Your knees buckle, and you sink to the floor at the sight of the naked body that stands before you. This beautiful creature has no shame, for there could be no shame in possessing the body of a God. There could only be shame in covering it up, and preventing the masses from basking in its radiant glory. Your eyes are transfixed by the magnificent, towering rod that throbs just inches from your face. It is pink and swollen, and arches toward the heavens, in stiffened reverence to the perfect creator who once dreamt it up, and then fashioned it out of the primordial clay.
Meekly, you reach forward and grasp it in your palm. You can feel the warm pulse of desire as you begin to stroke it. A drop of nectar glistens at its tip, and you extend your tongue for a taste. Feeling blessed, you purse your lips and press them to the divine scepter in a gesture of loving devotion. With commanding authority, it presses back firmly against your lips, pushing them slightly apart. You can scarcely breathe as the holy lance slowly pierces your mouth, lubricating itself with your saliva.
Not wanting to waste this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, you submit to an impassioned impulse: you shall drink ambrosia from God's own spigot. At once, you get to work coaxing the fragrant liquid out with your hands and your lips, keeping the staff moist with your tongue. The balls rock back and forth like heavenly spheres in orbit. A sigh escapes God's lips, and the fleshy landscape that fills your vision begins to convulse. The geyser erupts, and fills your oral cavity with gooey devotion.
The sheer force of it pushes your head back in surprise, and the lusty cannon escapes from the confines of your mouth. The stream, now liberated, fires aimlessly, leaving your face and body covered in God's love. Awash in this primal baptism, you feel born anew.
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Man, writing erotica is hard. Let me rephrase that: writing good erotica is hard. And when I say "good", I mean by literary standards, not by porn standards. Getting somebody off is easy - even with words. You don't have to take an Honors English course in order to figure out how to get someone off.
But it occurs to me that the reason written erotica so easily devolves into cheesy puns and vomited thesauruses is that it's just not very interesting to describe the logistics of sex past a certain point. "I got hard. I stuck the cock in my mouth. I stroked it. I squeezed the balls. It came all over me." It's hot - sure. But not very interesting; and my approach towards the erotic arts has always been to apply a certain standard of quality and raise it above the level of being just smut.
And, with that in mind, all that coarse language - while effective - just doesn't sound very sophisticated. That's where the metaphors and euphemisms come into play. I'm not intentionally dancing around the issue of calling a penis a penis (or a dick or a cock) - although some authors may be, in order to circumvent the censors. I just want something more...evocative, than provocative.
But, you know, even the floweriest metaphor gets boring with repetition, and sex is nothing if not repetitious. "I pierced the quarry with my lance, then withdrew. I pierced her again. And again. And again. And again." So, you start to look for alternatives. And consistency becomes difficult. One minute you're on a foxhunt, the next, you're fishing for oysters. Your partner morphs from a goddess into a sack of meat. Your genitals have all the versatility of a weapon, a tool, and a toy wrapped up into one handy device.
Another difficulty with writing erotica is that describing a scene takes a lot longer than getting turned on. (And if the erotica you're writing doesn't turn you on, you should probably pick a different scene). I learned that a long time ago, scribbling illicit narratives into a secret notebook, extending my arousal indefinitely in hopes of finishing the story, only to inevitably end up finishing myself first. Perhaps it would be a good idea to write in multiple sessions, but I find that I rarely return to the same story twice...
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