People are stupid.
They can't tell the difference between fiction and reality. That's what I call stupid.
The imagination is a playground of the mind where anything can happen, a romper room of possibilities. There are fun and delightfully naughty things that can happen within the interaction behind words on the page, or on the screen, and the reactions they kick up in your mind.
That doesn't mean that real people with real lives and real thoughts and emotions behave in the same way. Because they don't. People are more complex than just a bunch of genitals. We can conjecture up a series of three scenarios to explore various aspects of this phenomenon.
'Well Kitty, there is the little matter of the audition in order to assess your suitability to fulfil all of the demanding requirements of the role. Can you please undress, leave your clothes in a neat pile in the corner, and stand ready for the attentions of the selection panel, thank you...' There are four girls, all in their late-twenties, maybe, it's difficult to tell, and it's not necessary to be specific. Just one tarty older woman... who must be well past thirty years. This is fiction. The four girls... the four women, are being interviewed for the very important role as 'Office Slut'.
The Management Focus Group has determined that Office bonding requires a certain playful element in order to reduce stress-levels and thereby maximize efficiency. Of course, for as long as there have been offices there has been an office slut. The girl who flirts and dresses provocatively. The girl that other girls talk about, and speculate about, while the older women tut-tut and claim that they would never have behaved in that way in their day. But naturally, there was an office slut back then too. The good-time girl who had furtive affairs with the married studio managers. Who they gossiped about. Who -- they claim, had sex with the manager in the stockroom, who -- they say, crouched down to do oral things that well-brought-up ladies don't talk about. The girl with more attractive curves than a scenic railway...
Styles come and styles go, but it was ever thus.
So the high-level boardroom decision is taken to legitimise the position, and employ a full-time slut. Notification has been circulated, and applicants have been whittled down to four possible candidates.
We will focus in particular on just one of them. She is Kitty. And she is removing her clothes at this very moment. Her blouse was already low-cut, and she was wearing no bra. A bra is hardly a requirement for a potential Office Slut. Her breasts are pleasingly large with perky prominent nipples, as we can now clearly see. She slips her short skirt off, lifting her legs one by one to step out of it, her high-heels catch and tug for a moment, causing her breasts to shimmer attractively.
She looks up questioningly at the interviewer, Mr Rosco Cartier, the co-ordinator of the three-man one-woman selection panel.
He says 'yes, the panties too.'
She tucks her thumbs beneath the elasticated waistband of the wispy breath of lace that constitutes her panties, tugs them down to her knees, and then down and off, to stand naked but for her pull-up stockings and high-heels.
Let's just fill in some backstory here, for the sake of convincing authenticity. Would a girl really do this? From her point of view, she has no developed keyboard skills. She might get a zero-hours contract at a Call Centre. She might get a minimum-wage job sitting at the supermarket check-out desk scanning endless consumables that go bleep-bleep-bleeping across the bar coding. Neither of those options sound good. She frittered away her school and college days flirting with boys, trading hot gossip with her girlfriends about who was bonking who, talking make-up tips and hints, how to French kiss, listening to Boybands on her earbuds. Nothing academic was quite as much as fun as the way dishy jocks would look her up and down, checking her out with an approvingly curled lip. Their approval makes her feel good. Even from the first time she'd had sex she knew she loved the way it makes her feel, desired, satisfied, fulfilled. A confirmation of her powers of attraction, or her femininity. It was, in many ways, her natural vocation. So why deny it? Why not use it to her advantage?
All she has to do is convince the selection panel of her suitability for this career opening. All she has to do is come out ahead of the other three applicants. The rest will take care of itself, she feels herself already overqualified...
People are stupid. They can't tell the difference between fiction and reality. That's what I call stupid.
Writing erotic fiction is different to creating other forms of prose. It's the only form of literature which can have a direct physical effect on the reader. Porn fiction is the one unique form of literature that actually induces a physical change of state in the reader. It gives the male reader an erection and a female reader a moist lubricating pussy. No other genre of fiction can do this. Most people read lubricious fiction just for the explicit bits, as masturbatory stimulus, and leave off once they've cum. They don't really care if it's well-written or carefully-crafted or not. Yet there's a balance between getting enough explicit dirty passages to maintain reader-attention, while blending in enough character and plot to make it sufficiently interesting to write. Personally I believe that if enough attention is taken to setting up such details then it makes for a more convincing erotic experience.
