I’ve written before about why I write, in the sense of what motivates me to hit the keys, and why I chose erotica over, say, horror.
I haven’t written about why I write about the boy.
I’m not sure what he thinks my motivation is. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t think I’m driven by fairly honourable intentions, because more than once he’s asked ‘Why can’t you just keep a diary?’
There’s a scribbled reminder to myself on my notepad at work. It says ‘Print boarding pass.’
In my 4pm meeting I draw a border round it, then another, then another. I’m running rings around it the way the boy runs rings around me.
In twelve hours time, there’ll be no more sleeps. Already, I’m no longer thinking about deadlines. I’m thinking about sucking his cock.
Every so often things get incorrectly labelled. ‘Basic sex,’ for instance, which is only basic in the way M&S three-for-a-tenner knickers are basic but also fan-fucking-tastic. Waitrose ‘Essential’ vanilla scented tealights. Michael’s penis in Judy Blume’s Forever, which affectionately goes by the name Ralph…
And the boy. Who is anything but.
We were sat outside a bar the other day, making good progress on our second carafe of wine, when the subject of his nickname came up.
This post has been many inspirations in the making, but I nearly didn’t write it. Believe it or not, if it’s deeply personal, I don’t write about it here.
Men on paper (or, more likely, on screen) are full of promise. There’s a guy on OKCupid at the moment who likes long walks in the country, pub lunches, and, get this: art house cinema (Do you know how rare that is?!) I should message him. And yet, somehow, I just can’t get that excited.
There’s a ride at EuroDisney called Star Tours – a Star Wars themed flight simulator, designed to make you feel like you’re on an out-of-control spaceship.
Aged 8, I did not like Star Tours. No sooner had I fastened my seatbelt than I got the feeling in the pit of my stomach that I really wasn’t going to enjoy the next five minutes. I nudged my dad.
‘Dad, I want to get off.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t get off. Look, nobody else is being silly and panicking like you are.’
Just at that moment, the doors slid open and three Japanese tourists stood up and left. The doors slid shut again, leaving me even more panicked than before.
When it comes to writing erotica, I tend to stick to things that turn me on personally. Hence, certain themes crop up time and again.
Strangers. Non consent. Anal.
But recently, my heroine seems to be branching out, which, given the above, probably means that I am too.
Lots of talk about policy/rules/guidelines for life/dating going on around Twitter this week. Like most girls, I have a few policies of my own. Never trust a guy who doesn’t like garlic. Wine is not a treat; it’s the drink that goes with dinner (hmm, these are all to do with food). A hot bath with Radox solves a lot of life’s problems. And finally, kind of linked to that, if you’re spending the evening with a guy, you need some time to get ready.
A long while ago now, I introduced the boy to a small group of my friends. I can still remember the conversation we had after he left, and specifically, this line:
‘He’s very alpha, isn’t he?’
Hmmm. Up to that point I hadn’t really considered where he sat in the Greek alphabet – all I cared about was that his confidence carried over to making me feel comfortable getting naked with him. But yes, compared to the men my friends and I were used to, he was / is very alpha.
Yesterday, I went to the theatre and for dinner with a uni friend who’s just started seeing someone new. The night before they’d had an argument in which he’d accused her of being negative/endlessly challenging his views. She wanted to know if I thought that was a fair judgement. As far as the first bit was concerned I think he’s wrong, but as for the latter, he’s bang on the mark. Continue reading