Apr 222013
 

I hear you worrying.

Can I write something that will turn him on? (“Can I write erotica that will turn him on?” I think I heard you ask.)

I worry the same thing. Largely because I don’t write erotica. The closest I come is posts like yesterday’s, in which I wrote about a fantasy. One which could be about you but, honestly, wasn’t. At least, it certainly wasn’t exclusively about you.

I came up with this challenge – for you to write writing that would get me hard, turn me on, maybe even make me cum. And for me to do the same (substitute “wet” for “hard,” but otherwise…). And as I sat down, first yesterday, and then again today, to try, I found it impossible.

Except… except… I found that this gets me hard – pondering how, 1,500 miles away, I could possibly make a woman wet – a woman I don’t (really) know, whose voice I’ve never heard, whose face I’ve never seen, and whose body I’ve only glimpsed in the most disembodied, fragmented of ways. Pondering just what I could write, what I could say, what I could do that would meet my challenge.

Writing these very words gets me hard. Imagining you writhing, uncomfortably, in front of a blank screen, wanting to get me off, to get me hard, to make my cock twitch in my jeans while I read what you’ve written; imagining your cunt tingling, dripping, as you ask yourself, “What the fuck will I write? How will I get him off?” All this has me really fucking hard.

Good job, Hy. Nice start.

Yours,

N.

  3 Responses to “Dear Hyacinth,”

  1. OMG. Thrilled to see this, N. And for the record, yes, I was wondering if my style of writing and thinking about sex cold possibly turn you on. You know of two men who weren’t impressed. I’m scared, but I’m willing to give it a whirl. I’ll keep thinking on it. And being aroused at the prospect. I’m having a very hard time concentrating today.

  2. […] I’d imagine the sound it made — much as I’d imagined the Irishman’s exclamations as I unzipped his invisible pants — and then I would grin stupidly that I had pleased him and I would cum hard and cry out; shudder, then still.  Happy to have had the fantasy.  Happy to have a friend with whom to share. […]

  3. […] I’d imagine the sound it made — much as I’d imagined the Irishman’s exclamations as I unzipped his invisible pants — and then I would grin stupidly that I had pleased him and I would cum hard and cry out; shudder, then still.  Happy to have had the fantasy.  Happy to have a friend with whom to share. […]

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