“Have you read Love and Kink, by Guy New York?”
“No, should I?”
“Sooooo good…. Shocked at how good it was.”
“But here’s the problem: I just don’t get turned on reading something by someone I can’t imagine fucking.”
This is true. It’s why, as much as I admire the craft of Guy New York and Jack Stratton, their stories don’t get me hard, don’t make me want to go rub one out. And I’m not just heterosexist here – lesbian porn? Even erotica written by ostensibly monogamous women? It all just can’t get my dick hard in any reliable way.
Am I alone here? When you read erotica, is the author her or himself your central character?
I don’t have this problem generally, with fiction, but I do, often, with non-fiction: if I don’t like the author, I’m going to be really hard-pressed to like the book. (I’ve written a bit about Sex at Dawn, which suffers from this challenge. So did Joe Wilson’s expose after the Valerie Plame affair. And Richard Clarke’s critique of Bush-era national security, just to name a few.) I don’t have to want to fuck the author, but I have to want to sit down and talk with her or him about the subject at hand.
In the case of erotica, I think I actually have to want to fuck her. Oh well. Clearly my loss.
Because I understand that Guy New York’s Love and Kink is really hot.