- The back & fourth of four erotic writers. The best erotica is all lies. When we write, we’re both ourselves and role playing. The following conversation is no different. They are the perspectives of four erotic writers who are both ourselves and the roles we play as men and women. Feel free to join in, lie, tell the truth, surprise us.
To imagine being a woman, opened from behind, desired that way, feeling another presence inside and the anonymity is incredibly sexy. It’s archetypal – the simple fact of being a woman; and of a universal, mystical, maleness that will, by necessity, find you and renew itself in you. That’s part of what inspired me to write Stranger. When do girls start noticing that masculine presence that wants to penetrate them and when, as women, do they surrender to it. This, at least, is how I imagine the erotic life of a woman – completely idealized, perhaps, and eroticized.
Here’s the other question – granted it’s one archetype, but is it always surrender? There are powerful images of the woman as Matriarch. She isn’t taken; she doesn’t surrender. She’s the gatekeeper who grants entry into the sanctum. She gifts pleasure and takes it. There are other female archetypes that we (or I, at least) don’t pay great attention to in writing – which include the woman as aggressor and taker – the enveloper/swallower/devourer. All that said, I’ll still admit that the most sexy to _me_ is still what you originally posit.
I wonder the same thing about men. Are the emotional implications of their budding sexuality as deep-seated as a young woman’s, or is it primarily physical — an all-consuming desire to fill a woman (sometimes any woman) up? Does the thought of being able to fill a woman with themselves, with life, turn them on as much as it does a woman to be filled? If done right, does it shake them to the core like it does a woman?
I remember being a brand new teenager. Teenaged girls were so beautiful. I idealized them. They weren’t human. I wanted to protect them. I wanted to give them my coat to wear when they were cold. I wanted to hold them. They felt fragile, breakable and soft. They were angels. At the same time, when I was alone, I would imagine them naked. I would masturbate two or three times a day. I would imagine them on their backs with their legs spread. I would imagine them on their hands and knees. I would imagine what kinds of noises a girl would make and what it would feel like to move in and out of her. A girl’s shape was like a drug. The desire to drive my cock upward, between their thighs, and into their belly was inexplicable, feverish and powerful. A young man starts out with two visions of girls and young women. One is beautiful and one feels shameful. Maybe a boy’s maturing, in this sense, is learning how to harmoniously draw together these two powerful ways of imagining women.
The act of conception is the closest humanity gets to being god. If it is something you’re reaching for intentionally, it can be profoundly spiritual as well as sexual, so that gets wrapped up in both the act and the play-act (i.e. non-procreative sex). On another side, opposed to this ultimate and pleasurable collaboration is the idea of possession. There is often the desire to mark your lover as yours. What better, more ‘permanent’, more deeply intrusive way to mark someone than to leave a part of you so deep inside them it changes what they are fundamentally.
Since I was raised in a very religious environment, it really molded my experience of puberty. I’ll never forget the time that they had a man come into our youth class and lecture us at length about the negative physical and spiritual consequences of masturbation(!) Imagine telling that to a bunch of 12-13 year olds? For years afterward, I’d feel guilty enough to cry after I caved in and touched myself, thinking that each time I did it, I’d have to pray for forgiveness and my future sex life would somehow be negatively effected…as if a woman has an alloted amount of orgasms per lifetime *eyeroll*
I used to think every roll of thunder and flash of lightning was a sign of nature’s anger. But imagining a girl or a woman’s body in my hands was too much. I couldn’t stop. My desire for women and lovemaking is what finally defeated the malevolence of religion. It’s hard to describe the powerful desire to fill a woman. There’s a point where everything and anything can look like a cunt, breasts or a woman’s legs. Nature has somehow created us to want and want and want to penetrate a woman and empty ourselves inside her.
Well, I think you’re thinking like a hetero, even though I tend to share your opinion. I was lucky enough not to have a repressive upbringing. My early thoughts were self repressive, though, since I saw the inherent possibility of power play and its potential abuse, and recoiled at that possibility within myself.
Before that talk though, I thought about the young men around me all the time; in fact, they completely invaded my thoughts. I noticed how the timbre of their voices was lowering and their upper lips were now covered with fuzz and they were getting taller and their shoulders were broadening and their muscles were growing. I’ve always been about smells and tastes, and since they now smelled different, I wondered whether they tasted different as well. I had a vague idea about what they had between their legs and I caught all the innuendo from the adults around me that suggested that they were tugging at it all the time, but I wondered how exactly we fit together — and the masturbation talk we’d all been given didn’t stop me from aching to know first-hand. I was only beginning to get acquainted with my own body, but I wanted to know how the changes in me affected them.
