Ever since the appearance of Fifty Shades of Grey, the worst book to have ever sold 100 million copies worldwide, everyone is writing erotica.
I don’t want to discuss this Idiot Book, the fact that Anastasia is a virgin who orgasms 20 times an hour, never worries about getting a urinary tract infection or somehow made it through college without owning a LAPTOP.
Bad erotica is sprouting up everywhere. All of it hackneyed and formulaic.
The characters are always flawless. Or if they have flaws, they are so endearing they make the character even more adorable.
For women,”clumsy” is the most popular endearing flaw. For the record, I am clumsy. It’s a pretty glaring flaw. There’s nothing sexy about. I fall down, smack my head on things, injure myself frequently and am generally shocked to still be alive.
Last week, in a meeting with a group of men, I dropped my pen under the conference table. I reached down to get it, hit my head on the edge of the table, and sustained a near-concussion. No dicks got hard.
I would like to read about a female character with some really detracting flaws.
“Chanel had a grotesque mutant butthole growing out of her face. Her ass stunk like Exit 13 on the New Jersey Turnpike and she cleared a room whenever she broke wind.”
And of course. every male character has a frighteningly enormous cock. Let’s go for some diversity:
“Her eyes widened as he slipped his sweatpants down his short stubby legs. His peeny seemed erect but it was so small, there was no way to tell. She gave it a swift headbutt, because men loved when she did that.”
Another thing that really gets my hackles up is how all these beautiful women smell. They always smell like fresh-baked bread, or lemons.
Can’t we try something a little different?
“She jerked open her vest, radiating the scent of stale cigarettes and 3-day old crab legs.”
“Her pussy smelled like an elderly man he once knew who moved to Florida and did something with pit bulls.”
There are only so many ways to write a traditional sex scene, and they can become repetitive and boring. It’s important to be innovative and unique in your erotica. Here are a few little snippets I’d like to share with you.
Blake and Thalia
Blake unzipped his pants quicker than a hooker in Skechers running from the police. His tube sausage flopped out. She began jerking off his pork sword roughly, like it owed her money.
Thalia released her breasts like one would release the Kraken. They were long and heavy, as if she had loaded a shitload of change into a pair of old tube socks and taped them to her chest. Blake became as lost in them as a hobo at a hydroelectric plant.
He crammed his meat flute into her greasy rat’s mouth awkwardly, like a 6’2″ guy trying to get a laid in a Honda Civic. Thalia breathed as heavily as a child caught in a dry cleaning bag.
“Your bajina feels like I’m jerking off into wet balloons,” Blake said, breathing heavily, like a fat man digging into nachos. Thalia thrashed around like a Jawa getting gummed by a toothless Sarlaac.
Blake moved over Thalia’s body stiffly, like a disabled person trying to have intercourse with a mailbox. Thalia’s pubes were as thick as the meaty part of a pancake. They could star in their own episode of Duck Dynasty. Her hairy ham wallet was trembling as he bit into it, and then peed on her bed, marking his territory like an irate Doberman.
Blake’s eight inches of throbbing pink Jesus rammed into her vintage golf bag. He dove into her nappy lunch meat like Scrooge McDuck into a room full of gold. The unrelenting orgasms from his all-beef thermometer slamming into Thalia’s hot pocket made her come so hard, she began sweating like a gerbil in a gay bar.
They fell asleep entwined together in the afterglow. Thalia woke up the next morning with a meat pie in her hand and her mouth tasting like an ashtray.
Garth and Savannah
Garth gazed at Savannah like a gluttonous person would gaze at a cheap, all you can eat buffet. All the calories rushed to his penis.
The cameltoes created by her pudgy baby-fat labias made him want to plunge into them like a sex-crazed Mario the plumber, and take a bite into them like they were pudding. Or jello salad or maybe beef stew. Savannah’s bald, fat-lipped special place was so good to look at it made him want to hump her like a blind baby kangaroo trying to body box.
Savannah breathed raggedly, like an asthma patient at indoor casino that allowed smoking.
“Garth, I’m gonna touch your weiner so much, touch it all over that yucky looking part at the top, the entire peeny.”
She ran her tongue, wet as a toilet plunger, over her thick lips. Moans like belches escaped her lips.
Savannah reached down, sliding her hand under Garth’s clammy beer-gut and past the nylon waistband of his pants. She let out a small choke of lust as her acrylic nails scraped the bald, encrusted dent of his urethral opening. He roared mightily as he shoved her off the bed, causing her to smack her head on the nightstand before she hit the floor face first.
Garth did a jiggling frantic nut-swing as if it were a popular dance of some sort. He plowed his pink tractor beam inside her field of dreams. Savannah’s velvet clown hole was as tight as Uncle Fred’s hat band.
Her pink walls shrink-wrapped around his beef jerky with a grape-squashing force. Her slippery walls squeezed harshly around his shaft like a tight fist struggling to get the last morsel of toothpaste from the tube. Savannah grabbed at Garth’s balls like mini feminist ninjas attacking his nut sack.
Garth cupped Savannah’s buttocks like a couple of freshly baked loaves of gluten free bread and gave it a quality-approving squeeze.
“I’m gonna tongue punch you in the fart box!” he bleated at her.
Slowly, he tamed Savannah’s skittish sphincter like it was a nervous filly. When it was as relaxed as a mental patient on Seroquel, he took turns violating Savanna’s brown balloon knot with matching Pilgrim Thanksgiving salt and pepper shakers his Aunt Tillie had given him for a housewarming present.
“I’m gonna blork!” he screamed. “Ahh, I’m blorking all over your back!”
So, release your inner perv and give it a try!
If you’re unsure of what to do, just write about two (or more) bodies playing Jiffy Stiffy. People did not read 50 Shades of Grey for the plot movement and character development.
(This post originally ran on A Buick in the Land of Lexus.)
Samara is the no-holds-barred, four times Freshly Pressed blogger at A Buick in the Land of Lexus. She mixes honesty with humor in high definition, first-person story telling. Samara is also a founding member of The Sister Wives blog. She lives in New Jersey with her son Little Dude, the coolest 11-year-old kid on the planet. Follow her on Twitter and Facebook.