Its been a bumpy ride.

I've written a series of posts and put them all in the scheduler. It turns out I haven't quite gotten the hang of the scheduler, because here it is, nearly June, and none of them have been published. This makes me quite disappointed considering, not only the hard work I've put into them, but how important it is to be consistent in this endeavor that is starting to feel a bit crazy. One day I'm going to want to be found in Google. I'm going to have to do better than techno thumbs if I'm going to build the following I'd like to have.

I've come up with a huge story back inventory, but I need to get where I feel I'm ready to truly write these (books mostly) and that can't happen if I can't look at every month and see how I'm progressing!

So here is how I'm going to fix my little snafu. Every time I get on to write a new post (and yes, I will still be trying to master the complexities of the scheduler!) I will click publish on one of those mysterious back posts that should have been put into place. I won't publish a whole lot of new material, but will write it and save it for the future (to be seen once I learn how to dominate the scheduler, it shall auto publish on a nice regular schedule).

I will have to go back and re-think some of my posts around the time of the Boston Marathon. I've got a story of an aging hippy who imagines what would have happened had the Boston bomber just gotten some the right kind of spiritual lovin'. Looking back...I'm not sure if I'm going to click publish on that. Some stories are just meant to die alone in the dark.

A little plastic sheath; I make condoms into wreaths!

I've noticed every few years there is a scandal regarding condoms and the porn industry, and by this, I mean movies. The public health consensus is that condoms should be worn in movies, not just because the actors could transmit infections to each other, but because watchers of movies will emulate the act of unprotected sex in an attempt to achieve the carefree sex experience that the actors appear to be enjoying. The industry, resistant, responds that “industrial spills” (the naked cum shot) are an essential part of the visual experience. In other words, condom free fucks are critical infrastructure to the distribution and consumption of porn products. (Ha! My word processor wants to change that to pork products. Perhaps industry slogan should be: Porn, the other white meat.) Rather than treating them as hazardous materials incidents in which all the participants are wrapped in plastic and respirators, like studious CDC agents*, the sex act should be allowed to unfold unfettered.

Both players emphasize that they are concerned about prevention of disease transmission, but go about limiting exposure to viruses and preventing cross genital contamination from body fluids in different ways. Public health wants to regulate condoms, while the porn industry wants to self-require a strict regiment of testing among actors. I’m sure they also use lots of bleach and respirators to clean up the film sets-or I sincerely hope so.

Unfortunately, every few years in the sex film state of California, there is an outbreak of one STD or another. The industry is rocked. The news cycle buzzes with whether symptoms were ignored in search of the almighty dollar or whether the players simply lacked symptom of the horrible disease du jour.

This jerks the debate of required condom use in pornography back to front and center. Should condom use be mandated in pornography. It makes me think about how it applies to my writing. I’m not worried about giving my characters infections through the practice of reckless, unprotected sex. The only way my characters are getting sick are if I write infection with bacteria into the story. No one is worried about epidemics of syphilis in literary characters. Books are excellent antiviral agents.

What I’m more concerned about is modeling for my readers. While I expect my readers to be adults, and adults need to take responsibility for themselves, there is something very true about modeling. People look to each other for cues and direction about how to live life. You can quarantine fluids, but you can’t quarantine ideas. The question for me, is how responsible, how much modeling should I do. Should I always have characters reach for condoms? When they don’t use condoms should I punish them with HIV and chlamydia? Or are books precisely a safe place to play out fantasy? Mystery writers cleverly murder people all the time in books. Should they avoid doing so, so they don’t model unhealthy behavior? Should I put a disclaimer on all of my books? Would Stephen King do that?

I’m not really sure how I feel about this topic. Not one little plastic bit.

*This makes me want to write a sex scene between two CDC agents, which if you don’t know what that means, it’s Center for Disease Control. These are the people who come out with big plastic tents, blue body bags hooked to breathing hoses, that test everyone for anthrax or nuclear radiation threats. The question would be, do they cut a little slit in their contamination suits so their love tools can get to work, thus exposing themselves to biological infections or nerve agents, or do the suits come equipped with reversible clear pockets to prevent contamination with blister agents and chemical burns? Fold them one way, a nice meaty cock can fill it. Fold the other way and it slips up into the pussy to make that delicious cavity accessible? “My, that's a mighty suspicious package you have there. I think its deserving of a body scanner. If you’ll just stick that in my security device…” It would require a lot of lubrication to prevent friction from tearing a hole and exposing our plastic sheathed lovers to whatever Norovirus, viral hemorrhagic fever or chemical plume is floating around. It could turn out to be one giant advertisement for full body condoms, Trojans, etc. and against viruses. “Condoms can be sexy, especially if it could be the end of the world. Don’t you want to survive and still be able to get your fuck on?” I'm sure the CDC will be getting right on that advertising campaign.

