For the last year or so I have been supplementing my income quite well with writing personalized erotica for clients — and it’s been an eye-opening and life changing experience.
The truth is, I didn’t get into writing personalized erotica just because I saw other people doing it and thought it was a good idea.
I got into it after talking to a friend about a mutual kink, and he was the first to take me up on me peddling my erotic wares and get me started.
What did he want?
A story about my fantasy.
And, well, he hasn’t…
I get a lot of emails and DM’s from men with relationship problems, asking for my advice or just wanting to vent to someone about their issues.
I’m more than happy to listen and even offer my advice when I think I have advice to give, but what I find myself doing the most is giving my condolences to men because their sexual relationships are seriously lacking.
Men in dead bedrooms flock to me for some reason, and so many of their stories are exactly the same.
Almost all of them share one detail:
They never get blowjobs.
The last time my partner and I broke up, or tried to at least, I swore that I would never do it again — in the sense that I would never let him break up with me again.
I swore he was stuck with me.
He had said not to let him do it again, too.
“Remind me it’s not what I really want. I want to be with you. Fight for me.”
Things like that.
And I swore I would, I mean, why wouldn’t I fight forever for the man that I love?
But when it came down to…
Call me Goldilocks.
Penises have to be perfect for me.
There is a such a thing as too big or too small in my opinion, and also in my opinion, it’s the bigger ones I’d want to avoid.
Decades ago when I worked at IHOP I dated a sub schooler named Sam who had the biggest dick I’ve ever encountered in my life.
The thing was thicker than a Coke can, I literally couldn’t get my fingers around the widest part of its girth, and it’s length was equally intimidating, at least seven inches.
Sex with him wasn’t enjoyable to…
When you ask me why I love you, I’ll say it’s because of all the little things that make up who you are.
I love you because you love wild bunnies and go out of your way to look for them. I love you because talking about beer excites you, and because you’ve taught me so much about something you’re passionate about.
I love you because you’re more handy than you think you are. I love you because you set goals and go after them and even if you fail, you go at them again even harder. …
I go through bouts of time when I have no idea what to write here on Medium.
I’ve written over 500 articles now (Oh, how I wish there were a thorough, searchable archive for you all), and I’m always looking for new topics to write about.
This is why you should be my friend on Twitter — there’s a good chance you’ll make it into one of my stories one way or another, based on the ideas you give me.
So, last time I threw out into the Twitter void, what should I write about?
Someone answered, simply: BUKKAKE.
It’s hard enough going through a breakup.
It’s harder going through a breakup with someone who your best friend never wanted you to be with to from the start (because he’s married, which is a good reason), but still.
I can’t talk to my closest, oldest friend about the demise of this relationship, because I know I wouldn’t get sympathy — I would get eye rolls and “I told you so’s” — and I just can’t handle that right now.
So instead, I turn to Twitter.
You may laugh, thinking that’s a terrible idea, to take my rants and woes…
Up until a few days ago I really thought I was going to be getting out of here soon.
I’ve been living with my parents and daughter for two years now in a small, cramped house, and sharing a room with my 15 year old since my grandparents also arrived a year ago.
I’ve been huddled over my laptop, writing like a fiend, writing for my life trying make enough money to get out of here and back out on my own again.
But a year and a half ago I met someone and thoughts of my future changed.
I’m a little bit obsessed with your hands.
For one thing, they’re what touches me the most, what makes me feel the most good whenever they are on me.
I love holding your hand.
It’s the most simple of intimate connections — no, perhaps a hug is more simple — because when fingers wrap together and squeeze, and when they really fit together, it’s a special kind of perfection.
You fit into me, it says to me.
We fit together perfectly, and when I look down at our hands sometimes I can’t tell where yours end and mine begin because…
I spent the last week in Florida with my best friend and his boyfriend, and it was a bit of an eye opening experience.
I’m surprised to say that, because I lived with my best friend, Todd, for two years after he divorced his husband and needed a roommate in the big, beautiful house he was left with.
They were some of the most fun two years of my life.
Living with Todd was a hoot because Todd and his best friend are drag queens and it was fun to watch them spend hours, and I’m talking like 5–7 hours…