Hello, readers. It’s been a while, it seems. I’ve been busy with another commission, and I just finished it yesterday. Today was spent working—last-minute customer issues necessitated doing a few hours.
I have to say, it’s weird knowing that people I know read my blog. I find myself filtering things, as I mentioned in A Fantasy. I’m torn because I feel a desire to “protect” my readers from my thoughts—to keep things at arm’s length and not get too personal—but on the other hand, I started this blog as an outlet for those very same thoughts I seek to protect you all from.
Or maybe I’m protecting myself from my readers. I’ll admit it, I don’t handle criticism well; I never have. It’s unnerving and—to me—terrifying to bare my soul when I know that people I know might read what I’ve written and judge me for it. Yes, okay, fine: I’m protecting myself, not my readers. After all, if you guys don’t like reading what I write, I’m sure not forcing you to continue reading…
With that said, this is still my blog, and it is still my outlet for those thoughts and feelings that have been troubling me. Frankly, it felt good to let it all out before I knew people were reading what I wrote. And despite baring it all then, nobody has said anything negative or given me reason to believe that they’re judging me harshly. If you are, well, kudos for doing it subtly enough that I didn’t pick up on it.
All of that said, I want this blog to remain my outlet. I don’t want to keep filtering things for fear of how people will perceive what I write. They say the best way to overcome something you’re afraid of is to expose yourself to it repeatedly. Well, here goes nothing, then: I’m going back to my unfiltered self, and if that comes with judgment, well, at least you’ll be judging me for who I really am and not some nice facade I’ve put up.
I feel a deep sense of brooding right now that I’m having trouble making sense of. I’m certain it came from watching BoJack Horseman again. I love the show, but I end up brooding afterwards—sometimes for days. In the past, my brooding focused on personal faults. Lately, they’re focused on BoJack’s father, who sought to write the “great American novel” at the time he met BoJack’s mother. Coincidentally, one of my readers (you know who you are) has expressed…interest…in me doing the very same thing. It’s been weighing on my mind a lot lately, and I’m not sure why it’s bothering me. Ten years ago, the idea would have been completely absurd. I hadn’t written a lick of fiction and had no idea that I ever would. That would have been the easy case. Fast forward to now, and I’ve written some fiction but am certainly not anywhere near that level. Frankly, despite having read the Wikipedia article on the “great American novel” and at least having an idea of what one is (and maybe an idea of what would go into one), it frankly feels presumptuous to even entertain the idea. I’m plenty guilty of thinking highly of myself, but for goodness’ sake, that level of hubris is far beyond my comfort zone.
Herein lies the brooding: let’s say it’s possible that I could write the next great American novel, something worthy of sharing a shelf with Steinbeck, Fitzgerald, and Miller, I’d be a fool not to attempt it. That is the side that says, “go for it.” The other side is nauseous even considering putting myself on a shelf with those guys.
And don’t even get me started on the amount of effort involved!
To be honest, writing erotica is almost effortless: words (usually) just flow out at a rate of 1000 to 2000 an hour. Things slow down towards the ends of the stories as I’m trying to avoid repeating myself and wrapping up the (sometimes unsexy) details to give the story a clean ending, but other than that, I write what comes to mind, maybe shift things around a bit here and there, but that’s pretty much it. I give my client the draft and then go in and do some clean-up (very seldom making any major changes) and call it done.
Contrast that with what I perceive writing the great American novel must be like. Greatness doesn’t just happen for most people. Sure, there are prodigies (Mozart comes to mind), but I don’t think that fits me. And that means that my own great American novel (I’m gonna start calling it GAN) will take work. And let’s face it: I’m kinda lazy when it comes to actually having to struggle through things. And beyond just the story being told, I’m sure there has to be something about the prose that makes the story noteworthy, yet I never really picked up on it in high school (my last English class was 14 years ago; damn, I’m getting old). The question arises: do I want to take the time to learn what makes great writing and then hone my skills to get there, or am I content to write quick-and-easy erotic pieces? My lazy self says to keep with the erotica: it’s fun, yields nearly instant gratification, and pays quite well. But this particular reader has awoken something inside me that says that maybe I ought to earn the right to call myself an author, to take it seriously and to create something more than just something fun to jack off to.
The jury is still out, and I’m still brooding. It does feel better to get it all out, though; I should have done this weeks ago.
