Yesterday I did a blog sightseeing tour. I wanted to see what the erotica writers are blogging about, and get some ideas to sex up the smut-blog. As you see, I’ve wandered off-topic here, with posts about darling Izzy (whose nose is, at this moment, buried in my cleavage; either she’s trying to help or I’ve lost a Cheerio), and Oregon, and even occasionally about writing. But what about the sexy talk? Where have all the naked torsos gone?
Well, I found them. The blogs I visited all had posts about upcoming events, links to published books and stories, updates about works in progress. Writerly topics, by writers I admire. But many of them also discuss sex toys and sex news and sexy photo shoots and contraception and the (to me) disturbing trend of anal penetration. What I’m saying is, there’s a lot of sex on the sex blogs. And I like sex, but . . .
That’s a lot of sex.
God, maybe I’m in the wrong racket, maybe I’m missing the point. Much of this stuff seems oddly plastic to me. The dirt is too clean, too purely physical. I can’t engage. I like a mind-fuck better than the regular kind, and I want it pretty deep. I want to think about misogyny and deception, rage and lust and perversion, the mating ritual of the preying mantis. I want to think about the darker cravings. The ugly beauty of the whole thing. Pent-up aggression, deviance and promiscuity. Sex as a force of nature. Sex as an acid balm. Hold the fucking cutesy-pie rabbits and the safe words and the lavender lingerie, and bring it like you mean it. If you wanna fuck me, fuck me over. Break my spirit so I can rebuild. Hold your tepid concern for my well-being; that condescending bullshit makes me yawn. Ask me how I’m doing and you’re doing it wrong.
Or maybe I’m doing it wrong. The blog tour makes me think I don’t know shit about sex-writing. I should write about medieval espionage, it’s nearer the point.
What’s so great about sex, anyway?