Writing erotica is like having sex

At first, you just want to do it. It’s just a string of awkward moves with one goal in mind.

It doesn’t feel natural. His elbow hits your nose. Your left tit momentarily blinds him in the eye. You don’t know why you thought it was a good idea — or why anyone would.

Then, oh then, magically it begins to feel oh so good. You loosen up and enjoy the ride. Oh, yes. Oh, yes, you scream. There it is. That’s the spot. Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop. More. More. More…

And you don’t stop. It’s all you can think about. It’s all you want to do. It feels so right, so beautiful, so holy.

What would happen if I did this? Would he do that? How would this feel? Would this please him? Would it please me? You begin to experiment. You find more and more avenues to explore, to enjoy.

It becomes a part of you. You claim it — you claim each other.

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