On the Rack of Lust

I've roughly written over 500,000 words in just a little over a year since I began my foray into the world of fiction writing. For me, it's hard to believe I wrote anything. I never wanted to really write. The only reason why I did put finger to keyboard was to get something I wanted out of fiction. (And for me, that was purely based on sex. And I wrote plenty of it.) But out of all the words I've written, would I think that anything I've written is good enough to send out? Nah, not really. I write for my own entertainment at the moment, practicing my skill, honing my abilities until one day I'm able to write the way that I think I should. Of course, Hellion, as convincing as ever rubs her hands together in glee every time I mention writing. She's got big plans for me and my writing. She believes one day I'll be published. It's nice to have someone in your corner believing in you when you just want to give up. She's all about me working in her group and after months of persuasion, I think I'm going to do it. If nothing else, it will get my ass in gear. Which at this point in time, is the giant kick in the ass I need. But nothing seems to be going for me in my writing right now. I'm currently in the Land of Missing Muses. Calling Ms. Coco Scarlett, if you're reading this you little bitch, get your ass home!

I want to write mystery. I like the way that mysteries are set up, the way the plot is lined up and the way the characters have to flow off each other to get the job done. But is that what I'm writing now. No. I was until I got to a sex scene and just completely went off the hinge. Which got me thinking, maybe I should write something else and get the sex outta my mind. I like to write sex. I know there are people out there that get all embarressed if they have to write sex, claim a sex scene or even blush at the word, "clit", but not me. Why should I balk at writing about something almost everyone in adulthood does? Why should I pretend to giggle and blush when someone asks me if I write about sex? I shouldn't have to and I don't. I write sex the way that I want to. If I'm writing it and I can't get into it, it won't make the light of day. I feel like if you're writing something you damn well better make the person read it pant and fan themselves like they're having a hot flash. So that's what I do. I only think about sex when I'm writing it. I don't think about walking the dog, or pretending I have a headache, or what if someone catches me...

I think about what if. I think about what if I was walking in the rain and my lead was driving the car beside me, yelling out from the driver's side door.
"Get in the car!" He yelled, the rain soaking his dark hair and dripping into the car. "I'm not going to tell you again before I stop and get out."
I kept walking, fuming about what he'd said at supper about no-commettment-no-rules. How dare he? I knew he would, I just knew it, but somewhere, deep down in there, I was hoping the bastard had a heart. I should've known better.
I heard him swearing, but mostly he was being drowned out by the downpour. The new black dress I'd bought for this occasion was soaked and plastered to me like a second skin.
"Just go home, you asshole. I told you once before I left, I don't want to talk to you. I'm not going to fuck you when I get home and I sure-as-shit am not going to call you in the morning. You get that or you need me to draw you a fucking picture?"
"Fucking Jesus, Sadie." Ash said, his hands slamming down on the steering wheel. I picked up my pace when I heard him slam on the brakes and put the car in gear. I knew this area, whereas he didn't. Just up ahead I could duck into the alley and cut across to my street. He'd never catch me before I could make it Leila's apartment.
"Don't make me chase you, Sadie." Ash said, his feet pounding the pavement behind me. "When I catch you..." I didn't hear the rest of it as my heart was roaring like a freight train in my ears. I rounded the corner in almost a sprint, the rain smacking me hard in the face and stinging my eyes. I darted around a dumpter and shoved the hair out of my face. I knew he was close on my heels. I'd underestimated Ash. He'd done it once to me and now I'd done it to him. Bad mistake. I wasn't going to make it. I was going to have to impervise.
I came out the other side of the alley and rounded the edge to wait for him. I could feel his body heat nearing me and I watched the ground, looking for his shadow. As he grew closer, my breathing changed, deep breaths making me feel as though I was holding my breath, waiting for the right moment. Closer, I closed my eyes and steadied myself. Closer yet, I shifted against the brick wall, downtown was completely quiet. The rain was at monsoon level, the streets flooded, the electricity out. And finally I was at my calmest moment, I opened my eyes and step out from around the building hoping to knock him off balance and run off.
But it didn't quite work out so well.
I stepped out and Ash was prepared, his hands shot out and grabbed a hold of my upper arms, pushing my against the brick wall I'd just been against and his mouth lowered onto my brutually. He pressed his hard body into me at full force, his hands tangling into my sopping hair and pulling my head back until I was at his full mercy. I grasped onto him, hoping that I could push him away but gasping instead when he nipped at my lower lip and pushed his tongue into my mouth. He wrapped around me like a warm blanket, flattening me against him until there was no part of me getting pelted by the rain and I moved against him, unable to stop myself from wanting him. I hated him more than anyone in my life before him, but when he put his hands on me, I couldn't stop him. I ached in more ways than one for him to be pushing my skirt up over my hips and fucking me until neither one of us could stand anymore.

If a scene can't run away from me, then to me it doesn't deserve to be written. I hate to force it. I hate it with a passion. And maybe that's why I'm not dedicated enough to write a mystery yet. I have the plot line all drawn up. I have the characters ready to go (you witnessed them above in a random scene I just made up) and I have a great mystery for them to solve as FBI agents. But I have no dedication to them. Really, all Sadie and Ash want to do it fuck. Constantly. Like bunny rabbits. And I'm not the type of person to deny them that pleasure, especially when they do it so well.

So I was thinking the other day. Why not write an erotica and see if I can do it. Just for the helluva it. In the words of my mother and countless other mothers I've encountered over the years in my sinful days, I'm brazen enough to do anything. Why not do this and challenge myself to take my sex to another level. I think I can do it. So I've put my fingers to the good old keyboard again and started hashing out a story line, knowing that my beginning is going to suck (like always) and then I'll find my groove in there somewhere and it will all make sense. The only problem is, my mind has a mind of it's own. And the story ended up being paranormal erotica. My main male character, Fallon, (I refuse to call him a hero, he's as anti-hero as you can get) is a half breed demon/vampire. And the women he owns, Cinnah, is a half breed vampire/human. So nothing I do can ever be simple. *sigh* I just wanted to write some crazy sex. Cin and Fallon have there own way of thinking... of course. So I'm off to do their biding so that I have some chance of being published in this lifetime.