I'd
like to start in Tangier. I'm in a Moroccan bar patio near the
central plaza, ancient walls and hotels stacked atop each other like
mountainside caverns, a view of the pale blue ocean at the horizon
where it meets the blue-gray haze of the afternoon, waiting for a
dangerous man to step off a cruise ship.
He
will eventually make his way inland, through the maze of shop-lined
streets, circling inward into the old city, until he finds me. After
our meeting, I'm probably just going to kill him. A serrated butter
knife waits within reach.
I
would say I'm passing the time by writing, as I don't want to smoke
through all my cigarettes. I can get more, and they're cheap here,
but they're potent, and I don't really smoke. I don't want to be up
all night coughing.
But
I can't start here, because all of this is in the future.
We
have to start at the beginning, and my story actually starts in
Portland, Oregon, at a suburban coffee shop. This is where I meet the
Wednesday Afternoon Smut Club
All
three members were there at the table. The blonde with green-rimmed
glasses, smartly dressed as a librarian who knew she gave off a sexy
nerd vibe, was the prolithic Toni Lacquer. She described herself in
her blog as an ambivert (squarely between introvert and extrovert),
being shy and awkward around strangers, yet having no problem with
book signings, public speaking, or playing dress-up for conventions.
A bisexual, she had a boyfriend named Rob.
The
woman to her left was Daena Redfeather Jackson, a poet and author, as
well as an inspirational business coach. A reddish brunette with
expertly-applied makeup, she was married to a seller of imported car
parts. She was also a Burning Man enthusiast and part-time
astrologist.
The
third woman at the table, rounding out their impromptu club, was the
remarkably beautiful Debris Robusto. She was the youngest of them,
dark coco skin and black features with silver lipstick and a ring
through her nose, and she dressed in gothic attire, as if to give
form to the lesbian vampire protaganists within her erotic stories.
Toni
Lacquer caught me looking over, and although I didn't want to disturb
their meeting, I didn't want them to think I was some creepy stalker.
So I casually walked by their table on my way to the counter and told
them I was a fan. And I had just published my first novel. This much
was true.
After
chatting a few minutes, it dawned on me that there really weren't any
male writers of erotica. Not any good ones, anyway. This is simply
because of the natural difference between how men and women
psychologically process information. Women are hard-wired to prefer a
list of components, whereas men naturally prefer processing
information through spatial awareness. A woman asking for directions
will want a list of directions, like a recipe, but a man will want
information to fill the map he carries in his head. Sexual attraction
is the same thing, as women want to be verbally led into romance, as
opposed to mere physical or visual stimulation.
Erotica
is simply a category of romance with explicit sex scenes. And all
romances, including erotic stories, are written for women. A very
small percentage of erotica stories are marketed at men, but they are
largely written by women and read by women. There is gay erotica,
including stories written by men for men, but even these stories are
crafted according to the parameters of female erotica. Because all
erotica is female erotica. It's only male erotica if there are
pictures.
It
was then, after meeting the Wednesday Afternoon Smut Club in person,
that I had the idea of writing erotica, myself. All I had to do was
mix the two writing styles, using the parameters of female erotica
while adding in my own male insight. This would be good writing, but
sexy. As a man, I knew what women wanted, so I didn't even have to
guess what my reader would be looking for. It was all too simple.
I
started writing that evening, an erotic short story in the tradition
of international espionage titled The Porne Identity.
This
was going to be easy.
