I write. A lot. Quite a bit of what I right is outside the expected output for the demographics that I should, but don’t, fit. Quite a bit is erotica, and not just ‘plain ol’ erotica’. No. I write mostly MM with some MMF added here and there.
For those who may not know, MM is man-on-man. Right, two dudes. But sometimes they get frisky and it’s MMM or MMMM or MFM. Almost never FF. Why? Frankly because I can’t stand the usual words for the parts of the female body that one must write about if there’s a woman/lady/chick/bitch/whore involved. I shudder at most terms, and not an ‘oh god, there, yes just like that’ shudder. I’d rather write ‘cock’ than ‘pussy’ any day.
[Note: that is write and not interact with. I’m proudly pansexual. I honestly don’t care about gender. Male, female, somewhere in-between, uncertain, fluid — it’s all the same to me. And no, that does not mean I have no standards. It just means my standards aren’t gender-based.]
There’s a lot of deep thought and philosophical discussion and sociological commentary to be had over the notion of slang terms and gender bias.
Why do I write at all? Quite frankly, I don’t understand the question. I write for the same reason I breathe. Because if I stop, I die. There’s the nutshell. The nut is this: my soul needs to be creative and without the act of creating, it shrivels and withers and concentrates its sugars and ends up a minuscule bit of pea-gravel right where the deepest, most open, lushest part of me should be. I have to write. I cannot do without it. I can not-write, which is very different than not writing. There’s another philosophical/sociological/psychological topic.
But the bottom line is I’m a word junkie. Hooked. Addicted. In the worst way. For a long time I was crammed into a detox program, told I should be concentrating on church and family and home and let that foolishness go. And I stupidly did just that. OK, the family part, at least as far as my kids go, that wasn’t stupid. Know what ‘detox’ did for me? Convinced me I was even more deformed and worthless than I’d thought to start with. Finally I left the world of “you aren’t, you shouldn’t, you can’t” and came back to “I am, I can, I will, I do.” Limitations no longer based on someone else’s idea of who and what I am, I started writing again, with a pen dipped in a bottle of ‘up yours’ and blotted with ‘if you don’t like it, fuck you very much.’ (Thanks to Nya Rawlyns for that little gem of a phrase.)
However that doesn’t mean I’m cold and unfriendly. It just means I no longer curl up on the big boss’s lap and take dictation, hoping he’ll remember my name after he zips up again. Yeah, that’s done. Who’s Big Boss? The ex. The god. The real-world bosses. The ‘there, there, sweetie, we’ll take care of everything for you’ politicians. The grave-voices of father, grandmother, teachers, all the others whose calling in life was to squeeze the juice out of me for their fetid wine and leave me the skins and squashed pulp of what I might have been. Those guys, I’m breaking free of (will I ever be truly free?). People who want to hang around, walk beside me, maybe get a bit tipsy or high with me — those folks are very welcome in my life. Start a dialogue with me if you’re one of those people.