Last night, as you already know, I was home alone, sipping red wine and writing a sex scene for my new story.
It doesn’t take a genius to imagine I was horny. I am a very sexual person and I haven’t had any action in over a year (not couting the artificial action I often give myself or I’ll go mad).
What did I decide to do?
No, I didn’t drive to a bar to pick a stranger up for a quickie. That does not attract me anymore. I had the adventures I wanted to have when I was young. Now that sounds meh!
I decided to watch porn. Why not? I thought. I hadn’t touched the stuff in so long and last night I was reminded exactly why: I fucking hate it!
It hasn’t changed. No matter what I put in my searches, trying to find something less crude and more sensual, I found myself screaming at my laptop.
As someone who struggled for a few years to develop a good relationship with sex itself, that pisses me off.
Books often commit the same sin. It’s hard to find an erotic book that doesn’t leave me screaming (not for the reasons the author would like) or laughing uncontrollably at the ridiculous situations.
DON’T YOU DARE SUGGEST 50 SHADES MOMMY PORN!!!
(I will stop now or I’ll be writing a full novel length rant here.)
It goes back to me writing what I would like to read and can’t find. Cue more inspiration.
For now, I’ll leave you with a link to a blog post that never fails to make me laugh (for all the right resons).