Tag: Erotica Writer

How To Write An Orgasm

The orgasm is one of the best parts of sex, and one of the most fascinating and intense human experiences. When I write about them, which is quite frankly a lot, I try to do them justice. Ideally, I go into as much detail as possible, because there are just so many ways to climax, and so many different details. Every orgasm is unique, and each orgasm in erotica should strive to also be unique. There’s a limit to what words can convey, and how many different metaphors and terms we can come up with for “pleasure,” but it’s important to try.

Here’s some advice that I’ve given to other erotica writers in the past:

Writing about an orgasm is kind of like writing a miniature story within a story. You can’t just jump to the climax without any build-up, not if you want to do it right. You lead up to it with rising action, describing first the desire and the light stirring of sensations—the way the body first feels faint physical foreshadowing of what lies ahead, then the pleasure starts to solidify into something more real as the body (and mind!) are teased into varying states of increasing arousal.

You show each of these levels of pleasure along the way, taking the reader on a journey up a path of pleasure that rises higher and higher, building their anticipation of that ultimate peak that they know lies ahead. Bring the reader closer and closer, but wind the path just enough that they can only catch glimpses of the destination—glimpses are the key to anticipation, which is a key to hunger, which is the key to gratification.

The journey itself is part of the destination .

Wend them along the path as they let you take them higher and higher, closer and closer to that ultimate peak, until they know that they’re so close—so damned close—that they can almost feel their arrival.

But only almost.

Then let them see it, right there ahead of them, let them know what they’re about to find, where they’re about to go, and let them have that perfect moment when they know they’ve almost arrived, that there’s no turning back, that any moment now they’re…

About…

To…

Then they’re there! They’ve rushed those last few running steps, and they’ve fully arrived, and they suddenly realize that the peak is even higher than they could have imagined, so high that it perhaps even scares them a bit because they realize that they’re so far gone now that they might not find their way back—they’re afraid they might die here, and part of them wants to because it’s just so perfect, so thrilling, so wondrous that it breaks them a little bit and they know that even when they somehow find their way back down again, they will never ever be the same.

 

As you can see, I like to use metaphors. They’re extremely handy things, metaphors, the multi-tool of communication. I’ve rarely metaphor I didn’t like.

This is important when it comes to orgasm, because most of what we feel when it comes to erotic sensation is pleasure, and there are only so many words for pleasure, each of which comes with its own connotations that may or may not convey the right mood for the scene you’re working on. When it comes to sexual sensations, from the tingling build-up to the climax itself, I often try to pick a single metaphor and stick with it throughout the scene.

Often I go with electricity. It’s handy, common, and accurate. Things can start off with electric tingles of pleasure, then later there can be shocks and jolts of sensation, all rising and building like a thunderstorm, and when it all comes to a peak, the orgasm can hit the character like a lightning bolt, arcing from their loins to their nipples, to other parts of them that are being aroused depending on the scene.

Fire is good too. Start with sparks, or even a warm smoldering feeling. The character feels warm, then hot. Things heat up. Their skin feels like it’s on fire, their body burning with the heat of their passion, searing them with sensation until it all builds up and… explodes like a volcano, or even like a fiery bomb. Fire works pretty well.

During one of my May Challenges, when I was writing 31 stories in 31 days, I remember running low on ways to write orgasms. I did electricity. I did fire. Then I worked through the other elements.

Air: started off like light fingers of wind, and ended up like a hurricane.

Water: pleasure flowed through the character, starting off as a mild trickle, but over time turning into a river that threatened to sweep them away, then it did carry them away, orgasm crashing over them like a tidal wave, threatening to drown them, promising to carry them out to sea forever, to never let them come back to shore.

Earth: Light tremors of sensation building into rumbles of pleasure, leading to an orgasm that hits them like an earthquake, making them buck, thrash, and shudder…

You get the idea.
You probably got the idea earlier, when I was just using the metaphor of a path and a destination.

Make good use of it! Not enough writers do.

How To Have An Orgasm (Solo)

Odd as it may seem to some of us, there are many people in the world who haven’t had an orgasm, but who would like one. They just don’t quite know how to get one. I’ve talked to any number of women who have told me stories about frustrating early experiences trying fruitlessly to masturbate to orgasm as a teenager, as well as women who have had an active sex life for years without ever finding that level of satisfaction. One of these women was a professional sex worker, who’d had at least three digits worth of partners over her life, performing an astounding variety of sexual acts, and she’d never once had an orgasm.

When this woman asked me for advice on how she could take care of things (she was not asking for my assistance; we never had that kind of relationship), it was the most surprising thing I’d heard about anybody’s sex life in some time. I gave her the best advice that I could, which was a less-detailed, less thorough version of what follows.

Start By Being Sexually Aroused

I’m not going to make a blanket claim that orgasms can never happen without a person first being aroused, because that would be false. There are some people who can–and do–spontaneously orgasm from a balloon popping, or from sneezing, or other stimuli that hits that individual in a specific way. It can happen, but if it was the kind of thing that was likely to happen to you, you wouldn’t need to read this post.

For the rest of us, the more aroused we are, the easier it is to climax. If you’re unaroused, or actively turned off, then orgasm will be effectively impossible. If, on the other hand, you’re aroused enough, then anything slightly sexual will set you off. Don’t focus on “having an orgasm,” not to start. Focus on “becoming increasingly aroused.”

If you’re not particularly horny, either wait until you become horny, or try to find some kind of stimulation that will arouse you. Watch porn, think arousing thoughts, or buy and read any or all of my line of erotic stories available on Amazon.com. 😉


Physical sensation is important. As you consume your erotic entertainment, or entertain your own erotic thoughts and fantasies, you should feel yourself becoming more aroused. You should feel tingles in key places of your body. Feel free to touch those places, to remove clothing from them.

I feel that I should make it clear that if you’re reading this in a public place, do NOT actually do these things at this time!
Touch yourself lightly. One mistake that people sometimes make is trying too hard, using too much pressure, and rubbing themselves raw. You don’t want to do that–you want to caress yourself gently, to tease your skin lightly.

Think of what it’s like standing close to somebody who has just the right scent, the right perfume or the right cologne, or even the right natural fragrance. If the scent is too strong, you’ll back away from it. If it’s too faint, you won’t notice it. If it’s just right, then it will be in the middle, just strong enough to make you want to lean in, toward that person, to get more of it.

You want your own touch on your own flesh to be like that. You want it to entice you, to stimulate your senses but to leave them wanting more, not less. Vary your touch, try different locations on your body and see what feels good. Try to arouse, if possible, every inch of your skin.

As you’re working on your physical arousal, work on your mental arousal as well. It helps to be relaxed to start, to be comfortable. You want as few distractions as possible from any thoughts and sensations that would try to steal your attention away from the pleasure you feel. Try to still your thoughts, and to focus only on what you’re experiencing.

Soft music can help, by drowning out background noise.

Pot or alcohol can help, but only in light amounts. You want just enough to help you relax, to calm your mind, and to maybe to heighten things a slight bit. Too much of either, and you’ll sabotage your own orgasm. With pot, there are highs where everything will feel fabulous, but you just won’t be able to come. With alcohol, you want to numb only your inhibitions, not your sensations.

