“His hard, throbbing manhood slipped easily
into her warm, enfolding wetness, his eager yearning matching her ecstatic
sighs. They moaned and arched together, their pleasure coming in waves, like
the rhythm of the universe.”
All right, that was me. Now, again, this is
me:
“His fuck pole pounded in and out of her
love hole.”
I have this thing about erotic writing. Most
of the time I can’t read it without getting intensely irritated.
The problem is that most erotic writing,
actually, isn’t. There are some rare and precious exceptions, but those are
precious because they are, damn it,
so rare.
As for the rest:
At one end is the self-conscious coyness of
the genre known as bodice-rippers, whose authors speak of a love which dare
not, apparently, write its name. What the hell is wrong with these people? It’s
like, they decide that they have to take the plunge and write about sex; then
they stick a toe in the water, shiver, keep the toe in the water, and write
from that level. Classic example: Jean M Auel’s Earth Children series, all but
the first (and only readable) volume, The
Clan Of The Cave Bear. That was a good book. From volume two, The Valley Of Horses, she seems to have
run out of ideas and padded it out with “sex”. Not sex, mind you; I don’t have anything against
sex. Just “sex.”
And on the other hand there’s porn. Which
is porn.
Gah!
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