Why Do I Write Incestuous Erotica
- 4 years ago
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My High Price Paid To Write Erotica free porn video
Susan reveals the friendships and family relationships lost over her need to write erotica.
As a seemingly well adjusted, single woman on the surface, just as no one would know that I’m unemployed and still homeless, no one would know that I write erotica of all things to write. Who knew? Go figure.
With my four, big, older brothers living in Ohio and Michigan, no longer their sexy, Aunt Susan to their adolescent children, they’ve passively disowned me by not staying in touch with me, no doubt, because of what I write. How dare I live my life in the way that I chose to live my life! Is erotica so offensive to some people to disown your own blood, your only sister? Why is that? What am I missing for me not to understand? I don’t get it.
‘Tell me because I’d like to know.’
In hindsight, I never should have told them that I write erotica. I never should have asked them to read and to vote for my stories. Perhaps they’re embarrassed that their little sister is a slut. Proud of what I write and damn if I’ll apologize to anyone for all that I’ve written, I write erotica. So what?
Yet and unfortunately for a writer of erotica, this is still puritanically moral America after all and my brothers are no different than most folks who haven’t gone through all the sexual abuse that I’ve gone through that has turned and twisted me in a way to make me find writing erotica creatively appealing and sexually satisfying. Conversely, on the other side of the coin, by the twisted e-mails that I receive from Bible thumping, foot stomping, born again Christians, who tell me that I’m going to burn in Hell for writing an erotic story, the Bible Belt is alive and well and presently represented on Literotica.
‘Praise the Lord. Thank you Jesus! I’ve been saved!’
Strangely enough, however, it puzzles me why these men are preaching to the choir while reading Literotica. It doesn’t make any sense. Isn’t it a sin in their twisted minds to be reading such pornographic trash and erotic literature? Or are they looking for the Lord Jesus Christ, not in the scriptures of the Bible but in the pages of the pornographic and erotic stories on Literotica? Is there a religious message hidden in some pornographic or erotic story that I’m missing? Perhaps they are looking more for Mary Magdalene that they are looking for the Lord Almighty.
Starting with saving my round, firm, white ass, are they trying to convert the sinners or are they just disguising their enjoyment for reading pornography and erotica with the justification that they are here to save lost souls and round up stray lambs while lecturing to me that I shouldn’t be writing erotica? Fools that they are, they aren’t fooling anyone. How dare they! Not really men of God, they’re just flimflam men who cloak their bad intentions by quoting the Bible to their benefit. They are hypocrites in the way that Jim Swaggart and Jim Bakker were when making all of us feel guilty for not giving them our hard, earned money while women fucked and sucked them behind closed, bedroom doors. Somehow their falls from grace vindicated us and made us feel not only human with all of our frailties but also more normal after all. While watching Tammy Bakker crying crocodile tears on TV after Jessica Hawn’s celebrity career catapulted, it was gratifying to watch them all fall back down to our level.
‘Thou shall not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain,’ they write worse than that when they write me and threaten me with physical harm and escalate their scary words with death threats.
It always amazed me how religious wars are the bloodiest of wars and how some of these religious zealots are such phonies. Even in Milton’s Paradise Lost and Dante in his Inferno put the Popes at the very last circle of Hell, the 9th level. Shades of the Marquis de Sade, a French aristocrat in the 18th century imprisoned by his cousin, King Louis XVI, for the pornography that he wrote and the women and men that he bedded, some of these maladjusted men scare me. Even when conjuring up and writing about my most mentally disturbed characters, they pale in comparison to these men. Be afraid, be so very afraid, shades of Dexter, as if I’m Edgar Allan Poe reincarnated, I await to hear a rap, rap, rap on my chamber door.
‘Perhaps, I should stop writing erotica. Let me think about that for a second. Nah! If they can’t take a joke, fuck ’em.’
Has nothing changed in 300 hundred years? Can you imagine a man threatening me, a poor, defenseless, albeit beautiful, busty, and modest woman with physical harm or with death for writing a dirty story? Kettle black, he’s judging me for writing the stories that he loves to read. Unfortunately, a woman writing erotica on a porn board is not safe. Having had to delete my Facebook page because some whacko found it and started posting personal information about me, I’ve received all types of disturbing e-mails, along with photos of cocks, just for writing erotica. Delete, delete, delete, as soon as I receive them, I delete them.
