Tag Archives: erotica

XXX Rated…

My short story, When the Bleeding Just Won’t Stop, is now live at Bare Back Magazine… although I would advise against going there if you’re a child, or in any way prudish about sex.

This story started life as a simple sex scene – mostly as an experiment to see if I could write one. I find that descriptions of the act itself, in fiction, are usually boring and inconsequential to the plot, and in that way they have about the same importance as characters going to the bathroom, and you don’t often read that on the page. Of course, sex is more titillating than the toilet, so I understand the appeal.

Once I got into writing the sex scene, I started wrapping a story around it and developing the characters, and then the whole thing took off from there. I think it’s a good story, and a thoughtful piece of erotica that has something to say.

Check it out if that kind of thing takes your fancy.

Friday Fiction Fixes #19…

Fifty Shades of Grey by EL James – 2011

220px-50ShadesofGreyCoverArtThis is one of only three novels that I’ve started and failed to finish. The other two are classics that I intend to go back to one day. Fifty Shades of Grey is no classic. It’s easy to believe that this started life as a piece of fan fiction for the Twilight saga, because this is poorly written even for a first draft, let alone something that has (allegedly) gone through several.

I’ve only read the first seventy pages of this novel, so this isn’t a review, nor is it my opinion of the book as a whole. It is however, a place for me to say how awful I believe those first seventy pages are, and how head-scratchingly annoying it is that the author made many millions of dollars off the back of something that quite blatantly pandered to the lowest common denominator.

I feel the colour in my cheeks rising again. I must be the colour of The Communist Manifesto.

Fifty Shades of Grey was sold as the most sexually charged and hedonistic mainstream work since Caligula, and if that is true and not just crass marketing hyperbole, then the genre of erotic fiction is in a lot of trouble. Now, have I fed into this whole thing by even starting the novel in the first place? Yeah, probably. But I had to find out what all the fuss was about.

His lips part, like he’s taking a sharp intake of breath, and he blinks. For a fraction of a second, he looks lost somehow, and the Earth shifts slightly on its axis, the tectonic plates sliding into a new position.

I had an open mind going in, but that soon became very difficult. The lead character, Anastasia (yes, that’s her name) is fascinated by the older and more experienced Mr Grey, although she hardly knows him at all and lacks the confidence to say much of anything to him.

And from a very tiny, underused part of my brain—probably located at the base of my medulla oblongata near where my subconscious dwells—comes the thought: He’s here to see you.

Going in I thought this was going to present a strong female lead, but instead, Anastasia comes across as nauseatingly weak. She is the single most pathetic, insipid, can’t-make-her-damn-mind-up protagonist that I have read in any novel. And for a novel that’s sold as being all about sex, there sure as shit isn’t so much as an exposed thigh in those first seventy pages. I know Anastasia is all about her flower, but goddamn woman!

Perhaps the four hundred pages that follow is filled with the most mind-blowing coitus ever commited to paper, but I doubt it.

This is What’s Under the Bed…

I’ve written hundreds of stories in my life, over a million words (you’ll have to trust me on that one). I’ve written comedies and thrillers. I’ve written romance and drama. I’ve written sci-fi and fantasy. I’ve written westerns and stuff for kids. I’ve even penned some erotica (much to my mother’s embarrassment), but what I’m writing now is possibly the first real monster story I’ve tried… well, ever.


I mention this only because for the longest time – in my head – I was a horror writer. I think somewhere in there I still am. I read horror and that’s what I wrote, or so I thought. But looking back over those hundreds of titles and those million words, it turns out that very little of it would actually fit in the boundaries of the genre. Maybe ten percent; fifteen at a push.

I’ve always wanted to write a pure, no-nonsense monster tale – one that doesn’t necessarily live in the real world, and doesn’t feel the need to apologise or explain itself either. Sometimes horror just is and creatures just are.

This may just be my first time.