Porn for Women - January

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Rushing into darkness

It dawned on me that I've only been writing a little bit before jumping straight into my thoughts and concerns. When I went to write my next post, it struck me that I’m headed forward on an avalanche of posts. I’m eager to engage in my craft, eager to write and produce works that someone will enjoy.

The magnitude of stories in my head are tremendous, running through me like tornadoes, buffeting me in a virtual world of storytelling tsunami.

Once I gain a breath, sitting in the eye of the storm, I’m thoroughly sated from experiencing the story in my head, resting until the hurricane spins over my story chakra again.

This blog isn't my attempt to temper the storms and stop the twisters. Writing the stories are the attempt to get out of my head and rain the storms down on paper, golf-ball sized hail of words. This blog is to help me keep on track and try to keep me from tumbling back into my mind's eye, waiting for the next typhoon, the next hungry twister of engulfing story, and willingly sinking into the black whole of my creativity.

When I describe it as a black whole, I don’t mean an empty vapid space, I mean an event horizon which captures you so strongly that couldn't escape if you tried…if you wanted to.

I can feel the words pulsing, in heat, a wildfire raging to burn the page, but I want to do this right. In their insistence to be released, I don’t want to create a disaster of their manifestation in this dimension (their home dimension being my head of course, the giant movie theater that runs twenty-four seven), by letting them run amuck as if its an emergency for them to flood the page.

I want my execution, my output to not just be enriched, but to enrich the reader until we all glow with arousal. Hence this blog—to work through my experience, to release the pent up forces of thought, to analyze, to learn.

I hope through writing it all down, it will enhance my journey and make me better at my target: writing great erotica and amazing stories. I figure, why not bring the reader through my journey, maybe they can learn something too, and hopefully, you’ll come to trust my writing style, my ability to entertain you, that one day you will take a chance on my future, erotic, porn filled literary fire.

Here is where the panic sets in…I’m running full tilt at the bridge between my head and the paper, and I don’t have a plan. As I write, or plot, or daydream, or study, or read blogs, or do whatever else it is that I am doing to create a super soldier of erotica, it is entirely by the seat of my pants. Is that smart?

What if I hit a moment, a day a week in which I’m not inspired to blog? Will I slip off the dock to drown in the deep murky seas of my own head? If I write in bursts and fits will the delays make my blog lose life? I feel I need to keep the momentum going on the blog to keep the momentum going from head to paper.

I would hate to see a service disruption, not just for this blog, and you the reader, but for my main purpose, breathing the souls of my creations into the clay of this earth so I can bring them to life in this world.

Could this blog die in a mudslide of posts, a flurry of words, a blizzard of ideas, slowly eroded as that energy comes to rest at the base of time passing?

I think I can avoid that erosion, because I’m dedicated to my cause, if I plan, if I have an idea of exactly my purpose. I think I fear that this whole endeavor will die in infancy falling prey to the usual suspects, and I fear it even more precisely because I am running with it, manic and determined. I think that if I take this post as a warning to myself, and watch carefully that I pace, that I focus, I can avoid becoming stuck or stranded on those challenges that so often take down other people. No, the only closure I plan to have this blog see is achieving the goal of writing at least one erotic novel, and building a site where you can truly follow how I got there from a non-writer writer to Alaska Daneel, Sex writing goddess extraordinaire.

Blind Desire

All I can think about right at this moment, when I should be blogging, is how badly I want a cock. I don't want a penis attached to an asshat, I want a cock, smooth and clean, waiting to glisten as it glides into nirvana. I wonder if I should be blogging this.

Will it get my blog banned?

Isn't the whole point to be writing about erotic writing, not about the hot steam rising inside of my wet folds, and the lust that makes me think of sweet lubricated friction for hours?

Then again, every erotic story in my head is based in my own lust. If that's the foundation, shouldn't I engage in it? Shouldn't I explore it and share it, turning it over and over while I plunge my hands into the nature of it and mold it as I would clay while learning my craft?

I want to sculpt erotica until you can't look away from it, until you can't keep yourself from reaching out to stroke its curves even though its museum taboo.

I suppose one way to do that is to immerse myself inside of my creative origins. There goes my firmness that this blog is only about the path to learning how to write. It turns out it might be periodically naughty after all.

A Mexican army walks into a sex shop

I was working on my story about the sexy Mexican Army, crouching in the mountains across the border, fighting narcs and drug runners while pumping their guns with erotic force. One of the reasons I want to work on this story first is because I don’t mind screwing it up. I have some stories in my head, my precious babies, and I don’t want to blow them up in a destructive rain of fleshy chunks and rubble. I want to be careful with these stories and craft them with love and talent. Thus, the first five or so stories will have to be test runs—guinea pigs that I don’t mind becoming cannor fodder for the masses of people who will (hopefully) read, and possibly excoriate my work.

