non-sexual scenarios and circumstances? You know what they
say, don’t piss off an author or they’ll kill you off in one of their books—and
usually only after they’ve thoroughly vilified you. I’ve done very little of that
(notice I didn’t say I’ve never done it!). Most of my truths mixed in with the
fiction have been more in the way of vignettes from my personal life. Some have
a lot of emotion behind them and are even very revealing of the inner, private
me.
When I
wrote the angsty and very sexual, Rocked
Hard, about an aging gay rock star making a comeback and the questioning,
young music journalist who has always idolized him—I took pieces from my own
life as a musician. I even included some of my own lyrics for Aubrey’s songs. Since
I’ve also written bios, articles and press releases for rock musicians, there
were some aspects of me in Bryan as well. This story ended up being much more charged
for me emotionally than many of my other stories. Here’s a short passage from Rocked Hard:
Aubrey picked up the
progression of Bryan’s song, the one he’d originally written when he’d first
fallen in love. He’d be starting the amended tour in less than a month, and he
wanted Bryan to hear it before then, wanted him to hear it when they were
alone.
“This is for you, Bry. I
began it after our first night together and I finished it over the first few
weeks of falling in love with you.” He glanced over at Bryan, catching his eye.
“After you left, I never thought I’d sing it again. This’ll be my first time
since you’ve come back.”
Bryan straightened, an
anxious expression crossing his features that Aubrey couldn’t quite interpret.
“It’s called Carry.”
Aubrey fell into the
intro, leading him into the strains of the first verse.
“I
didn’t know, couldn’t plan. Still don’t know, what will be.
Just
to see your face, to know the answers, hear them from your lips.
Are
you believing, the way, I’m believing?”
Not ready to see Bryan’s
reaction yet, he continued into the second verse.
“I
didn’t know that I am, made for you and not for solitude.
I
hear a song, repeat a phrase and it’s so damn clear, why I’m here.
Are
you believing, the way, I’m believing?”
The song flowed, Aubrey
more sure of himself, pouring his soul into the music as he ramped up to the
chorus.
“And
I join with you. You carry me, I carry you too.
And
I love with you. You carry me, I carry you too.”
He brought it down for the
final verse.
“I
didn’t know, that’s all fine. ’Cause now I know, what is mine.
Anointed
in your arms, I know no harm. You surround me, I’ll never be alone.
Are
you believing, the way, I’m believing?”
He continued through
another chorus then trailed the melody off until he let his hands rest on the
keys. Aubrey hazarded a peek.
“Oh shit, Bry. What is
it?”
Aubrey shot from the bench
then dropped to his knees at Bryan’s feet. He’d never seen him cry before and
it ripped him up. He laid a palm on his thigh and Bryan clutched his fingers in
a way that broke his heart. Bryan’s eyes had scrunched closed, and he used his
other hand to rub his forehead. Aubrey didn’t know what to do with a man who’d
never shed tears in his presence, who was always the island of calm in the
room.
“Jesus, Aubrey.” Bryan
sniffed, rubbing the back of one hand under his nose, his eyes red and watery,
the top lashes still sticking to the bottom ones as he blinked away more tears.
“We almost lost that.”
~ ~ ~
Gut
punch to the feels, right? Then, on the other end of the spectrum, I’ve used
moments from my life that were pure ridiculousness, too crazy to be true. In my
much younger years, I worked as a cocktail waitress at a strip club in the
infamous Valley of Los Angeles—porn capital of the world. I had a good friend who
was one of the dancers, but she could be…volatile. This following snippet from Strip Search (Sin City Uniforms 7),
recreates a scene I witnessed between her and another dancer—only I set it in a
gay strip club in Vegas:
After
leaving the dressing room with promises between him and Sean to get a drink
some time, Dakota ambled to the bar. Appreciative glances landed on him, but as
he’d learned to do, he didn’t make eye contact. He always fixed his gaze on a
spot slightly behind or to the side of whoever stared. It occurred to him that
he didn’t really want to relax with his drink and trail mix in the changing
area anymore—at least not while it was still occupied with a hostile stripper.
A loud
commotion broke out near said changing area. Dakota’s eyes widened at the sight
of Jon running through the middle of the club, his hand held high over his
head, strips of glittery cloth clutched between his fingers.
“That
bitch stole my underwear!”
The
display was all the more highlighted by the fact that the club was between sets
and that Jon’s package jiggled and joggled inside the one G-string not
imprisoned by his fist. All heads turned to watch Jon’s unintentionally
riveting performance. Charlie, the club owner, hurriedly lifted the hinged
counter at the end of the bar then rushed toward him. It was clear the moment
Jon spotted the owner because he launched into a screechy tirade.
“Do you
see these?” Jon shoved the bunched-up G-strings in Charlie’s face so hard they
practically went up his nose. “These are mine, you know they are!” Jon yanked out a red, rhinestone-studded thong,
shaking it at Charlie. “You gave me this one after I let you fuck me the first
time, remember? Remember?”
Oh dear.
Sean
bolted toward the commotion, his anger clear in the way he charged at Jon. He
grabbed Jon’s shoulder, but Jon jerked it away.
“Don’t
touch me, you thieving whore!”
“Boys,
boys, please!” The short, round Charlie held up his hands in a placating
gesture. “Let’s take this to the office. I’m sure we can straighten everything
out there.”
Sean
held up a crumpled receipt. “I fucking bought those last week at Dark Fantasy’s
lingerie store and here’s the proof.” Sean glared at Jon. “This little bastard
dumped all my clothes out on the floor then grabbed my best pieces before he
ran out.”
“My best pieces, those are my best pieces.” Jon narrowed his eyes
at Sean. “Bitch.”
“In my
office boys, now. Unless you both
want to pack up whoever’s underwear this is then get the hell out of my club
for good!”
~ ~ ~
I
waited for literal decades to have the opportunity to use the line “that bitch
stole my underwear” in something I wrote!
These
examples are completely different in tone and content, but no less real. Yet, I
sometimes find readers insisting a scenario in one of my stories is
implausible, completely outlandish. What’s that other thing they say? Ah, yes. Sometimes
truth is stranger than fiction. 😉