I couldn’t stop imagining what was under this girl’s jeans or what a woman’s breasts felt like. I would sit in class and stare at the girl across from me. I would get painfully hard just looking at her. Having my cock locked in my jeans was what was painful.
So much of my adolescene was spent in a hormonal haze I don’t really remember who or what I thought about in specific, and when I was younger, fertility itself was not that much of a motivator – it was the shape, the feel, the beauty of the female form – and yes, wanting to be so close as to be inside – that got me.
A lot of people have a running joke about how if a woman cries after sex it means that you did it right, but there’s something to that — something that always reminds me that fucking isn’t only a physical act, and shouldn’t be considered just a pleasant muscle spasm (outside of masturbation, of course).
I’ve never cried after sex. I’ve never made love to a woman who cried after sex. I’ve made love to women who hummed or sang after sex. I feel loose and lanky after sex. I feel powerful. I feel like there’s a part of myself inside this beautiful apparition next to me. Sometimes I just want to keep looking at her in the flow of orgasm. I kiss her breasts. I especially love to kiss her abdomen, low and just between the V — the musculature of her legs. I imagine my come warmly inside her — just under the touch of my lips.
Ha ha, no one likes to be the person who cries after sex — the media has made it into such a silly joke that I’m certain many people have run into the restroom just to wipe away those tears before the other person notices…
On the most part, I am a sweaty, contented mess after a good fu— after a good roll in the hay, but there have been a couple of times where my orgasm cries have turned to sobs. I can’t speak for anyone else, but what made me start to cry is a sudden intense feeling of emptiness, and the fear that I won’t feel as full as I just felt. I don’t know whether that’s a sign that the person I just made love to did a really good job, or whether they just fucked me so hard that they knocked some stray emotions loose — it hasn’t happened enough to me for me to really analyze the reasons why. Maybe the French really do have something when they call an orgasm “petit mort”, because to completely get lost in your body can be a scary experience, especially if you’re really cerebral and inhabit your mind the most.
Sometimes I just want to close my eyes and be. The sheer sensuality of women, their strangeness, their curves, their softnesses, their smells and wetness is a high. I want to be inside the woman, encircling her, a part of her.
I have guy friends, and our conversations inevitably lead to this subject — I always end up asking how it feels like to fill a woman up, and whether its different when it’s someone they really like (or love). Do they get that feeling in their chest as if there was an inflated balloon in there — painfully full and empty — after they’ve orgasmed in the arms of a woman they love, or is that just a female thing and they feel something different?
The pleasure and excitement of sex overwhelms whether I loved the woman or not. Sex with a stranger or a one-off can be even more exciting and fulfilling. There’s the feeling of taking a woman and, yes, using her. And, yes, I like the thought of being used too. But when it’s over, it’s more fulfilling to be with a woman I love.
This resonates. Though there is an essential component in the mutuality. The pleasure – and emotional impact – of using and taking is in direct proportion to knowing that being used and taken is exciting to her as well. It’s a common force fantasy that the aggressive male ‘makes’ the female like it, but it’s not real.
I’ve had sex with people that I love and with people that I didn’t love, and to me, the difference is so that I don’t really give in to the temptation of a one-night stand anymore. Although the newness and naughtiness of it fire me up for that one moment, the comedown is abysmal and I feel dreadful afterward. I’m a bit of a contradiction that way — both prudish and profane. I know that I’m still young so my ultra-conservative upbringing has a lot to do with my current attitude, so I hope those feelings will fade with time. For now, I’ll fornicate but I won’t aid and abet adultery. I’ll commit an act of homosexuality but I won’t indulge with a woman I don’t really care about. I’ll let a man use me sometimes viciously, but not unless I have very strong feelings for him…the same goes for when I use a man. I’m sure I’d make Freud throw his hands up in dismay.
I can see why a lot of men might wonder for a second what it might feel like to be a woman — regardless of what our modern patriarchal society reflects, it’s the women that hold the scepter of power, so to speak. All I usually say to men who feel that way is this: With power comes responsibility, and that responsibility can sometimes be more than some of us can bear… it’s hard to remain all mysterious and self-possessed when all we want is an equal partner who is strong enough to love us without idealizing who we should be, what we should say, and what we should do to fill the narrow-minded, cookie-cutter ideal of their childhood jerk off fantasy.
I’ve always wondered, wanted to know what it was like. I don’t think any sexually aware person of either gender hasn’t at least wondered (if not desired to have even the slightest taste of) what it would be like to be the other.
I like women who share their desire with me. I myself don’t want to be mysterious and self-possessed. Before I was in a committed relationship, I might have imagined that inscrutability made me or another more attractive, but never for long.
