Things I find erotic

The word “succulent”
Boots of almost any description
Flannel shirts
Things that are round
Masquerade masks
Silk scarves
The click of heels on a tile floor
Vintage porn
That spot just above the collarbone right at the curve of the neck
A certain type of uncertainty
Lace, stretchy or not
Stained glass
Things that tie or lace up
Confidence without arrogance
The word “mystery”
Nail polish
Intelligent conversation
Words well used


The Shape of Desire

I love curves.

The way flower stems bend, blossom heavy, leaning toward the sun

Orbs of all kinds – plums and apricots; garden globes that reflect years of light and color; perfume bottles (especially the old ones, with stoppers)

That moment where a neck becomes a shoulder, the way palms curve around and fingers trace

I love the way raindrops and tears follow the lines of a face, the tilt of a jaw

Mugs full of coffee, nestled warm in my hands

Flower pots, and candles, and champagne flutes

Breathing, sometimes, follows a curve


Snowdrifts before the world moves in

Sea glass rubbed smooth by waves

The arch of a foot



So here I am, at 3:11 a.m. on a Monday morning, sitting at my computer trying to think of how I can start writing a reasonably intelligent, and reasonably interesting, blog – or at least one initial post – about erotica and the writing of it.

Here’s a question: What’s the difference between erotica and just plain old smut? Is it writing style? Terminology? Degree of explicitness? Degree of hard-core-ness? Plot? Where’s the line?

Eye of the beholder: is a toilet seat nailed to a piece of wood art?

For me, erotica evokes a mood that isn’t just sexual. That is, it isn’t just the sex itself, it’s the exploration of desire – of all kinds. The slow, delicate pulse of bashful exploration; the steady tone of comfortable familiarity; the soul grinding, heart pounding, oh god please of blinding lust.

Is it erotica if I say she looked away, embarrassed to face her own desire, as he moved his fingers against her? What if I say she watched herself in the mirror, standing, feet apart, the arm wrapped around her waist holding her firmly in place; that she turned away and cringed when his fingers burrowed down between her legs and found her pussy already slick and hot. What if he ground himself against her, his fingers wrapped in her hair, chaining her to the wall, his teeth clawing at her lips, his tongue like a serpent in her throat; that she reached her hands down between her legs and jerked the crotch of her panties aside, opened her pussy to him as he unzipped his pants and pulled his cock free; that he grabbed her ass, finger marks that wouldn’t show until later, and lifted, slamming her hard against the wall as, in one stroke, he drove himself into her fierce and pleading cunt.

Or is that porn, given the lack of context?

I could say that she blushed and looked away as he gently parted her plump thighs and moved his fingers against her damp womanhood; I could say that he pressed her against the wall and kissed her with all the passion buried inside him; that she spread her legs and opened herself to him; that he lifted her, bracing her against the wall, and slid himself into her aching center.

Is either of them porn? Is neither of them porn?

And now it’s 4:06 a.m. –

Sweet dreams.