Mood lighting might help as well, enough to calm you and help you feel sexy, but not enough to make you sleepy.

Slowly Increase Your Pleasure

Don’t rush things. Take your time. Romance yourself. Tease yourself until your body is moving toward your own touch, pushing back, eager for more. Stroke the places where it feels best, rewarding your body for its hunger.

But don’t try to sate it yet. Keep giving it just enough that it’s eager for more.

Keep your mind in a state where it’s only excited sexually, not anxiously or impatiently. Increase pressure in slight increments. Do the same with tempo. If you have a sex toy, such as a vibrator or a masturbation sleeve, you should be using it.

Expand Your Sensations

This may not be necessary. If you feel at this point like you might be able to come, work in that direction, but be patient. If you’re turned on, but you don’t feel like things are going to come to a climax, consider options to increase the number and kinds of sensations that you’re feeling. Remember, orgasm is about being overwhelmed in just the right way.

This is why many people get kinky: they’re trying to expand their sensations in order for their mind to be overwhelmed. Different things work for different people, but anal play works for most. Having a finger or an object teasing or penetrating your backdoor adds another layer of sensation in addition to anything you’re doing to your genitals and nipples. Again, don’t rush things.

Temperature play can be good as well. Some people like hot wax, some people like ice. Some people like both, alternatingly or concurrently. Temperature is another level of sensation, and a potential tool to increase arousal. Ice chills the body, condenses the flesh a bit as everything tightens up. Ice demands attention, putting nerve endings on full alert. Heat is warm, simulating the warmth of another person’s body or bodily fluids. Heat is relaxing. Heat can cause pain, at certain levels, and that can heighten awareness the same way that ice can.

Other things might help as well. You’ll have to experiment. Put something in your mouth, perhaps a dildo, and fantasize about it being something else. Or just put something in your mouth and bite down, like a bit-gag. Play with nipple clamps or clothespins (read up on what you’re doing first!), maybe do some light self-bondage.

The idea is to have multiple pleasurable sensations and thoughts occurring at the same time, too many for your mind to absorb all at once, so that your awareness will have to move from one sensation to the next to the next, or back and forth. You want your thoughts to pinball around between the things you’re experiencing, until you can’t take it any more.

Then you explode.

You don’t necessarily have to seek out this explosion; just keep seeking pleasure. When you get enough of it, your brain and your body will let you know.

It might take repeated attempts. Don’t get discouraged, don’t get down on yourself. You don’t have to climax this session, or even next session, and if you don’t, it doesn’t mean you’re any kind of failure. You’ll get there. It just sometimes takes practice.

Why I Don’t Use Trigger Warnings

[This blog post contains minor spoilers for my story “Satisfied By A Stegosaurus”]

I’m not opposed to the idea of trigger warnings. In fact, I think that they’re often a good idea. I personally like to check with DoesTheDogDie.com before I watch a movie, because I don’t like to wander into that kind of thing without advanced warning. It’s not truly a trigger for me, but it’s certainly upsetting. Likewise, I know any number of rape victims that have been unpleasantly surprised (and triggered) by a rape scene appearing in a film where there was no indication in the ads or previews. I can understand why trigger warnings exist.

 

I also understand that in erotica, rape/reluctant/violent scenes can turn what was supposed to be a perfectly pleasant experience into something horrible, or at the least upsetting and annoying. I want all of my readers to have perfectly pleasant experiences when they read my stories–that’s one reason why I write erotica in the first place.

While I do have the common author’s conceit of wanting readers to approach my stories without any spoilers, I also understand that when dealing with erotic short stories, it’s not as much of an issue. The plot is that somebody or some bodies have sex of some kind. Because people tend to have particular kinks and sexual tastes, knowing in advance what the sex scene is going to involve isn’t a spoiler–it’s advertising.

So for the most part, I’m cool with trigger warnings, even if they’d “spoil” part of the plot.
The main issue for me is that as an independent author, I work mostly through Amazon, and that means that trigger warnings could directly interfere with my business as a writer. Amazon has a very arbitrary set of standards that is sporadically enforced. They technically will not publish any books with rape scenes in them, for example, except for all of the books that that they publish that have rape scenes in them. “The Color Purple,” for example. And most dinosaur erotica. The difference being that Amazon is NOT going to yank “The Color Purple” from their electronic shelves due to content, but any indie or small-time erotica author could have their work(s) yanked at pretty much any time.

I went into the writing of my story “Satisfied By A Stegosaurus” with the idea that I’d go against the grain–and err on the side of caution–by having the human/dino sex be consensual. Oddly, during the writing of the story, a human/human rape-fantasy scene occurred as part of the main character’s back story. It’s not a particularly brutal scene, and I wrote it in such a way that it the rapist doesn’t exactly come out on top. But it is a rape/non-consent scene, even if it’s one that isn’t likely to trigger anybody. I’d gladly warn people about that plot element in the beginning of the book, or in the blurb, except that by doing so I’d be likely to attract the attention of Amazon’s enforcers.

Sure, they don’t seem to have a problem with countless beast-rape stories like “Taken By The T-Rex,” but the nature of the content often doesn’t seem to matter as much as whether Amazon has plausible deniability. If I, the author, mention that there’s rape-fantasy or non-consensual activity in a story, and somebody reports it, then Amazon would be more likely to take action.

Remember, Amazon’s applicable guidelines are as follows:
https://kdp.amazon.com/en_US/help/topic/G200672390

Pornography

We don’t accept pornography or offensive depictions of graphic sexual acts.

 

Offensive content

What we deem offensive is probably about what you would expect.
So the hazard for including trigger warnings for rape-fantasy/non-consent stuff applies equally to most possible triggers that might appear in my work. My BDSM novel has scenes where the main character is tied, cuffed, or blindfolded. Those things might trigger some people. But if I acknowledge that those elements are included, the Amazonian hammer might come down on me for it. Even though they’d never consider banning “50 Shades of Grey.”

Another factor is the nature of what I write.

I don’t feel bad about not including a trigger warning on “Satisfied By A Stegosaurus,” because the very nature of that particular sub-genre, dinosaur-human sex, is that consent is rarely included. It’s mostly just straight-forward stories about dinosaurs fantasy-raping humans. Similarly, my story “The Octopunishment” includes (surprise, surprise!) tentacle-rape scenes. Again, that shouldn’t surprise anybody. Likewise, my story “Moonheat” has a werewolf-on-human nonconsent/rape scene, and the only surprise there might be that the werewolf is female and the human is male.

In general, I try to write within genre and sub-genre norms and expectations when it comes possible triggers. If I write superhero stuff, there’s going to be some violence, and probably varying levels of non-consent at times. If I write monster sex, it might well include rape-fantasy scenes. I don’t feel that trigger warnings are necessary when it comes to standard conventions of a genre or sub-genre.

If anybody out there is curious about my work, but has particular things that they’d like to avoid (or to seek out), just send me an email, a tweet (public or private), or respond to this post, and just ask.

Being An Invisible Writer

Conventional wisdom is that independent authors can’t ever achieve success by going around asking everybody they meet to buy their books, especially if they do it by spamming out social media posts, emails, and what not, asking people to do exactly that with no other introduction. Conventional wisdom is correct.

