I am the reluctant eroticist. This is my collection of erotic short stories, flash fiction, and bathroom-stall poetry. Some of it is new, and some of it is old. A few stories I continue to edit, and append, because, well... I am never quite satisfied with my writing. I am kind of embarrassed that erotica is the genre that chose me. I've tried writing other kind of stories, but the muse refuses. So here I am, writing about bodies that slide in the dark; hoping, praying, that nobody discovers my dirty little secret and the inevitable conversation that ensues.
"You write erotica? That's surprising. I mean ... you ... really?"
"Yes."
"Is it any good?"
"Not really."
"I bet it's great. Your Facebook posts are always fun to read."
"There's a big difference between writing something witty on Facebook, and assembling a truly good story that is compelling to read."
"Can I read some?"
"No, that would be counter productive."
"If you love writing erotica so much, why not publish it? Who's going to care?
"Because that would make me a pornographer, and I don't think I could live with that kind of validation."
"So nobody reads what you write?"
"Outside of a few editors... nobody."
"You have your writing edited?"
"It's more workshopped than edited. You know, grammar, pacing, plot etc. I want to make my writing as good as possible; and it's not like my editors get-off on my work. They are infinitely more concerned with my inappropriate use of a semi-colin."
"So you write for an audience that doesn't, and will never exist?"
"Yes."
"Can I edit your stories?"
"No."
"Oh... I get it... You're a sadist."