Yet, strangely enough, many of these men who profess their religion and confess their high moral standards to anyone who will listen are my biggest fans. Go figure. Even though they bash all of my stories, before taking the time to write me to quote my storylines and point out my every typo, apparently, they take the time to read all of my stories too. That’s weird. One would think that if they hated my stories and hated me that they wouldn’t read me and/or write me. Thank you, I think. Only, if you would and if you could, can you just read me and not write me. Can you just vote for me without bashing me?
When a fan writes, ‘I’d like to strip you naked and force you to blow me before strangling you to death for writing about a mother sucking her son’s cock,’ that’s as shockingly disturbing as it is ludicrous. Imagining him strangling me is bad enough but when he tells me his sexually fantasy is having me suck his cock, now that’s really disturbing. If I had a choice, better that I should be strangled to death than to blow him, I’d pick the former over the latter.
‘Do what you will to my dead body, you lover of necrophilia, the only way you’ll have me is when I’m dead.’
No longer a woman alone in a man’s domain, there are plenty of women who write and read erotica but not in my close circle of proper, Bostonian friends which have greatly diminished since I confessed that I write erotica before moving from Boston to rural Pennsylvania to care for my elderly mother. None of my prudish, Back Bay, Beacon Hill, and South End female friends, even those who write, write erotica. None of my old friends contact me anymore, even though I’ve left messages on their phones, sent them e-mails, and mailed them unreciprocated greeting cards during the holidays and for their birthdays. I felt bad until I started writing this story. I feel better now.
Just as it did with my brothers losing contact, I’m sure that my girlfriends no longer stay in touch with me because I write erotica. Maybe wishing that they could inappropriately behave in the way that I do, my naughty words, thoughts, desires, and erotic stories must make them feel uncomfortable as they masturbate themselves while reading my stories. Oh, well, at least my legion of bashing, creepy fans still write me and down vote all of my stories to make sure that I’ll never win a contest while on their watch. If only all of those fans who truly enjoy all that I write would vote for my stories but, sadly, most of them, 99.5% of them, a real statistic, don’t bother to vote.
Religiously, never fail, every day, when I open my e-mail there are a few disturbing e-mails from men with mental problems that are much larger than their penis size. No doubt, if their cocks were bigger than their mental problems, they wouldn’t be sitting here bashing my stories and/or writing me disturbing e-mails. They’d be having sex with a real woman instead of a blowup, rubber doll. Rather, if only those readers wh
o loved what I write would write me with good comments to offset the disturbing e-mails received from some of my nasty, bashing readers, I’d be a much happier woman.
‘Whore! Slut! If you were my wife or my girlfriend, I’d teach you not to have sexual thoughts. I’d give you a real lesson in sex. I’d take you over my knee, pull up your short skirt to expose your white, bikini panty, pull down your panties to expose your naked ass and blonde pussy, and spank your ass, while… Hold on a second. Sorry, I have to masturbate, I mean, go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back. Okay, I’m back. Where was I? Oh, yeah, I’d strip you naked, tie you to the bed, blindfold you, and force you to have sex with all my friends.’
Wow! Now there’s an image. Certainly, if I was their wife or girlfriend, trust me, I’d rather be forced to have a bikini wax and my head shaved than to have sex with them. I’d never have any sexual thoughts, especially if it came to thinking about having sex with them. Now maybe having sex with their friends would be a different story, especially if their friends were cute and treated me with respect instead of with contempt.
Yet, oddly enough, except for that foolish series of books, Fifty Shades of Grey, none of my ex-girlfriends even read erotica. Seemingly, as if they’ve just discovered sex, sexuality, sensuality, and women’s sexual fantasies, those books are all they discuss. Been there, done that, way beyond that, ‘Hello, I was a swinger,’ those books are boring. I guess they never needed to fantasize about sex when they already had their favorite sexual fantasy, money.
When I told Buffy, Muffy, Priscilla, and Cynthia that I write erotica, as if I had told them that Macy’s cancelled their 10% off sale, they looked at me as if there was something wrong with me and, by their judgmental looks, maybe there is. Having never said no to a man and having always enjoyed sex, apparently there is something wrong with me for being so sensually sexual. I love sex and being that I haven’t had sex in a long while because of my personal circumstances in not having a permanent residence, I miss having sex. Sex is an important part of life. Compared to them however, I may be a slut but I’m no one’s whore. Compared to them, now that they’ve found religion and redemption, a Nun would be deemed slutty.
