The other day, someone asked me about my ultimate fantasy and as the words spilled out of my fingertips, I began spinning the tale that, to be honest, is one of four or five complex plots inside my head.
This blog, however, is not about fiction. It’s about my life and exploring my sexual nature. If I begin weaving in fictional writing with my own internal studies and regular reports, I worry some people might confuse fact from fiction, my thoughts from my fantasies.
A time in my life, I explored becoming an erotic writer. I actually submitted stories to several publications that were, at the time, viable because this whole web thing really didn’t exist — at least to common mortals like myself.
I received several rejection letters. But one editor actually wrote me back rather than a common rejection. I’ll paraphrase him, because I recall it too clearly.
“Your story is good. Your writing is strong. It’s just there’s too much plot and it takes way too many words before you get to the sex.”
At the time, I had a philosophical difference with erotica writers. Plot mattered to me. How many pizza delivery guys, coaches, handymen, etc., stories can be written or filmed until they’re all out of juice and it’s just an excuse to fuck. How many sports teams do you think actually have fuck sessions in the locker room? (Okay, with the exception of gay rugby and softball leagues.)
My fuck fiction will have plots. I want men hard and leaking before the fucking ever starts. I want the tension and anticipation of the fuck before it happens. I want his dick hard and several beads of precum already soaking his pubes before his first stroke when one of my fictional dicks get into a fictional hole.
So, if you want more fiction, you’ll have to find it on another blog. I do not want the two intermingling.
Please go to http://ibifuckfiction.blogspot.com. I’ll be watching the readership there too to see if we get enough followers to keep a second blog alive.
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