Wednesday, April 07, 2010

I just finished writing a short story that can best be termed "erotic fiction". No, I'm not going to publish it here, but I thought I would talk about the experience of writing the story in this blog, just because it was so damn weird.

This was my first foray into the fetid realm of erotica. It resulted from a conversation I had with a dear friend. Once again, I heard myself say, "Hey, I can do that." Good lord, when will I learn to keep my mouth shut? Well, we all know the answer to that one, don't we? But what I learned in the process of putting up, as opposed to shutting up, was interesting.

First, erotic fiction is a dramatically different genre than what I now call "placid fiction" (or occasionally, "flaccid fiction"). I've written short stories of various types before, so I thought "No problemo, Hulles!" That lasted about until I set fingers to keyboard to start my brand new porn story.

Hmmm. What the hell makes a good erotic story? Sex, obviously, but how much? Realistic? Believable? Improbable? Fantastic? How much non-sex goes into the story? How long do you spend describing the _____ [insert any of about 38 dirty words here]? I found myself perplexed by these questions and many others like them, until I did what I always seem to end up doing: just saying "fuck it" and writing the damn story.

One thing I had not realized prior to this experience is that, when you write erotic fiction, you have to live it in your mind so you can tell the story. "Well, of course!" you say, "that's how you write anything!" And I answer, "Yeah, easy for you to say, I'm single, I'm a guy and I haven't gotten laid yet this year." [Stifles a small sob and daubs at his eyes with a clean pair of underwear.]

In other words, to write this story I had to live through an evening of extremely intense sex with a stunningly beautiful woman over and over and over again, at least in my imagination. It damn near killed me. My cat Mimi wouldn't come near me the whole time, she just paced nervously in the living room as I sat at the computer in my office typing. Whenever I would finally end for the night and call for her to come to bed, she would dive into the coat closet like a prairie dog on meth and not come out until morning. And it's probably just as well, to tell you the truth. It saved a lot of strain on our relationship.

There was certainly no paucity of strain on my body, however. I'm not sure how it is with you, but when I imagine having steamy sex with someone at the requisite level of detail -- sights, sounds, smells, tastes, and let's not forget touch -- my body starts to go on autopilot. It begins to morph into some sort of single-minded monster that...you can imagine. But on the occasion of writing this story, when the metamorphosis was complete my body stopped, looked around, and said to itself, "What the... There's nobody here! OMG, my chauffeur is insane! I'll just teach him a lesson and make all of his body parts intensely miserable for the next several hours."

And yes, unlike me, my body does say "OMG!" That's why I write and he just shows up and stands around looking uncomfortable most of the time.

I swear, I don't know how people who write erotica for a living are able to do it. All I can imagine is that they must have about 20 lovers at any given time, all of whom show up for work every morning with rumpled hair looking extremely relaxed and blissfully stupid.

Me, I'm going back to drinking skim milk, doing the New York Times crossword puzzle every day and cancelling every one of my 283 personal ads. I can't take the abuse.

Although come to think of it, there is one scene that I still haven't gotten exactly right. It needs some additional research, so if you're a frighteningly hot woman with a taste for the bizarre and enjoy guacamole, send me an email. Previous trapeze experience a plus. YOU TOO can show up for work in the morning looking relaxed and blissfully stupid. And as an added bonus, you will gain the personal satisfaction of having supported the arts to the best of your agility, stamina and strength. Please consult your physician prior to your arrival. I know I'm calling mine.

Ah, the suffering I am willing to endure for my craft. I better get at least a Pulitzer out of this.

- Hulles

5 comments:

Hulles said...

On a side note, this story is what prompted the following tweet from my youngest daughter: @hulles just asked if he should send me his erotic story. "That's creepy," I replied, "but send it anyway. We don't have to talk about it."

ChickLitLover said...

Hulles, stumbled upon your blog purely by chance...Coincidence? I think not! I have spent many Sunday afternoons and more often than not, weekday evenings attempting to finish my first 'full length South African chick-lit' not quite erotica I know, but it's a start. Unlike your start, mine was a long time coming (excuse the pun). I love sex, reading and ranting and raving to any and everyone who'll listen. A couple of nights ago I took a great leap of...I'm not sure what to call it (I'd be loathed to use faith and chick-lit in the same sentence...still holding on to my religion...)and started my Chick-Lit blog. I know this might be a little strange, but won't you please take a squizz and let me know what you think?

xoxo
Ms C. LitLover

ChickLitLover said...

PS: It's very pink...and girly...and all those things you thought you'd left behind when your daughter finally left home:)

xoxo

C.LitLover

Hulles said...

Hi, Chick Lit Lover! Thanks for you comments! My first reaction is, I had to chuckle (and so did my daughter) about the pink and girly stuff being left behind when she left the house. She's a little more... edgy than that! If you only knew. But it was funny, and we laughed. I see her often, and love her tremendously, just FYI. Anyway, I went to your site and will return with comments when I have more time. Thanks for popping into my life like the first dandelion of spring. I'll definitely be getting back to you. XOXOXO. Mag jy val, waar jy wil, if I got that right. Cheers, if I didn't.

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