What you’re supposed to do is to come at things a bit more sideways than that. You have to create a “platform,” some kind of format or forum where people come for something other than your for-sale writing. Once you have the crowd good and hooked on whatever free thing or things you’ve been giving them, then you casually mention that oh, you’ve happened to have written something that happens to be for sale, in case anybody is interested. By this time, the people all know you, and they presumably like you, and they’ll be much more likely to be interested in whatever it is you happen to be selling.

Conventional wisdom is very likely to be correct again… but it doesn’t do me any real good at this point.

I’ve put in the time and effort to study my craft at a national university. I got my degree, but it’s not bringing me any money, so I have to have a day job to pay my bills while I try to fend off the student loan jackals repeatedly. I’m not asking for pity here–it’s all perfectly normal, and I’m not exactly a starving artist. But if I had it all to do over again, I’d do things differently, because the only real skill I picked up in college is writing itself.

I have the skills it takes to weave (hopefully) compelling stories, full of interesting characters and/or situations. I do not have the skills required to make a podcast, or to have a YouTube channel, or whatever else it takes to build a decent platform. So it seems to me a bit like going to law school, then graduating to discover that all lawyers must hand-build their own office before they can take any new clients. It’s a bit frustrating.

Not only do I lack the skills it takes to build a pre-existing audience for my work, I also lack the time. It can take years of dedicated work to build up a decent base of potential consumers who are all interested in you and what you have to say, and I’m in my mid-forties. Taking on what is essentially an unpaid second job, in a field I’m uninterested in, and spending a few years at it before seeing real results, just doesn’t seem like something that I’m realistically able or likely to do.

All of which means that I have to find other ways to let the world know that I exist.

I mean, sure, I’m going to try to work on my platform, and my brand, and so forth. That’s one reason why I’m dedicating this entire month of May to adding to my much-neglected blog. Blogs, actually, because in addition to my old Goodreads blog, I’ve set up another blog on WordPress, and it’s seeing some activity already. I only started my WordPress blog five days ago, and I already have 13 followers. That, plus my 150 followers from my Goodreads blog means that I have a potential platform of 163 people. Maybe it’ll increase significantly by the end of this month, and much of my irritation and hand-wringing about platform-building will turn out to have been for naught. I doubt it, but that’s okay–I have other plans.

Because I don’t envision much success with building my own platform, I plan to try to figure out ways to use other people’s platforms. For example, this year I’m focusing more on submitting work to anthologies, because while I only get a one-time fee for that kind of work, the people putting together and selling the anthologies are going to do the heavy lifting when it comes to promotion. The people will hear about the anthology because of the antho-makers’ platforms, and when they buy the book, they’ll read it, see one of my glorious stories, and think to themselves, “My! Who IS this Richard Bacula chap, and where can I read more of his wonderful writing?” Then they’ll go to Amazon, see my 30-something titles currently available for sale for as low as 99 cents (ahem!), and perhaps make a purchase or two.

Similarly, I plan to look into doing some guest blog posts on other people’s better-supported, better-promoted blogs. If you’re reading this, and you have a blog with any kind of decent following, and you might like a guest post from yours-truly, let me know.

For that matter, I’m always open to co-writing short fiction with other authors. There are plenty of authors who have the opposite problem that I do–they’re significantly better at promotion than they are at the actual writing part. For that matter, there are non-authors who have a platform and a following, and who haven’t really considered breaking into the erotic fiction market, and who could use a talented co-author like myself. Again, if this sounds like it might describe you or somebody you know, contact me or have that person contact me.

As things are, I feel that my main obstacle is simply getting the world to know that my writing exists. My sales currently make my writing a fun hobby that brings in beer money, or the occasional minor windfall like when my BDSM novel (which happens to be free for Kindle today if you want to check it out) “Letting Go” was mentioned in Women’s Health Magazine a couple years back.

I guess that’s all that I’ve really got to say at this point. I’ve got some other irons in other fires, and some secret schemes to rocket me to the top, but nothing really worth discussing at this point.

See you next time!

You Know the Tune

I had it in my head that I was going to write a post about the musical comedy TV show  phenomenon “Crazy Ex-Girlfriend” today, but that’s not exactly what’s going to happen. It’s a very good show–smart, funny, sharp, and raw–and I think that it should be drawing a much, much larger audience than it has been. I wanted to write a post that would give a breakdown of the show, and maybe encourage some new viewers.

But I’m not going to do that.

The show does far too many things, far too well, for me to try to sum it up in such a way as to get the right people to understand that they not only might enjoy the show, but that they might well need to watch the show. At the same time, this show is definitely not for everybody.

If you want to know more about the series, and if you’ll like it, google around. I’m betting there are plenty of articles on it. You can also go to YouTube, and try watching any number of the musical numbers from the show, or perhaps start with Rachel Bloom’s song/video Fuck Me, Ray Bradbury.

In fact, even if you have seen that one before, I encourage you to watch it again. It’s a classic.

Initially I was too busy watching the show to really notice how good it was. The songs were funny, sweet, sad, and often were skillful parodies of songs, singers, or genres. I was just going along, watching this show, making note of good aspects here or there, minding my own business, having a good time.

Then the dangerously talented Rachel Bloom reached out of the television, grabbed me, threw my emotional self into a goddamned wall, and I was crying.

I don’t cry often.

I’m not saying that this song will make you cry. You may very well not have the same emotional buttons and triggers that I do, and you probably don’t have the same view of the same world that I have. But what set me off was a painful recognition of captured truth unleashed into my heart and my brain. I’d never seen that episode before, and I’d never heard Rachel Bloom sing that song before, but I knew it by reputation.
I knew it because I’ve seen women that I love singing their own version of it to themselves.

I knew it because men have our own versions of this song, and I’ve heard those playing in my head many times after making a horrifyingly painful mistake. The song itself is part of the pain, the self-inflicted insult to the injury.

This song “You Stupid Bitch” is about “self-indulgent self-loathing,” and takes place after the character Rebecca Bunch (played by Rachel Bloom, of course) has her zany romcom-style stalking antics blow up in her face.

This is the point where you, my readers, need to either click on that link and watch the video, or to consciously decide NOT to. I’d have some kind of trigger warning here, but I believe that the sort of people who are likely to be triggered by this song have already sung their own variations countless times, personalized versions just for them, that would hurt much more than listening to this song will.

When you’ve watched the video, come back here and scroll down to read more.

The first time I watched this song, it started off being kind of amusing. Then it became a bit uncomfortable. Then it was amusing again, then suddenly insightful into one of the largest problem in many doomed relationships (“Yes, Josh completes me, but how can that be, when there’s no me left to complete?”).

It goes right back to amusing again, as she invites the audience to sing along with her, to help heap abuse on her, because “Yes, I deserve this!”.

The part that got to me–that still gets to me, every time I listen to this song–starts with “he sees me for what I am,” as Rebecca launches into a stream of familiar words that have been weaponized against women, using those words to cut at herself the way I’ve seen far too many other women attack themselves after fucking something up somehow.
Bloom plays things perfectly, using the word “bitch”–that sharpened sword of a word–sparingly at first, then increasingly to the point of discomfort, then holding off for one final pointed stab at the end. There’s the playful kick to the side, the “and lose some weight,” the kind of pointless, gratuitous, self-hating thought that occurs to people when they’re in that kind of self-abusive mood.