I felt the need to justify that because this orgy of sexy naked men in the foothills of traffikers and danger does seem a little romance novel-esque, a bit silly and over board— one might say campy perhaps—and, well, to repeat, it makes me feel the need to justify working on such a story that I have a slight lack of respect for.

That said, I was trying to find a place for my armed muscled men, and I noticed that every time I looked at foreign city names, I read something into the name. For example: Sinaloa. I don’t know where this is (except I think its in Mexico or South America), but it sounds seductively dirty on the tongue, the kinds of dirt that taste like dark organic sugar. Sinaloa: Sing it lower, Sin a bit lower, Moan low.

Next was Nogales and my mind went slightly to the side of silly: No gals, or No gal is here.

Then was Michoacana which had no translation in my head, but makes my head swim with visions of sexy lady hips, swirling slowly in sparkling rose colored skirts. My mind almost wants to translate it into Mi Juana, or my sexy lady, but when I write it or say it, it doesn’t flow out loud — only in my head.

Matamoros has the dangerous feel of sex, lust and blood. Kill the morals is what my mind comes up with, a slender rapier thrust straight through the belly of prudence, skewering puritanism.

Tamaulipas makes me think of a dark latin lady dressed in a deep purple bikini top with a fringed skirt revealing one thigh. She lays on a hammock, framed by a tropical background and bathed in steamy tropical sounds. Tucked above one ear is an exotic purple flower with white streaks, cast against her black, shining flowing locks. Her eyes are soft and relaxed. I imagine Tamaulipas a relaxed, exotic, tropical place, holding Tama’s lips…both sets waiting for caress.

Calderon is abrupt. It pulls me out of the dark green foliage into a cauldron. It says to me from the mist rising from its edge: Call her home, call her home, and I feel a story there, of loss and longing along a hard iron edge.

I move down my list to Nuevo Leon and I mark it. It is the first name I come upon that makes me feel not of a lady but of the musky testosterone of men. New lion, proud, strong, large lions. Proud, strong, loins. Then I realize Matamoros might also be such a place, and I mark it as well.

Fort Hancock pops up unexpectedly. I think its in the US, but the name is explicit. A fort full of men, hand on cock. I mark it, but feel unsure.

Sonora is out for my story, but it draws me like a siren song. In fact it’s letters and flow feel as if siren and song has merged. She is sonorous, a slightly uglier word in English than Sonora. It is a she, because Sonora sounds like senora. Sonora is shaded, waiting for your hand to glide down her shoulder. When you touch her she will emerge softly from the shadows, embracing you with her song, and you will never know that her strong firm hand (it seems so delicate and hesitant), guided you to this magical hypnosis.

I move to Torreon. Tor-re- own, I sound out in my head. It sounds like a slow burning anger. Tore one on. Alcohol? Letting go in a simmering wild burning madness. Tearing on the condom, I must, my lust pushes me forward. I mark it as a possible location.

I move to Tijuana and instantly mark it off. Not only does it rhyme with marijuana, which I think I have decided I will not have my horny army get high on toking pot, it makes me think of Tequila. None of those things make me think of rough hard edged men in the mountains. I do wonder if it would be a great metaphor for slipping from women to men, if they were sucking maryjane while fucking each other.

Yuma just sounds like yummy, and for some reason my brain tells me it means mountain in some language, or sounds like a word that means mountain in a language.

Reynose is next and my mind goes silly, so I mark it off. Ray no say! Ray no say! Reindeer nose. No, no good for this story.

I’m on a roll and I look abroad at Yemen, Al-shabaab and Hezbollah next. Yemen (visually) rhymes with semen which I like for this story, but it would mean I have to change the backdrop to guerillas fighting in the harsh cracked lands of the Middle East. Would they be Jihadi’s or would they be freedom fighters?

I don’t even know if Al-shabaab is a place, and I wonder if simply writing this will get someone angry enough to call for decapitation for insulting Islam, especially if I write that this name makes me think of a barbed penis wrapped in a velvet tongue.

And Hezbollah, in my current state of mind, sounds to me like an orgasmic gasp, a word you cry out when winded by intense passion, writhing through your whole body, as cock slips deep into vagina. I hope this raises no one’s ire, but I realize that writing about sex and ethnicity can stoke some fires. My best defense is that I am small and unknown, and these meandering thoughts are unlikely to go viral. It will be the challenge that I climb, like every other writer and blogger, to keep up my presence, share my thoughts, write my books, and build and keep my readership.

What did I decide? I took the four places that I marked, and next I will Google them just to be sure I can find an isolated enough setting to let the Mexicles** mix.

