Operation Mini-Skirt Status: -42.6 lbs.
Mood: I lost the four pounds I put on over my Weekend Of Gluttony. I feel better now.
So there's this guy at work. I'll call him DS, if only because that's what someone else at work called him. Ok, the Someone Else actually called him DipShit, but DS will do just fine, I think. Anyway, he found out I write porn.
Oh, you didn't know that, did you?
Ok, let's back up a little, shall we?
Last year, while my leg was broken, and I was immobile for the better part of seven months, I found myself with a lot of time to write. I started taking my pen down different avenues of genres, dabbling in a bit of this, a bit of that. I don't know how it came about that I wrote my first piece, but eventually, I realised I have a talent for erotica. NOT PORN! Erotica! Porn is simple and straightforward Jack Goff stuff. Women don't usually get into it. But I found that as I developed my style, I was writing stuff that was... well... pretty, you know? Still cum-worthy mind you, but pretty as well. (Cum-worthy. I love that word.)
Eventually and at long last, I finally got up the guts to show a friend. She was impressed, and a little later on, asked me to write a story for her; something that would spark a little fire in her latest dalliance. I did so, not thinking to ask for remuneration of any sort, but when I gave her the finished product, she presented me with the coolest tin cigarette case, a vintage looking thing with Marilyn Monroe on it. (It's a very funky piece, lemme tell you.) Later on, I realised that I had essentially sold my first story. A personalised story. Personalised erotica! Bingo! My million-dollar idea had finally occurred! So I spread the word... I told two friends and they told two friends and so on and so on and so on. Two weeks ago, I had three commissions in three days alone. I charge a bit more than a cool, kitschy item now though. I've got one price for standard vanilla stories, and if there's special research required - let's say you have a particular fetish, or a very distinct historical fantasy - well, the rate goes up. Each story ranges from about twelve to fifteen hundred words, and it's written especially for you. I don't recycle stories that I've sold to others. I don't plagiarise other authors in the slightest, (which by the way is one of the worst crimes, in my book... excuse the pun.)
This is how it works. You call me up, and say...
"Mare, my 4 year anniversary is coming up. I was wondering if you could spin a little something for me..."
And then I ask you, "Anything in particular? What kind of language?" (Certain words are turn-ons; certain words are the total opposite.) "Do you want me to use your names, or do you want total character fantasy? Do you want any extra parties in the situation? Do you want leather, whips, feet, food... name your requirements.... Harems? Cheerleaders? Romance in front of the fire in your living room?"
The only thing I won't do is anything having to do with golden showers, scat fetishes, and animals, because frankly I just can't wrap my mind around something like that. Not enough to do a story justice, anyway.
And so it goes. It's a little pocket money on the side, and it serves as a good writing exercise, so that my word muscles are stretched to write my own real stuff.
Anyway... back to DS. (Remember? The guy from work?) Right. So, sometime last summer we found ourselves in the same place socially, after hours. There was lots of conversation involved, and a wee bit of alcohol. Not a lot - just enough to loosen the tongue. He inquired about my nifty cigarette case, and I was silly enough to give him the back-story. See, I've refrained from telling anyone at work about my side-business, as I really don't know how "Erotica Writer" would go over with the Divas and Piranhas. (Especially since 'erotica' would eventually be dropped for 'porn' and people would think I write nasty stuff about golf clubs and 15-year-old Catholic nymphos at slumber parties.)
So. Now DS knows. And ever since, he's been asking me for a story. I'm not fond of doing 'business' with someone in my place of business, but then I think, money is money, right? But, see, he thinks if he bugs me enough, I'm going to write him something for free. Shyeah! I don't think so. (Frankly, I suspect this guy is in some serious need of gettin' some. At this point, I guess Penthouse and Nasty Videos 'R' Us don't do it for him anymore.) He wrote me an email yesterday, asking for "something sexy."
Aside from erotica, I also have a talent for coming up with a rhyme on demand. On account of that, I've decided that there is, after all, something I could write for him. For obvious reasons, he's never going to see it... but for you, I'll share...
"How about something sexy?" he writes
And I read it and roll my eyes
The fact that he wants some beat-off lit
Comes really at no surprise.
(Robin Williams said it best
In Good Morning Vietnam
"That man is in more dire need of a blow job")
And I say that without a qualm.
Oh, for the love of God, I think
Will boys never grow up and change?
Find out a girl writes porn for a wage
And they can't think beyond penis range!
So you want something sexy? Well here it is...
Picture a naked girl, or three...
But that's all you're gonna get for now
Cuz I don't write my porn for free.
Hee!
Have a good day, y'all!
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