I’ve taken to buying a few more books of erotic literature lately. Mainly short stories, (light bedtime reading), and a few "grown-up fairy tales" tops the list of recent purchases. Creative, well-written erotica will get me hotter than any porn movie ever has. Like most women, I’m turned on by what I hear, and imagine (smell ranks high up there as well), and less by what I see. So having me read out loud and pronounciate the dirty words, is a turn on. Me talking to myself. Don’t call the guys with the padded room, but you might see my lips moving when I am reading hot stories by myself, it’s to turn me on more. I’m really only slightly cracked. Erotica is about completing the pictures in my head, so I make the scenario work for me. The images are to my persoanl, specific pleasure, not some porn director, and the lighting is always perfect in my head. Having been on a porn shoot, I know that it is way, way, way less about sex, and far more about work. And bad lighting, and close up of black roots takes away from the fantasy.
Reading a Susie Bright anthology (she’s interesting, but completely erratic in what she publishes), but this passage caught my fancy.
"She had the taste of sex: sweat, salt, that fruity lotion, yeast, his own spit, the sweet, bacterial tang of a well-soeaped ass. He wanted to establish her pleasure before he touched her there, so he slipped her fingers inside. He had long ago ceased trying devine the mysterious insides of a woman. There were spots that felt good, warm, fleshy knobs. sudden pockets of air-he had no idea. He took his cues from the responses he drew, though most women refused to sepak plainly about what pleased them, and when, and how. it was part of something larger, an inhibition about naming the acts of pleasure. They wanted an instinctual understanding." (page 218, The Nasty Kind Always Are, by Steve Almond)
Not the porn or Penthouse letters ("I never thought it would happen to me….."), more of a thinking girl’s kind of raunch. And it works evert time. Smile.