Saw an application for a job writing for a Website. It calls for writing of a sexual nature, be it health, relationships, stories, etc. Like any warm-blooded man, I’m interested in sex. Heck, I could spend days talking and writing about it. But then I looked at the Website and I noticed that most of the entries are submissions of people regarding their adventurous sexual encounters, a Penthouse Forum of sorts. And that’s when I lost interest. I’m not one to judge the joys of reading sexual fiction, and yes, they are mostly sexual fiction, but I realize I don’t have A. the urge to write such fiction (the imagination, yes. the drive to create fiction designed to turn readers on, no.) and B. the real experiences that are truly unique and exciting. In fact, I think while most of my stories could be considered interesting, I don’t think they’re very exciting.
Well, looking at A. I’ve never been one to share stories and such. I’ve never felt the need to brag, nor have I ever felt the need to share stories “that’ll get my buddies going.” It’s just not my style. Sure, I’ve shared pornography in my youth, but I don’t watch videos in the basement with my friends. That happened once and I had to excuse myself after one of my friends started getting too comfortable with himself.
As for B. Most of my sex stories are kind of sad. Here’s an example. I’ll skip descriptions and flowery language and just go right to the meat and bones.
A friend of mine was with someone who he had been with a few times before. They don’t really know much about each other except for the fact that they like how things worked when they both don’t have their clothes on. Now, that friend thought he was the luckiest guy in the world. The woman, he thought, was a nine. Best of all, it was stress-free relations with no strings attached. Wonderful.
One night, after a few minutes of doing what they do, he laid down on the bed and started getting sleepy. He dozed off for a few minutes and woke up with her looking straight at him. She was right next to him, naked and just relaxing. He asked her, “Hey, what are you looking at?” expecting something cheesy like, “oh nothing, just looking at you. I love looking at you sleep” or whatever. Something women would say.
She said, “I’m just thinking of my baby in heaven.”
This startled him and he asked what she meant. He was half-asleep and he wasn’t sure if he heard her right.
She said, it was nothing. “Forget about it.”
He left her apartment wondering what that was all about, whether he imagined the whole thing, or if some tragedy led her into being what she is now, an attractive woman willing to sleep with him. The whole story brings to mind all the circumstances that led people to our lives, whether it be good, bad, or tragic. In my friend’s case, he wondered if a “baby” being “in heaven” led one to him.
Now, how does that story sound? Does it titillate?