With this song, she crafts the image of a demon that we’re all familiar with either first-hand or second, and by doing so she captures this demon into a less harmful form. Women will watch this song, and it might sting them, but it’ll sting less than the song that their own demon sings. And the next time their own demon starts singing to them, they’ll remember this performance, and the dark humor will undercut the damage of their own self-flagellation. By skewering this demon in painful parody, Rachel Bloom is creating a tool that countless people will be able to use in their real lives, to help survive and endure some very harsh moments.

And she does this while singing beautifully, looking stunning in her glamorous dress.
Rachel Bloom is a force to be reckoned with, and she’s spend three years attacking some of the biggest chains and torture implements that women are subjected to, both by themselves and by society at large.

This show deserves more attention.

Jagermeister Night

April 16, 2014

It’s Jagermeister Night at House Bacula, and it’s a pretty good night.
It should also be a short night, at this rate.
I found this blog, though, and figured that I’d put something here, if only to surprise myself in the morning, or whenever I find it.

In general, if anybody has any good suggestions what exactly I can use this blog FOR, feel free to let me know!
I’m not really a blogger by nature.
I do tend to answer questions, though, so if anybody out there has any questions for me, about anything, by all means just ask me.

Meanwhile, I’ll give a bit of my background.

I’ve been interested in sex since I was a little kid, and I took every opportunity to explore the weird world of sexuality. Oddly enough, this did NOT include playing “Doctor” with other kids, or anything like that.

I’ve also always been a big reader. For the most part, I read about sex.

I’d find the medical books in school, and look at the naughty bits. I’d read up on all the naughty words in the dictionary and the encyclopedias.

I’d sit in the grocery store when my parents weren’t looking, and browse through any unsealed dirty magazines that I could find. When magazines weren’t available, I’d find romance and horror novels, and skip around until I found the sex scenes there.
I learned a lot.

As I got a bit older, high school age, I had read the Kama Sutra, all kinds of dirty magazines, had watched a lot of dirty videos, had read “The Joy of Sex,”
“Everything You Wanted To Know About Sex
(but were afraid to ask),” and multiple other books that were specifically about sex.
I read other stuff too, of course, but the early interest in and information about sex stuck with me, and it eventually spurred me to write erotica.

There’s a lot of erotica out there already, and most of it really isn’t very good.
My goal as a writer is to try to raise the bar a bit, to provide more accurate, more detailed erotica that delves deeper into the motions and emotions of the participants.

Because I’m writing about sex, the sex tends to take up most of the text in each of my stories.

While many people do enjoy a long, slow, lingering, tedious build-up before the sex happens, that’s not the kind of thing that I enjoy in my reading, so that’s not what I write.
My stories tend to start off with the action, in media res, with character depth and plot demonstrated during the scene, with the occasional explanatory flashback.

I write some unusual erotica. I’ve written one story with a female werewolf, one story with a stegosaurus, and one story with a scarecrow.

All of them are good.

Part of my interest in writing that kind of story is the challenge of writing them well, given their rather absurd premises.

Other stuff is more vanilla. Just male/female stuff, or male/female/female stuff, or female/female stuff.

Despite a healthy level of personal sexual experience, there are limits to what I have done. I have not had sex with a stegosaurus, nor as a stegosaurus, for example.

Nor have I ever been a lesbian engaged in sex with another woman.

In these cases, I try to research as much as I need to in order to maintain the integrity of the scene, in order to get the details as correct as possible, or as possible as the story requires.

I’m not a hobby writer, by the way. I’m writing to make money, with full intent of making enough money to quit my day job(s) and to write full time.

Every copy of my work that is sold helps me toward that goal, and every little bit of word-of-mouth helps me get more potential sales.

Not to mention reviews!

If you read my works (and I suggest that you do: they’re reasonably priced), and you enjoy what I have written, I urge you to help spread the word.

It’s not necessarily my best work, but this free short erotic story should give you an idea of what I’m capable of:
http://www.literotica.com/s/cornholed

How to Be as Sexy as a Dead Deer

Written May 6, 2014

I’m pretty sure that most people would agree that deer aren’t particularly sexy. “Pretty,” probably. “Beautiful,” maybe, in the way that nature and animals can be beautiful, but not “sexy.”

Likewise, it’s only a certain kind of twisted person who thinks that death is sexy. It’s not- it’s tragic and ugly, even with animals. Sometimes more so with animals than humans, actually, which is why pretty much everybody hates a scene where a dog dies, but they’re often indifferent to scenes where a human dies.

In their song “Hunter’s Kiss,” Rasputina creates a little story about a hunter killing a deer. It’s sexy. It’s also horrible. That’s one of the things that makes the song stick in my mind, that makes it haunt me. It is both horrible and sexy.

I actually find the song more arousing than a lot of erotica I’ve read. It’s not that the song is THAT sexy… it’s that one hell of a lot of erotica is THAT bad.

A lot of writers can somehow manage to take the most arousing sexual acts and experiences, and turn them into something flat, un-interesting, or even outright painful to read about. They can start with all the right ingredients, and they can fuck up the recipe so badly that it’s effectively inedible.

Rasputina does the opposite. They go take a piece of metaphorical roadkill, and turn it into a darned fine meal.

How the hell do they manage to do that? Let’s find out.
Follow the link and listen to the song, if you haven’t done so already.
Click here to read the lyrics.

Are you with me?

They tell you right off the bat that it’s a sad story. The deer’s death doesn’t exactly come as a surprise. So they lessen the shock of the death; you already know it’s coming. It’s been foreshadowed. Readers like twist endings… sometimes. Other times, especially with short erotic stories, a twist breaks them out of the mood that you’re trying to sex, I mean “trying to set.” (That was an honest typo, but I’m leaving it there for the ghost of Sigmund Freud.)

You want readers to be aroused when they’re reading your erotica or sex scene, and clouding things up with other emotions only dilutes the elixer that you’re trying to create. If the reader laughs, or cries, or lets out a startled gasp of the wrong kind of shock, then their arousal—the emotion that you’re trying to stimulate most—gets broken. Rasputina knows this. So they start diluting the negative emotions associated with a dying deer, beginning by bracing the audience to understand ahead of time that, yes, this is a sad story. Any sadness, that way, will not come as a real shock.

This is also something of a magician’s trick. While they’re telling you on one hand that the story is sad, they’re secretly using the other hand to turn you on. (At least, that’s how it works for me. Some people, at this point, might very well not know what the hell I’m talking about.) While you’re bracing yourself for sadness, for something Bad, they start giving you something good.

It’s about context, and it’s about expectation. If you expect something Bad (sadness), and in the midst of the Bad you get something Good (arousal), then the Good parts will seem all the better for the contrast, the same way a bit of salt can highlight sweet flavors in food. Rasputina starts off immediately by taking control of your expectations. They make you brace for the Bad, while their other hand prepares to do something Good to you.

Next up, they start adding the Good, the old-fashioned spice of “Romance.” They do this by setting the stage: “A romantic scene, from a lullaby.” So now we know that it’s not necessarily just a tragedy, it might be a tragic romance. They’re foreshadowing more, showing us that other hand, without telling us what it’s going to do to us. We know to expect the bitter, but then we’re set up for a bit of sweetness.