*I would like to write a romance novel one day, but now my goal is to practice and learn from stepping on literary landmines.

** Mexican Testicles.

1, 2, 3, 4, My way is better than yours

I was thinking about my last post. It was written after a week-long onslaught of reading many, many sources. One of the things I was thinking in the back of my head, but hadn’t quite percolated to the forefront of my consciousness, finally burst through today.

Not all of these articles are talking about the same genre or desired outcome when they judge what is a good final product.

Some articles are talking about straight fiction literature. Within this genre exists a specific spectrum of opinions:

1. Sex doesn’t belong in fiction
2. Sex only belongs in fiction if it moves along the plot
3. Sex to titillate or arouse cheapens fiction and this is bad
4. Sex when written shouldn’t be perfunctory or mechanical but
5. Sex when written shouldn’t be gloriously described and transcendental
6. Sex when written should be straightforward, described as is, while somehow avoiding number 4

I’m not writing straight literary fiction, I’m writing in part to arouse the reader. I’ve masturbated over most (but not all) of the sex scenes in my head, long before I ever wrote them. When I look at the mash of perspectives, I see a puritan take that doesn’t mesh with what I am trying to achieve with my stories. This is likely not my audience and catering to their ideas of what are good descriptions of sex will probably undo me. I am writing erotica to arouse, but I’m also writing a good story  (I hope) exploring themes and messages that both relate and don’t relate to sex, both through and not through sex. So if I don't belong in narrative fiction, where do I belong?

Some articles talk about erotica. I thought about mixing this with the discussion of pornography because their complaints over lap, but some perspectives on pornographic writing are simply unique to themselves. The same goes for romance writing, which I consider a sub-genre of erotica, but I found was a view rejected by many (but not all) self-labeled erotica writers.

The spectrum of opinions on sex and erotica/romance/pornography that I found, flow as follows:

Erotica

1. The point of erotica is to arouse the reader.
2. The point of erotica is to explore the concepts related to our sexual and emotional beings through erotic settings and relationships.
3. The point of erotica is to explore themes related to sex, through sex but not directly sex, like themes of control, connection trust and release.
4. Erotica can explore violent and taboo topics but shouldn't do so for the sake of doing so, but to connect and explore these themes. If this is in place, its okay to also aim for arousal, but not okay if these aren't in place.
5. Good erotica uses transcendental (this is a word I use because I saw it several time on blogs that discuss a certain type of description of sex)....transcendental...uhm...pick a word: metaphorical, floral, indirect, elaborate, euphemistic language.
6. Good erotica depicts sex with a real, literal description and avoids metaphorical, floral, indirect, elaborate, euphemistic language to describe sex.

Some of this I'm down with, but some of this I'm not. Maybe I'm an explicit romance writer then?

Romance

1. The point of romance is to create an experience for women to feel certain emotions, such as emotional connections, feeling desired, putting themselves in a fantasy land and escaping reality. Different bloggers and commenters don’t necessarily agree with all of these; they may agree with some, but vehemently reject others.
2. The point of romance is to engage and fulfill women sexually and emotionally and connect that sexual desire to the emotional desire and vice versa.
3. The point of romance is to allow women to get aroused, feel desire, and probably masturbate, without feeling like they are slipping into erotica or pornography.
4. Romance novels that have a lot of sex--implicit or explicit--are erotica.
5. Romance novels are almost never erotica.
6. Romance novels are low level pornography.
7. Romance novels are not pornography.
8. The point of romance novels are to allow women to live inside taboo or exaggerated romance, love, lust structures, such as being thrown over the shoulder of a pirate, or mount an emotionally unavailable cowboy.
9. The point of romance novels are to do 8. but with an emotionally satisfying happy ending.
10. Good romance novels use flowery intense, euphemistic, elaborate language.

The romance community has too many conflicting restrictions for me to plop my curvacious bottom there.

Pornography

1. Pornography is about getting aroused and often contributing to an orgasm.
2. Pornography should be explicit.
3. Pornography should use metaphorical words and taboos if it heightens arousal
4. Pornography is about sex, sex, sex and has no other literary, erotic, or romance purpose.

I absolutely plan on getting aroused and making beautiful orgasms all over the world. I'd like to be explicit. But sadly, I have many other maniacal purposes, so I can't simply follow the rules of porn.

As you can see, there is a lot of spillover and a lot of dissent. If I listen to the cacophony of voices, I’ll become dizzy and fall down before I finish a paragraph.

Maybe I'll be porna: my own mixture of erotic, pornographic, romantic, literary fiction.

Yes, I still have to crack the secret code of the carnivore that is meat eating pornography and how it mixes with literature to create good erotica, but understanding where I want to take the reader will help me understand how I fit in to this collage of sexual culture, and what voices I feel best guide me.