And speaking of getting things out, I have been kicking myself for not being completely open in “A Fantasy.” Truly, it has been a mental thorn in my side ever since I pushed the “Publish” button. It’s time I remedied that. Therefore, I offer an alternative ending. Rather than sighing wistfully and thinking what a crime it is that I have to go to work, the ending as I originally had it went something like this.
I frown, suddenly thinking something’s amiss, and look at my phone. Shaking my head and smiling ruefully, I show it to him. It’s Saturday.
Exchanging wry grins, we finish our coffee, and then I doff my clothes. We climb into bed and switch on Netflix: we’re going to make the most of this day off, and with the herd already tended, there’s nothing hanging over my head, nothing I have to do today.
But I don’t even manage to pick a show before the smell of him beside me and his exploring hands put my mind in another place. Clicking off the TV and putting the remote aside, I turn to him in bed, and we kiss again, this time tenderly but with passion lurking just below the surface. My fingers graze down his lightly rippled abs and graze over his aroused member, eliciting a gasp of pleasure from him. He kisses me again, that lurking passion now burning hotly against my lips.
But we have—literally—all day. Without saying anything, we both know that we’re going to make this moment last, and despite our bodies and throbbing rods begging us to hurry, we content ourselves with gentle exploration of each other’s bodies: biceps, pecs, neck, abs, thighs, groin, ass, back, shoulders, calves, hands, feet… Our roving hands seek out our partners’ pleasure centers and tease them gently, mischievously. Our bodies warm like furnaces in anticipation, their heat palpable to our still-exploring fingers.
His fingers make their way between my buttocks. Too aroused to speak, I close my eyes and shudder, letting myself feel him as he teasingly circles my hole. I spread my legs, now trembling and barely able to take the anticipation anymore.
He pokes his finger inside. I squeeze my eyes shut and wrap my arms around him tightly. The feeling of closeness is so intense that it hurts. I whimper and hug him close as he gently finger-fucks me.
I feel his hand withdraw, and the two of us fluidly move to line him up. I press back and feel him at my entrance. Letting out a slow breath, I push back a little more as he presses forward.
And then he is inside.
Our whole lives, we’ve dreamed of this kind of intense intimacy, this closeness to another person. He is the first person I’ve ever felt this way about, and I am the first for him. The feeling of such intense closeness is still so new that it overwhelms us, and tears trickle down both our faces as we cling to each other, his cock inside of me and my ass squeezing gently down on it.
The intensity subsides just a little as we reacquaint ourselves with it, and then he begins to slowly thrust up into me as I straddle him, my hands now on his chest for leverage. I let him set the pace as I ride him, feeling every inch of him as he pushes in, rubs my prostate lovingly, and pulls back out. I’m already beginning to leak from his ministrations.
But lust is slowly asserting itself over emotional closeness, and it’s not long before I’m on my stomach and he’s driving into me with increasing speed and depth. Each stroke edges us both closer to orgasm. We trade gasps, moans, and grunts as our respective climaxes grow near.
And then it’s time. I flip over on my back with him still inside of me as he begins to deliver the final ten strokes.
Ten…I feel the tell-tale tingling in my balls.
Nine…the feeling quickly spreads up my shaft and moves into my belly.
Eight…I begin to feel light-headed.
Seven…I squeeze my eyes closed and grip his arms.
Six…He sucks in a breath; his orgasm is imminent.
Five…He strokes a little harder and angles his cock up just a little bit to stimulate himself a bit more on my prostate.
Four…I feel my cock throb, synchronizing itself to the ripples of pleasure spreading from my testes, prostate, and anus.
Three…My last doubt as to whether I’ll be able to get off dissipates.
Two…He grunts and grips the sheets tightly: his telltale warning.
One…I let out a guttural noise: my telltale warning.
Zero…I feel his cock throb and feel a jet of his warm fluids strike the wall of my intestines. A sharp wave replaces the ripples, and I feel my balls begin to empty themselves, thick ropes of my own fluids shooting up to splatter against his chest and mine. We’re both making a lot of noise: like our cum, our noise feels better out than in. I feel another spurt from him, and it makes me shudder in ecstasy as my own next spurt fires out to join the last one.
He collapses on me, his cock still inside, and we hug each other weakly, our minds cloudy in the afterglow but so very, very blissful.
Thank goodness it’s Saturday. Later there’ll be a luxurious shower for two, Netflix enjoyed in bed, a leisurely lunch, and time spent sharing a blanket and drinking hot chocolate.
But for now, there’s just this closeness, this post-coital bliss, and the love of my life resting here on my chest. What else could a guy ever ask for?