Then, Rasputina sets the point of view: the singer is the deer. The hunter is about to shoot her. We empathize with the deer, because Rasputina has given the deer anthropomorphic thoughts: “Then the fleeting notion, that my life he’d save.” Deer don’t really recognize the danger that a hunter’s bow poses, not as a rule, and certainly not to this depth. Deer don’t have the cognitive ability to think the implied thoughts, along the line of: “Crap! This guy’s pointing an arrow at me, and he can kill me! Maybe I’ll luck out? Maybe he’ll show me mercy?” It gives the reader something to identify with, though, puts us in the deer’s shoes. Well, “hooves,” anyway.

We know it’s sad, and we know that this deer is in jeopardy, and we identify human emotions and intelligence with it. We’re invested now, for bitter or for sweet. Or for bittersweet.

The next stanza serves something of the same purpose of the first line; it gets the Bad out of the way quickly. The deer gets shot, thinks (again, anthropomorphizing the deer creates empathy) for a second that it’d been missed by the arrow, but then discovers that, no, it’s been hit. The deer isn’t dead, but it’s dying and helpless. It also subtly starts moving that other hand again, the hand that slipped the word “romantic” into the mix earlier. This time, it uses the word “Dirty.”

“Dirty” has many connotations and uses in the English language, and while Rasputina is using it accurately on the surface, leaving the deer “lying dirty” as in “on the ground, with some dirt on it,” there are other connotations. “Dirty” also means “Naughty,” as in “Sex is Dirty.” The association between the phrase “sex” and “dirty” is so completely overpowering, that I doubt that any listener fails to somehow make the connection, suddenly and abruptly, with sex. The hand that Rasputina told you to watch is showing you a dead deer. Their other hand is showing you sex, subliminally. Just a quick flash of it, but you’re still getting flashed.

Then we get to the refrain:
I have never, felt like this before.
Felt my body sinking, to the grassy floor.
No I have never, known a love like this,
Felt the flaming arrows, of the hunter’s kiss.

This is where the hands change, where we suddenly realize that while we were watching the hand we were told to, Rasputina has slipped their other hand into our clothing, and it’s that other hand that suddenly gets all of our attention as they start to touch unexpected parts of us. The first line is a classic sentiment of both love and sex, of the romance that was foreshadowed earlier. It’s something that’s been said countless times, in countless ways, in a near infinity of tales of romance and sex.

The refrain is brilliant, because that’s where the bulk of the heavy lifting is done for the storytellers/singers; that’s the part that carries the weight of our sadness off of us in several ways. They’re still singing about a dying deer, but they’re also now clearly singing about love, and about sex. By using classic romantic imagery to describe the dying deer, they create an emotional association between love/sex and a dying deer. It’s actually a kind of pun: they’re using well-known words that typically mean one thing, and they’re using those words to mean something else. They’re playing with words, like when somebody steps in a hole in the ground, and somebody else says “You’re on holey ground,” manipulating homophones to connect a hole in the ground to a phrase associated with churches and places of worship. Even if there isn’t any church or other “holy ground” in sight, the combination of words is going to make the hole-stepper and any nearby listeners suddenly think of churches or other locations that they associate with the key phrase, with the pun. The same way that Rasputina just made us think about a woman lying in the grass, about to have sex with a man that she loves, even though they haven’t shown us anything of the sort in their song.

The second thing that the refrain accomplishes is confusion, at least the first time we hear it. This reduces sadness, because Rasputina just shifted gears from “Aw, poor dead deer!” to “Woman passionately in love!” That’s a pretty big WTF moment, and when people are thinking, “What The Fuck,” they’re no longer thinking, “Aw, poor dead deer!” Even though Rasputina continues to sing about a dying deer, that confusion lets the listener simultaneously see something else: a woman who is powerlessly overwhelmed by love/sex. The dying deer and the woman in love are the same, one image is super-imposed over the other, and it ends up being like one of those pictures where you’re not sure if you’re looking at a young woman or a hag. Or a candlestick or two faces. That confusion lets the listener pick, to some degree, which one they’re thinking of, and that choice allows the listener to listen to a version of the song that they prefer. They can, from this point on, either listen to a song about a woman who has fallen unexpectedly, completely, and powerlessly in love, OR they can listen to a song about a deer that’s being killed by a hunter.

The song is about both, about a deer and a woman, about dying and about falling in love. It’s a metaphor, and I’ve rarely metaphor that I didn’t like, not one as well-crafted as this.

The third thing that this refrain accomplishes is just as important. What is perhaps the only thing that can take the sting of death away from the dying? Wanting to die. The hunter has just shot the deer, and it’s reaction is love. The hunter kills the deer, and the deer likes it, even if it still regrets what is happening. It’s a kind of rape fantasy, where the horribleness of the act being committed is made more palatable to most readers if the victim of the act enjoys it, if the victim’s thoughts of the attacker are filled with love. To other readers, it becomes all the more horrible.

The next line: “My life is not mine, like a dog or a wife.”

Is that a deer, lamenting the loss of it’s actual life? Or a woman lamenting the loss of freedom caused by her overpowering emotions for a man? Or about a deer lamenting the loss of both it’s life and freedom to a man who is killing it?

Yes, I think that it is.

“He has taken his time, he has taken my life.” Again, deer or woman? Is the fact that he’s taking his time foreplay, or ruthlessness? Or both?

In the confusion, we get to choose. Just don’t forget the whole orgasm/death metaphor that has existed for centuries (if not millennia), because that’s another key to this song, especially in the next stanza:
I could see the steaming, of his cloudy breath,
No, I was not dreaming, I was next to [orgasm].
As I lay there twitching, then my legs he tied.
There was nothing missing, on the day I [climaxed for the first time].

That metaphor switches the scene from that of a deer being gutted, to that of a woman being pleasured. Even those listeners who are not already familiar with the tried and true metaphor of orgasm as death, I think that they’ll likely make the connection.

I have used similar techniques in my own writings, albeit less eloquently. In my story “Satisfied By A Stegosaurus,” one of the obvious challenges was the question of how to make a dinosaur’s penis a point of arousal for readers not into bestiality. After all, I write to arouse more than to simply amuse, so my goal is to get the reader turned on, even when writing something absurd. I rose to the challenge adequately, I think. When the heroine, Layla, is wrestling with the enormous appendage, I insert this flashback into the scene:

When she was younger, new into her womanhood, Layla had once sat in the lap of a handsome warrior of her tribe, a man long since gone missing after a Rhino Men raid. They had kissed, their mouths merging, tongues intertwining, and Layla had allowed the man’s firm thigh to part her legs, so that she was straddling his bare leg. That thigh had been thick with muscle, and as Layla and the warrior had kissed and caressed each other, Layla’s intimate flesh was pressed right up against it, with only the thin layer of Layla’s animal skin clothing between them. Layla’s hips had started rocking then, pressing herself against that man’s strength, feeling the power of that thigh, even through her clothing. The sensation of the strength, of the maleness, of the power filling the space between her legs had been overwhelming. Layla had had her woman’s bliss, crying out her pleasure into the man’s eager mouth, just from riding that mass of male muscle.