Now outside looking in, I’m an outcast to those friends who have grown up with me and who have known me all of my life. When I’m still the same person that I was when we hung out together, they’re the ones who have changed and not me. Familiarly writing about myself, I’m still the same slut now that I was then only 20 years older. Unfortunately, perhaps from smoking one too many cigarettes instead of sucking one too many cocks, (conversely, never having smoked a cigarette myself but I’ve sucked lots of cocks) with their hair pulled back so tightly to give me a headache by just looking at them, their lips are as puckered as I imagine their pussies are dry.
‘Wow! What is all that about? Why are they all rejecting me? With all of their money, why are they all so unhappy? Me? Despite all of the bad things that has happened to me, relatively happy even though I’m poor, I’m still smiling while writing erotica.’
Even though I’ve been pushed around, knocked down, and punched in the gut by a batch of bad luck that included unemployment, homelessness, poverty, and hunger, I still have my passion for writing. No one can take that away from me, not even women who used to be my friends and who now look down at me as if I’m dirt. No doubt, even if I got down on my knees and begged my ex-girlfriends to forgive me for having sexual desires, wanton thoughts, and for writing erotica, they wouldn’t even hire me to clean their houses. No doubt, a double sided coin, if I got down on my knees and their wives weren’t home, they’re husbands would be happy for me to suck their cocks while playing with my big tits and fingering my hard nipples. Bad in morals in the eyes of my ex-girlfriends, I’m even more bad in sexuality in the eyes of their sexually frustrated, horny husbands.
‘What’s the big deal? It’s just sex,’ I tell them as if having to defend myself for having erotic thoughts, sexual needs, and incestuous desires. ‘It’s just as story,’ I tell them as if apologizing for writing what I wrote about mommy having incestuous sex with her son, a horny brother falling in love with his sexy sister, a husband having forbidden sex with his mother-in-law, or a brother-in-law finally receiving a blowjob from his sister-in-law.
What pornography is to fiction, erotica is to non-fiction. Erotica is real. Erotica is everyday life. Erotica is here to stay. Open your eyes and look around you. Pornography is not real, it’s all sexual fantasy. Pornography may come and go before hiding underground but erotica is here to stay mainstream and above ground. Whether movie, novel, erotic story, television commercial, or live outside on the street, erotica is in your face. Just ask Generals Petraeus and Allen about their sexy e-mails. How many pages did the FBI report to find of inappropriate e-mails between a commanding officer and a woman with questionable morals and intentions, 20,000 or was it 30,000?
‘Are you kidding me? Holy shit. Wow! And they dare call me a whore. It just makes me wonder what these Generals didn’t do that they were supposed to be doing to have the time to write 20,000-30,000 sexy e-mails. Did one of our sons and/or daughters unnecessarily die because these generals were busy trying to get a blowjob to do their jobs? How dare they!’
No matter how moral you are, no matter how religious you are, no matter how good your intentions, if you deny your sexual feelings, they will bite you in the ass. Don’t these holier than thou holy rollers believe that incestuous sex between a mother and her son and a brother and his sister really happens, when it does? Don’t they think that their husbands’ lust over their sisters-in-laws and mothers-in-law, when they do? One just has to go to the mall to watch all the men ogling the women and all the women dressing in the hopes of being ogled to experience the sexuality and the sensuality of being a woman in a man’s world. It’s that easy when all I have to do is to flash a bit of my panty or my bra for a man to give me a smile while asking me out on a date.
Unless you’re living in an Arab country or on another planet, a woman showing more of her leg and/or panty in an up skirt of her cleavage and/or bra in a down blouse is erotic. That’s erotica. Too wrapped up in their idyllic lives, thinking more about pornography most men don’t think about erotica, that is, until they stumble across Literotica and read one of my stories. Yet, wearing short skirts and low cut blouses when shopping at their favorite stores, and bikinis when on vacation or out back by their pool, forever trying to attract men’s attention, my ex-girlfriends still dress provocatively sexy while pointing the judgmental finger at me for writing erotica.
