Gorgeous Man Ray portrait. What a woman!
Who cares? I don’t.
That said, let me run an experiment by you. It’s an experiment I’m conducting about how sexual tension relates, or doesn’t relate, to writing erotica.
Last night and this morning, my sexual energy was running high, particularly high, even for this highly sexed woman (it’s no surprise that I’m highly sexed, right?). For reasons that don’t matter, I didn’t masturbate last night. This morning, I woke up so horny that, in the immortal words of Tom Waits, the crack of dawn wasn’t safe (the analogy doesn’t directly apply, but you get the idea). But, damn it, I had to get up early for an appointment. No leisurely, early morning jill for me. Not even a quickie. (For a graphic description of my ideal masturbation session, click here.)
On top of that, a new erotica short story has taken hold over the last day or so. I’ve got two key scenes figured out, a lot of snappy dialog written in my head, and, best of all, I actually lubricated while dreaming up some of this stuff. Plus, I’ve even got a title (no point in spilling the beans yet; I need to Google it and check Amazon titles to make sure it hasn’t been used 27 times before). All very good signs that a hot short story is about to unfold, once I sit down at the computer.
Here’s the experiment: I got back from the appointment this morning around 10:30, horny as fuck and wanting to take myself (see photo above; no, it’s not me, who would be holding the fucking camera? And, finally, please, no dick pics; and no, I’m not telling you which, if any, of the nude photos on my blog are me; you know who you are). Question: Do I indulge my hornyness now? Because I have an option–the option a mature, professional writer would take: I can forgo jilling, sit down at the computer and start writing the story that wants to get out. My question: If I do that instead of masturbating, will some of that sexual energy feed into the story? Will the sacrifice of my personal satisfaction benefit my art?
I decided to go with my art. After playing with the new cat ten minutes (she’s so needy), I sat down and wrote. I got one of those scenes written. And I like it. It’s not finished (nothing’s ever finished, actually, you just give up, to quote Faulkner). Am I still horny? I had to put a towel under my ass as I wrote. After lunch, I’m going to masturbate myself into orbit.
Then, part deux of my experiment: This afternoon, I’ll write that second scene, but with my libido in check, my hornyness sated, my mind off my clit (or not as intently focused).
Will the diminution of my sexual energy affect my writing? Will it be less fun to write that scene after I’ve diddled myself and released a boatload of sexual tension? Will I find out it’s better to write erotica while I’m horny as fuck? Or that it doesn’t matter? Or, God forbid, it’s worse?
I dunno. Should find out this afternoon. I’ll keep you posted.
I wish I was a cool chick. Specifically, a cool New York chick. Then I could hang with the cool chicks of the The Outdoor Co-ed Topless Pulp Fiction Appreciation Society. They hang out topless, breasts bared to the world, at various New York City locations. They hang out and read pulp fiction.
I wish I was a cool chick. Scroll down for couple more shots of cool chicks reading in the park. Hey, it’s summer and they’re not wearing shirts. What’s the big deal?
Apparently, it isn’t a big deal (in New York).