Me neither — that’s the point. Mystery and self-possession are horrible in committed relationships, since love demands full disclosure. Like I mentioned before, getting to know your beloved shouldn’t feel like pulling teeth. I’ve heard men say the same thing, more or less: they don’t want to have to be the Brawny man or James Bond to have their women make them feel like they’re great lovers, loving partners, and good providers.
I don’t think it’s possible to be a good erotic writer unless you’re willing to imagine what it’s like to be the opposite sex and even imagine enjoying the experience. I actually like to imagine how desirable a man’s body is to a woman. I like to imagine how fascinated she is by a man’s cock and I enjoy seeing men through her eyes — as desirable sexual beings. Another erotic writer said to me that he never wanted to be a woman or ever wanted to imagine it- he said it with vehemence. And you could see it in his writing. The women in his stories were one dimensional. They weren’t real.
Again, I can only speak for myself, but a man’s body is endlessly desirable — and I’m not only speaking about a perfect, young physique. All of them have something attractive to them. When I see a man touch himself, there’s always this moment that my eyelids fall to half-mast, my mouth waters, and my mind shuts down; I’m thinking of only them, what seeing like that does to me, and all the things I’d like to do to give them pleasure. Sometimes, it’s not about what their hard cock can do for me, but what I can do for him to make him helpless and weak with lust…I want to tug and lick and tickle and suck and pinch and kiss and observe his reactions closely. I want to lick the sweat off their skin, bite into their tight asses, lick their nipples and their bellies, and whisper dirty things into their ears while they stroke themselves. Their whimpers and sighs of pleasure alone can sometimes send me really close to orgasm…
What about that…that mouth-watering moment, when you see him after time away? ..He’s standing there, and i am caught, frozen, motionless as i drink Him into my awareness…..i can smell Him, see Him, and the hunger for Him rises like a fast flood within me. For a moment i am aware of my own rapture; my breath, suspended. . . while my body prepares. My breasts flash with heat, nipples tighten, and my pussy swells and wets for Him. There, in that moment when i am devouring Him. trying to inhale Him, and longing to taste Him, that is when i am ‘lost’…to all but Him.
I’ve had the same experience from the male perspective. I can still remember returning to my girlfriend after an absence. The desire in my belly was like a pang, a burn, and an ache. My cock would be hard and my balls felt heavy. I’ve written stories about it. The worst and best was when I couldn’t act on it. I want her now. Fast. Hard. I felt like I wanted to reclaim her. I wanted to put my smell and heat back inside her. I made love in a field like that. We couldn’t wait. I needed to fuck her there and then; and she need to be fucked. Some of the best sex I’ve ever had…
When that first heated heady moment or so has passed, and the stasis is broken, we move towards each other with mutual intent; that’s when we become alive, aware. Suddenly, without quite knowing how, we’ve both gone super-nova, and we’ve each wondered, (later, in those quiet, sobering moments when we can breath again)….how could have things gotten so hot in such a short time…before we even touched?
I had another girlfriend and saw her for the first time, after an absence, in a dorm hallway with friends. I had my backpack on and she followed me into her room. I closed the door and fucked her against it. I didn’t take off my pants and she only had a once-piece dress on. We just needed that — the relief is indescribable. We opened the door and went right back out. She was full and overflowing with me but she liked how I felt leaking into her panties. Later, one of her friends said we probably wanted some time together. I told we had already had a little time!
It was like that with a girlfriend I once had — all she’d ever have to do is look at me a certain way and I’d get tunnel vision; everything and everyone disappeared, and all I could think about her smell and her taste and the feel of her hands on my body. She knew her effect on me and I knew my effect on her, but she played dirty — she would do these things in public. I’d be lying on her friend’s floor while we all watched tv (with her friend and her boyfriend on their bed, doing nothing) writhing because she’d be whispering all the things she wanted to do to me in my ear and pinching my nipples through my shirt. Now that I think about it, she’s one of the reasons I write erotica… I became a firm fan after she began to bring me to orgasm with words alone.
Then we cross to each other and we merge together, puzzle pieces out of place until we snug into each other. When that moment comes, and i am engulfed in Him..feeling his powerful arms wrapping around me, i know i am bound by my needs as well as His arms. That moment, when eyes slip shut, and lips meet, a soft, tentative touch at first, when our mouths say ‘hi’ without a single word, but only the press of flesh upon flesh…that moment is electric.
Someone said that the best sex is messy, sloppy, loud…i’m not even certain if i’m aware of any of that while we are joined. The heated glide of flesh, merging, oh yes. The moans, the slaps, the heat ..oh, those consume me. Woven through and around each of those moments are glimpses of the sacred.