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.