“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.