How dare they make me feel so guilty for writing what I write! Had I known my family and friends would take such exception to me writing erotica, I never would have told them that I write erotica. Truth be told it’s none of their business what I write and, albeit proud of all that I’ve written and wanting to share my stories with them, it was my mistake for shooting off my big mouth by asking them to read and vote for my stories. Only, to me, it’s just a story. To them, it’s evil and I’m the Devil. I’m going to Hell because writing against God, I’m writing for the Devil.
‘Who knew? I thought I was just writing an erotic story.’
Even though all of my friends were born with silver spoons in their mouths and all of them had the very best educations, in the wild and crazy way they acted when they were younger, I had no idea they were so straight laced now. What happened to them to prejudge me for what I choose to write? More importantly, what happened to me for writing all that I write? Am I as twis
ted as my readers for writing the stories that they read?
Who am I kidding? What I write is more than just a story. What I write are my sexual fantasies. A fast forward movie of naked men and naked women and of cocks, tits, asses, and pussies that constantly barrage and continually run through my mind before emerging from my brain down to my fingertips for me to write an erotic story, I am nothing without my sexual fantasies.
I had no idea my friends were so closed mindedly, uptight bitches. Even though I know differently when we attended the same college parties together before they married their rich lawyer husbands, they all act as if they’ve never had sex before and have never been fucked, really fucked hard before. Stupid, phony bitches that they are, I hate them. They make me wonder if they’ve ever had a cock in their mouths even though I know they have. Assuredly, being that they rejected me, certainly no better than me, they are all closeted cocksuckers who secretly lust over their cabana boys, waiters, hairdressers, lawn care young men, and contractors.
Yet, in the snobbish way they act now, they make me wonder if they’ve ever sucked a cock, if they’ve ever had their man cum in their socialite mouths, and if they’ve ever swallowed, even though I know they have, they did, and still do. Perhaps now that they’ve reached the pinnacle of their financial success, too rich to dirty their designer gowns by getting down on their knees to a suck cock, refusing to take a man’s swollen prick past their lips, they lick it instead of suck it. Perhaps, instead of sucking cock, they just dabble and leave the dirty deed to someone like me, a woman who writes erotica.
‘Tell me when you’re ready to cum Reggie,’ said Buffy, ‘and I’ll pull you out of my mouth so that you can cum on my tits.’
Good God! C’mon. Seriously? What’s wrong with these women? Even if she had the best tits, the most beautiful breasts, breasts like my breasts, what man would rather cum on a woman’s tits instead of cumming in her mouth? Jesus Christ, is it any wonder why her husband had sex with his sister when even his sister gave him a better blowjob than his wife? Is it any wonder why their husbands cheat on them with their secretaries, with someone they picked up in a bar, and with someone like me, a woman who enjoys sex and a woman who writes erotica. I could probably make a living showing their wives, teaching them, and instructing them on how to suck cock. Only, they’d have to get down and dirty to be on my level if they want to be a sexy and as sexual as me.
Being born a beautiful woman is not all champagne and roses. Rather, it’s my curse. Spending my life having to fight off men, men who think they know me with just a glance, a glare, a stare, a leer, and a vulgar expression, I would have had an easier time of it if I looked more like one of my small breasted, angry, jealous ex-girlfriends. Justifiably, in my defense, after all the sexual abuse I’ve suffered, I have every right to be as sexually twisted as I am.
My excuse for writing erotica is that I’ve been bitten by a vampire. My vampires were my sexual predators. Yet, making me the person who I am today, I’m not willing to change one thing that happened to me. Even with all of their money, I’d much rather be the sexual woman that I am than to be the stuck up bitches that my ex-girlfriends are. With newly minted money licked to stick to my naked body, what fun is having money if you don’t have wild sex atop a bed of one hundred dollar bills?
In hindsight, my fault, I never should have told them that I write erotica. I never should have had them read my stories. After they read some of my erotic stories, not only did they handcuff their husbands to them, no doubt to save them from me, not that I wanted any of their husbands, but also the close friendships we once had cooled to ice. Bad enough that I was a divorced woman alone, apparently an evil vixen, I was a woman who not only had participated in the swinging lifestyle but also one who writes erotica. For sure, compared to my uptight friends, definitely there’s something wrong with me. I’m normal. I had more fun attending a swingers dance than I ever did attending a dance at the country club, the Elks club, or Las Vegas night at the church.
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