Now, for those readers not instantly aroused by dinosaur cock, or by my previous descriptions of what a stegosaurus can do with his tongue, I have created a kind of backdoor for them to enjoy the scene anyway. I have given them this little story-within-a-story to enjoy. I have implanted it into their brain for my further use. I then connected that very human sex story with the dinosaur-on-human sex story that I was in the middle of telling:

Layla had always regretted that she had been too modest that day, that she had not simply pushed the crotch of her covering aside, that she hadn’t been able to feel his naked muscles with the bare flesh of her womanhood. She’d never had another chance with that warrior, never known exactly how it would have felt. Now, though, her entire body wrapped around a gigantic cock, Layla felt that she knew.

Now, for those readers for whom my technique worked, suddenly that dinosaur’s penis is also the penis of a handsome, muscular man. At least, when they read about the dinosaur’s anatomy, they’ll have some level of internal connection to the anatomy of a man, as well as to a mini-story that has already aroused the reader.

I use similar techniques in my story “Cornholed,” where a woman has sex with an animate scarecrow whose penis is an ear of decorative dried corn. Once I decided to write a scarecrow story, you see, I had to decide what the scarecrow was going to use instead of a penis. Real-world scarecrows don’t have them, after all; if they did, then they’d scare more than just the crows. I was going for a Halloween theme, so I eventually settled in on the decorative corn idea. It had the right shape, after all, more or less. That left me with the idea of how to make corn-on-the-cob sexy. Not only corn, but dried corn. Dried corn simply isn’t sexy. It’s almost as un-sexy as a dying deer, in fact

Keeping my magician’s hands busy, I described things in such a way that I downplayed the downsides, and I up-played the upsides. I didn’t really mention the “dried” part during the sex scene. The rough surface of the corn would most likely be painful in real life, but I decided to spin it. Don’t think “rough,” think “ribbed”:

The scarecrow grabbed her by her hips, and slowly, kernel by kernel, slid himself into her. His painstakingly slow speed gave her body full time to adjust to the sensation, to feel every ridge of the strange member that was slipping between her inner labia, starting to stretch the muscles that guarded her inner anatomy.

Slip. Slip. Slip. As each ridge, each row of hard corn slipped into her, her body tightened again to grasp at the groove between kernels. Sarah had heard of condoms that were “ribbed,” supposedly “for her pleasure.” 

She had never experienced the use of one, the feel of one, but Jack’s unusual member was naturally ribbed, and he was certainly using it for her pleasure.

In real life? Probably unpleasant. In a fantasy story about a magical scarecrow coming to life on Halloween, in order to have sex with a woman? I think I made it work for most readers; I’ve only received a few complaints about that point, and any number of compliments. By making the connection between the corn and the condom, I made things a bit easer to swallow.

Language helped too. I use the word “slip,” because it’s a nice, easy, non-rough word, and I used this word to reassure the reader subconsciously that although the surface of the corn might be rough, things are actually going very smoothly in the story. I also describe the girth of the corn as follows:

It was wider than anything, than any cock or any toy, that Sarah had allowed inside of her before.

See what I did there? I compared it to human penises, and to sex toys. I take the potentially unpleasant, and I compare it to the pleasant and familiar. I take the un-sexy, and I compare it to the sexy. I make a connection between the Bad and the Good.

Also, once the nature of the scarecrow’s phallus is established, I backed away from mentioning that it was corn. The readers already knew, and didn’t want to keep their minds thinking about dried corn. So once the sex really starts, I simply refer to it as the scarecrow’s “cock” or his “shaft,” not his “corn-cock,” or his “ear of dry, rough corn,” or anything else that would bring the focus back around to unpleasant things.

Metaphors are quantum entanglement. Metaphors are voodoo. Metaphors join two different things, and they allow a good writer to manipulate one thing by manipulating the other thing.

A dinosaur’s penis is a warrior’s muscular thigh.

An ear of dried corn is a throbbing erection.

A dying deer is a woman having sex.

Metaphors are power. Learn to use them to their fullest.

Size is Everything

Written February 11, 2015

Something that I see in both erotica and in other genres of fiction–from sci fi to horror to literary–is authors who have a tendency to use specific measurements in descriptions.

I tend to think that straight measurements in description are usually a bad idea.

When audience members aren’t familiar with the measurements being used, details like “5 feet” or “8 inches” or whatever are useless, because the readers cannot visualize what is being described, and the entire point of description is specifically to get readers TO be able to visualize things.

On the other hand, when readers ARE familiar with the measurements and the kind of thing being described, then you risk them second-guessing your measurements if you’re too specific.

In erotica, for example, I never describe a man’s penis as being a specific number of inches long. Some readers won’t be able to accurately visualize the size. Other readers won’t be impressed by whatever number is used. Still other readers will find whatever the number is to be too high.

Same with a woman’s breasts- I never refer to her bra/cup size, because it ends up either being meaningless, or implausible, or unimpressive.

Instead, general and relative descriptions work best.

A penis can be “thick,” “long,” or “massive” without any specific measurement, and the description is vague enough to be meaningful to everybody. One reader might picture an “enormous” erection being 7″ long, and another reader might picture it being 13″ long, but they’ll probably each picture something pleasing to them specifically, without getting caught up in numbers.

Same with breasts.

Same with almost anything else.

One good (and obvious) alternative to specific numbers is to have loose numbers. Instead of “three and a half feet,” try “several feet.”

Instead of “twenty minutes,” go with “Many minutes .”

Most of the time, whichever character we’re viewing the story through isn’t going to know the specific measurements anyway.

An often better alternative to loose numbers is to use relative measurements. If a woman is reaching out to grab a man’s erection, telling the readers his exact length and circumference in inches isn’t nearly as useful to the readers as comparing the man’s erection to the woman’s own body. It’s an easy visual, and it’s right in the mind of either the man or the woman, assuming that they’re watching the action.

It also means that you’re being vague twice, which gives the readers more opportunity to insert their own experiences and tastes into the equation.

For example:
“As I hesitantly wrapped my fingers around him, I realized that his erection was as thick as my wrist.”

How thick is his penis in inches?

There’s no way to know, but there’s no reason to really care either.

All we need to know is that it’s impressive on the scale of this particular woman’s body, and that’s really the only scale that matters. Maybe she has really tiny, dainty wrists.

Maybe she’s got thick, meaty wrists.

It doesn’t matter either way, because every reader is going to visualize the scene in proportion to itself.

Same with breasts.

“Her breasts were so large that I could barely fit them in my hands” is far, far more interesting and useful than “Her breasts were 38DDs.”

It puts an image into our heads, an image of action. We can visualize his hands on her breasts, and that’s one hell of a lot better than trying to visualize a bra’s dimensions.

Same with almost anything else.
“His fist was the size of a grapefruit”
“My gun lay a coffin-length away.”
“It was only minutes until dawn.”

“Amazon.Com Has Rejected Your Product Review”

“Merry Christmas, Richard.” The woman handed me a $100 bill. “But you have to promise to have fun with it. Don’t just spend it on bills like you always do.”

I need the money just to survive in this economy–the IRS has me bent over a table, and the local water company is psychotic about late payments–but okay, I guess she’s right. I need something to boost my morale. I need some fun. Everybody needs some fun now and then, just to keep from sitting too long in the dark with the bottle or the barrel of a gun in their mouth.

