Reinventing Myself as an Erotic Author
Fine. I get it. What sells is not short stories, or voyeuristic portraits of human nature, but erotic fiction. This is the summer, not of the Beach Diaries, but of Fifty Shades of Grey. Oh how deliciously wicked we are, supping on our wine and swapping conspiratorial kitchen-table references about Mr. Grey! If people aren’t talking about it earnestly, they’re doing shitty parodies. Fifty Shades of Gran, Fifty Shades of Aunt May — Fifty Shades of That Bloke from Blockbusters who said Orgasm instead of Organism That Time. The world simply refuses to shut up about it, and to stop tossing handfuls of money in its direction.
And there’s me, scribbling away, with neither a safely-neutered BDSM protagonist nor a bean to my name. No more, I say. Here, take your erotica. I’m climbing on the back of this foul-mouthed horse and riding all the way to the golden fields of SuccessLand, beneath the rolling hills of Rich as FuckVille. I accept no blame for this. Society wrote this story as much as I did, a society that sees headlines like “Fifty Shades author banks $1m a day” flashing in my face, while I get buffeted around on coastal gales, taking notes on graffiti in the stinking toilets on the beach and hoping it somehow goes viral.
WordPress doesn’t allow pornographic material, so I’ve posted it on my Tumblr account (because that place allows all kinds of filth. Supposedly). It’s just text, but if your workplace doesn’t allow NSFW text, then you probably shouldn’t click on…