And yes, I enjoy it. It makes me rather proud and just a little a humble, because I guess some prose is better than others at making your cock hard or your pussy moist. For example, let's conjecture another scene. This second scenario may be the idealised fantasy that stays inside the strict confines of our heads. Two lonely people who meet by chance for a one-off night of unbridled passion. A kind of tough Raymond Chandler hard-boiled movie Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall encounter, in a city-centre hotel bar where a trio play tasteful lounge-core jazz (detail invests the text with authenticity). Or it might be real. Who is to say?
She sits at the bar and she's thinking, 'sitting over there is a stranger who makes me feel so warm and magical. I would like nothing more than to bewitch and beguile him. To fascinate him with my eyes. To seduce him with my smile.' Her internal voice sends out a kind of telepathy, telling him 'I know you're watching me from across the room. I'm lifting my glass up to sip and looking over the rim at you. As I lower the glass, our eyes lock. Then I lick my lips. You can see the full pout of my lips quiver. I pick up the cherry in my glass, rub it over my lips, then suck it into my mouth.'
Decorum be damned. There's no hesitation. She leaves her money on the bar, and slinks off the stool. As she gets up to walk away, she drops a napkin on his table. The only writing, in lipstick is the number 413...
After a tactful pause, he leaves a generous tip on the table and follows her without waiting to finish his drink. The neon midnight flares and blusters outside the hotel, the sky heavy with the promise of impending storm that is both literal and metaphorical.
He: I pull my slouch-hat down over the craggy rim of my forehead, my lantern jaw set in determined concentration. Where will the winds of time and the whims of fate draw me? I feel the aching burn deep within my soul. The image of the dame in the bar flickers around my concentration, bewitching and beguiling my thoughts away, while I should be working on the casefile. I got bills to pay. I got contracts to fulfil. But all I see is the way those lips caress the cherry's round redness. Glancing down at the folded napkin in my grip... '413'.
The wind is chasing a craziness of stars around in the neon night. I have needs too, a rage to be sated. I stride towards the lifts. Room '413'. Yes...
The storm in my head, and the urgency in my groin answers and reflects the gathering storm over the city roofscape. He reaches her beside the lift-bay where the bored bellhop sits, there's an illuminated panel listing the floors. 100+ on the first floor. 200+ on the second... all the way up to the fourth floor.
Her: 'And, oh my ravenous lover, where to begin...' In the elevator, our kissing starts. Hot and heavy, tongues interlocking, slipping and slithering in each other's mouths, then slowing down to sensual and arousing. From the moment we first connected in the bar, we knew each other inside and out in a cold minute. We both have lives outside of this night. But here and now we have no past. We pluck our own space out of time to indulge in each other. My marital complications with a profligate partner who's driven us to brink of bankruptcy. And I'm sure he's got a thing going with that big-titted bitch of a secretary. But nothing of that is our concern. Sometimes, doing wrong is the right thing to do. Your dominant voice is as deep as a well. A surly half-open mouth that never quite closes. I look into your cloudy grey eyes that are full of fuck-you. The sparks from our internalised banter carry into real life.'
Yet all he says is 'I was hoping...'
She says 'hope is a wonderful thing. I don't know where we'd be without it...' while she has the look of one of the beautiful murderous children in horror movies.
'You say the sweetest things.'
She: We've only just met, but I trust you with my body and my mind. It's just you and me. No-one else need know. I am hungry for you. I am ravenous for you. As I stand at the door to open it, I feel you unzip my dress all the way down. The dress falls off my shoulders to reveal my sexiest undergarments. Sliding my panties down, pulling my breasts out over the cups of my bra, you take in all the scents and taste.
This is exactly the scene I was thinking about, the image I was holding in my head. There's something so very right about this expensive hotel room, the furnishings, the décor, the aroma, the light. The pastel cushions, the rich coverlet, the low gleam of the table-lamp and the shaggy heart-shaped carpet. I'd love to wreck this hotel bed. If the room had two queen beds, I would reserve one for sleeping, and the other for fucking. I should have remembered to put towels down. But right now I don't have time to think. And there will be the stain of bodily fluids.