Less than a week later, I’m with this other girl, and she wants to get out of the apartment. She wants to do something fun. This triggers my memory, and I remember that I’ve still got that $100 bill in the pocket of my pajamas (yeah, sometimes I still wear them).

“Want to go to the sex store?” I ask.

She squeals, and we head out.

We take a tour of the place, and she picks out a nice trio of anal plugs. We look at the riding crops and such, but they’re all just toys. For a cheaper, better product, you can buy the real thing from a farming goods store. I end up looking at the sleeves & stroker section because I’ve never found one that’s just right. Most of the things are only four to six inches long, and that’s just not deep enough. When I use one, I’m either poking out the far end, or I’ve got inches still sticking out at the base. I don’t like that. I like going all the way in, feeling that cushy pseudoflesh push right back against my balls and my pubic bone, especially when I come.

This place has some strokers that look less than four inches, and I have no idea what they’re supposed to do other than just be a cruel tease. I guess they’d be good to use as a kind of bump-stop around your base when you’re fucking a girl, and you don’t want to go too deep. Might be good for anal. The Fleshlights look plenty deep enough to fit all of me, but I can’t say for certain, because I’ve never bought one. They’re too damned expensive.

I’m about to give up, when I spot the Doc Johnson “Balls Deep” stroker. Unlike most of the strokers, it says the overall size on the box: nine inches.

“That should do it!” I think.

I read the box, and I find out more.

The thing is translucent, which is cool if you want to see your cock sliding back and forth inside the thing. That’s sometimes nice. I like watching the physics of sex, even when there’s only one participant and a toy. It’s important to know how things work, how they move. It’s not a big bonus, but it’s a minor plus.

It’s ribbed on the inside, which is also nice. Some strokers have weird little nubs and tendrils in them, then have the gall to proclaim “Feels Like The Real Thing” on the packaging. Sometimes I wonder if these toys are built by people who have never actually felt a real pussy in their life. Tendrils? Who comes up with that shit?

This thing, though… it’s just ribbed inside. If that’s the right term. The tunnel has a nice, tight entrance, of course. The entrance has the normal faux-labia exterior, and a hole that looks to be about the diameter of a pencil, but it’s silicone–it stretches. Maybe a quarter or a half of an inch inside, the tunnel opens into a marble-sized cavity, then it starts to close up again, but there’s another of those cavities. It repeats this pattern the rest of the way. It’s like looking at the mold for a set of anal beads.

I picture it in my head, my cock slipping into the fake lips, feeling that nice tightness around my girth, then feeling my head slipping into the first chamber, expanding a bit to fill the void, then hitting the next micro-tunnel. It’d be like slipping into a pussy within a pussy, within a pussy, like fucking a full set of Russian Dolls all at once. At least, that’s the theory behind the design, I can tell. Maybe it’ll work at least a little like they intend.

Unlike most sleeves, this thing has a dead end. The tunnel just comes to a stop, and there’s no way to slip out the other end of the thing. That’s appealing, because a lubed up stroker that’s too short (and virtually all of them are too short, really) just leaves the head of your cock sticking out into cold air. That’s good if you like aiming your comeshot someplace specific, but I’d rather get the sensation of coming INTO something, of feeling the head of my cock as tightly gripped as the rest of the shaft.

Also, the closed end means that if you do it right, there’ll be suction. I like to lube a stroker up, push all of the air out, then slide my cock into the entrance while holding it closed tight enough that no air gets into the works. That creates a bit of a vacuum, adding to the sensations and helping you stay hard. That’s particularly enticing right now, because the other thing I’m looking at in the store is a vacuum pump.

See, I’m not just shopping for solo play. The girl I’m with at the store, she likes to take turns holding the crop from time to time. I’m not into pain, but I’m into sex, and I’m into her, so I’m looking for a way to make it work.

Part of the trick to BDSM for people who don’t truly get off on pain (and even for some who do) is that the endorphins released by sex help relieve and mask pain. When you’re turned on, minor impacts, shocks, and so forth that would normally register as pain, instead just register as extra sensation. Like if you eat a raw jalapeno, that’s mostly just going to hurt, but if you mix it with the right amount of chili and/or cheese, the burn just highlights the flavors that you’re already enjoying, and vice-versa.

The problem is, she’s impatient, and not fully trained in the art of the tease. Also, I’m getting older. So when we’re together, I can’t just lay there rock-hard excited just because she’s naked and going to have sex with me, and she stroked me to fullness a minute or two earlier. I kind of need something to keep me stimulated sexually while she’s got me cuffed, gagged, and blindfolded, and she’s whacking my ass with that crop.The burn alone just doesn’t do it for me without the metaphorical beans and queso.

It’s easier for her. I can slip a vibe into her, or a plug, or both, and that keeps her special places entertained enough that the pain blurs with the sex. I’m looking for something that works for me like that. A vibe won’t work well with a cock, and a plug just doesn’t work the same for me as it does for her.

So I’ve been thinking that if my cock was inside a stroker or a pump while I’m lying there, that might keep me turned on enough that the crop would stay on the good side of interesting. A pump specifically would have the suction to keep me at least hard, even if it lacked the stimulation to feel good. I figured it was a long shot, but maybe this dead-end stroker would work even better. The suction might help me stay aroused, and it might feel real nice when I’m getting cropped on the ass. I mean, when your ass is smacked, you jolt forward. I figure that if my cock’s in a nice, slick stroker, then every time I’m whacked with that crop, my ass is going to flinch, my hips will buck forward, and I’ll be sliding into that nice pseudopussy.

Worth a shot anyway.

But I saw the price tag, and I thought that maybe I could get the same thing cheaper at Amazon. We bought the plugs, and I waited on the stroker until I could check online prices.

Anyway, I get the thing at some point, but it’s on a day where she isn’t in the mood to play with toys. She’s had a long day, and after we watch a movie together, she just heads off to my bed to sleep.

“Mind if I play with the toy without you?” I ask.

“Go for it!” she says.

I do.

A score of minutes later, I’ve got some porn pulled up on my computer, and I’ve got the stroker near me. I pick something that should work for me, some of that quasi-forced, “I’m embarrassed and vulnerable, and I’m oh-so-pure, but what you’re doing feels so damned good that I can’t stop you from having your way with me” Asian stuff. Live-action, not anime, and I manage to find something that doesn’t pixel out the best parts.

Asian girls are one of my go-to fantasies, ever since that girl lived down the hall from me in college. Of course, Hispanic girls are a thing for me since grade school, and black girls have been a hot-button since Junior High, and redheads have done it for me since… fuck it. I like women. Pretty much all of them–a thousand flavors, and they’re all my favorite. Tonight’s flavor is Asian.

I use my hand to start. No lube, just bare skin on skin, holding the loose flesh of my shaft and moving it gently back and forth. Sometimes I grip tight, sometimes I grip gently. Sometimes I let go, and just glide my hand over the outside of the skin, but I have to be careful because my hands have callouses, and that can turn rough and scrapey.

There’s an art to all of it. I’m in the teasing stage, where I’m getting myself hard, turning myself on, and priming the pump so to speak.

After I’m good and ready, I reach for the toy. I lubed it up first, before I started. No point in slowing things down during the session. I used generic water-based lube, the kind where you sometimes have to spit to add moisture when it starts to dry out and get tacky.

