I wrote my first erotic story when I was eleven -- more a sloppy vignette describing a recurrant fantasy with the new girl at school (the who wore leg-warmers and swayed her hips when she walked) than an actual story -- typed out on the old Singer typewriter that was desperately in need of a new ribbon. I didn't know any terms, my structure was horrid, and it was only two paragraphs long. I remember the heady thrill of writing my fantasies down, of making them somewhat solid when before they had been so ephemeral.
A year later I had a proper typewriter and was banging out the continuing tale of my life as a gigolo; saving one of my classmates from an attack while walking home, then being rewarded for my gallantry with a trip to her bedroom, which lead to trips to other bedrooms. The tale expanded to include some adventure to balance the sex; a subplot of corruption at the middle school; the female superintendant trying to seduce me Mrs. Robinson-style to find out what I knew, yet getting seduced herself, unlocking more puzzles; a gambling ring at the local highschool and my sister's friends. And, of course, scenes with all of the girls after whom I lusted. I never finished the story. It was something like three-hundred pages when I abandoned it and forgot about it in the bottom drawer of my desk. I've found pieces of it, but never the whole thing. A pity.
Eventually I started moving away from my fantasies for inspiration. My stories were the better for it. I was becoming a better writer; indeed, I was now writing things that I could actually show other people, and they all seemed to write more. My erotic work was pushed the the side in favor of skiffy stories, horror stories, literary pieces, and the odd piece of non-fiction. Now and again I'd actually get paid for writing something (always an enjoyable experience), though it was never frequent enough to satisfy me.
It's strange to look back. To see where you started. To know that you were always different. To realize that nothing has quite measured up to the heady excitement of an eleven-year-old boy writing his fantasies down for the first time.
And watch Pan dancing. It really brought a smile this morning. And the thesis is pretty interesting, too.
A year later I had a proper typewriter and was banging out the continuing tale of my life as a gigolo; saving one of my classmates from an attack while walking home, then being rewarded for my gallantry with a trip to her bedroom, which lead to trips to other bedrooms. The tale expanded to include some adventure to balance the sex; a subplot of corruption at the middle school; the female superintendant trying to seduce me Mrs. Robinson-style to find out what I knew, yet getting seduced herself, unlocking more puzzles; a gambling ring at the local highschool and my sister's friends. And, of course, scenes with all of the girls after whom I lusted. I never finished the story. It was something like three-hundred pages when I abandoned it and forgot about it in the bottom drawer of my desk. I've found pieces of it, but never the whole thing. A pity.
Eventually I started moving away from my fantasies for inspiration. My stories were the better for it. I was becoming a better writer; indeed, I was now writing things that I could actually show other people, and they all seemed to write more. My erotic work was pushed the the side in favor of skiffy stories, horror stories, literary pieces, and the odd piece of non-fiction. Now and again I'd actually get paid for writing something (always an enjoyable experience), though it was never frequent enough to satisfy me.
It's strange to look back. To see where you started. To know that you were always different. To realize that nothing has quite measured up to the heady excitement of an eleven-year-old boy writing his fantasies down for the first time.
And watch Pan dancing. It really brought a smile this morning. And the thesis is pretty interesting, too.
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being an anarchist samurai doesn't really allow giving your credit card number.
g.