The stroker is bulky, and floppy. That’s a negative, because it means that I have to use both hands just to maneuver the thing. It’s not an uncommon issue with the larger strokers–the ones that are deep enough to take all of me inside of them–but it’s still annoying. I like to keep one arm free so that I can use the other to play with the nips, or slap my face, or tell myself in sign language (or with a sock puppet) that I’m a dirty whore, or whatever else suits my particular mood. Point is, it’s important to have a hand free for other stuff, okay?

So I have to use both hands with this thing, but it feels pretty nice. The suction definitely works. The chambers? They’re a mixed bag. The idea is nice, but it’s kind of intense to the point of being distracting. I mean, it’s interesting, but it sure as hell doesn’t feel like pussy.

The Asian chick on the screen is sucking a guy’s cock, and I pull back a bit with the stroker, trying to wade back to shallower depths to replicate the blowjob, but it’s more unwieldy at that level. If I go in too deep, then it messes with the fantasy a bit because most good head only works the first few inches, and while this thing sure doesn’t feel like pussy, it sure as hell doesn’t feel like a throat. If I go too shallow, then it’s physically awkward to handle the thing, and that messes with the fantasy as well.

After a while, I’m not getting much out of it. This thing was interesting at first, but now it’s just too much: too much pressure, too much weight in my hands, too much flopping around if I don’t use both hands to line it up right. I try laying the stroker on the desk, and just fucking it while standing up, watching the screen. The Asian girl is in doggy-style now, so that works out alright, but the motion isn’t as natural as just moving my hands as well as my hips. This kind of work is only worth it for real pussy, and this stroker isn’t real pussy. No stroker is.

I get kind of tired, and think about just quitting and going to sleep, but at this point I’m too horny to hit the hay, and I’m too bored with the toy to get an orgasm. That’s kind of disappointing.

So I check my email for a bit, and I play around on Twitter.

After a while, my cock starts telling me that it’s bored, and that I’d better do something to tire it out, so we can both go to sleep for the night. I click back to the tab where the porn is still pulled up. The Asian girl is frozen mid-fuck where I left her, the guy’s hands on her hips and his stomach against her ass. Her mouth is frozen open in the start of a moan, and her eyes are lightly closed. It’s a good moment, the kind of moment that I often wish I could freeze-frame my own life at. All good things come to an end, though. I click the mouse. The screen unfreezes, and her moaning body instantly thaws back into sound and motion.

She’s not fully shaved down there, just around her entrance. The rest of her pussy is neatly groomed. The couple changes position. Now the guy she’s with is going down on her while she protests, her face red with shame, but her legs are open wide, and he’s not holding them there. Her hips are bucking, pushing her pussy against his face. His hands reach up under her buttocks, grabbing her ass and pulling her body closer to him, getting his face right in there so close that I can’t see the immediate action any more. That’s okay, because sometimes I don’t need to–my imagination is enough, along with the look on her face and the jiggle of her body.

Yeah, okay. I’m getting hard again.

This time, I start off with a different stroker, a translucent sleeve that’s not long enough to fit all of me–and that’s too well-worn to be all that tight–but that’s familiar, and it works well to get me started. This one is ribbed too, but the ribs are gentler, less distracting. I watch the Asian girl’s breasts shake as the man starts fucking her again, her perfectly round nipples sticking out like candy, her supple flesh so smooth and sexy.

There’s a close-up of the guy fucking her, of his large cock slipping into those tight nether-lips of hers, pulling back slick, then sliding forward into her again. I try to time the movements of my hand to each thrust that he makes, but that’s a tricky game to get right to begin with, and pretty soon my body craves a faster tempo.

I’m pretty turned on now, so I grab my Doc Johnson “Balls Deep” stroker. I squeeze the air out, and I spit on the entrance. I relax my hand a bit, watching the saliva get sucked into the entrance, mixing with the lube that’s already in there. I place the head of my cock right against the entrance, and I relax my grip on the stroker as I slip my cock into it.

There’s that suction again. It’s pleasant.

I slide in deeper, and there are those ridges that demark each chamber. It’s a bit like entering all of those Russian dolls after all. It’s pleasant too.

The thing is still cumbersome. It’s too soft to be so long, and I still have to keep both hands on the thing, one at the base and one at the end. Sometimes it’s one at the middle and one at the end. Once I’m worked up enough, I can switch to a hand on the base, and one in the middle. The dead-end to the tunnel keeps me from slipping out, and it prevents those irritating squelching noises that sometimes happen with an open-ended stroker.

This time it’s better. This time it’s good. There’s a close-up of the Asian girl’s face as she reaches orgasm (or fakes one), and I’m right there myself, so I let loose, and I come. It’s not a fantastic orgasm, but it’s not bad either. It’s about average. My legs try to shake a bit, and my head leans back, and I think I let loose a brief grunting noise as my semen shoots out of me into the stroker. I’m glad it’s got a closed end–cleanup will be easier that way.

The girl at the store told me that I should really buy their $15 cleaning product that’s specifically for toys, but I didn’t bother doing it then, and I didn’t even think about it when shopping online. That stuff might extend the life of a toy, but for the price of two or three bottles of the cleaning product, you could probably just buy a brand new toy. When I declined, she told me that soap and alcohol both degrade the material (which I knew), and that I should just use hot water (which I do anyway, but it’s good to have professional confirmation). So after I pull the stroker off of me, I keep it tilted upright, with the labia toward the ceiling, and I go take a shower. I dump the contents down the drain as I stand in the hot water, mildly surprised at the quantity. I fill the stroker up with hot water, empty it, and repeat a few times. I hang it up to dry in the shower caddy, lips-down so it can drain, then I clean the other one.

When I’m satisfied with the toys’ sanitation, I clean myself.

Next, I mix some Everclear and orange juice, and I write this review.

I look at the stars for a while, the review stars on the screen in front of me.

One star is “I hate it,“ and I don’t hate this product. I’m used to some disappointment with sex toys, especially with sleeves and strokers. I also don’t “don’t like it,” which is the two-star option. It got the job done, even if it needed a bit of help. Hell, maybe it was me. Maybe I wasn’t in the right mood, or I haven’t practiced enough with this particular toy.

I start to click on three stars, for “It’s okay,” but heck… I’ve only given it one test run. I remember that well-worn sleeve I have, and that it was a little awkward starting out as well: a little too tight, and a little too intense. But I adjusted to it, and it adjusted to me, and now we’ve got a good thing going. I’m going to give this thing four stars. I can’t give it five, just because it’s too bulky. Maybe that’s why Fleshlights and other toys come in those hard plastic outer layers. That probably makes them easier to handle.

Four stars is “I like it,” and that seems fair. How could I not like something that helped me reach orgasm?

As far as strokers go, it’s pretty decent. It’s got very nice depth. It’s got a bit of natural suction. It’s got easy clean-up. The heft of it feels nice when I really do go “balls deep” inside of it. Those are all quite important. I think I just need to learn the best ways to use this. Maybe if I hump it while lying down. Maybe if I use it while that girl crops or flogs me. Maybe I can figure out some one-handed technique that works with it.

It’s not perfect, but neither am I.

It’s a four-star product, but it’s a three-star world.

It’ll do.