One of the reasons I wanted to go to Eroticon was to explore the possibility of writing erotic fiction. In the main, my blog has always been about me and my relationships. For much of the past 5 years, there has been plenty of experiences to recount. I am sure that this will continue, but since my relationship with Master is for the longterm real life there is unlikely to be kinky excitement all of the time. Last weekend I struggled to complete the exercises set us by Ashley Lister. I couldn’t think of a 6 word story, kinky or otherwise. Generally my creative brain felt somewhat numb. But it wasn’t always like this.
The teenage years
There was a time when I wrote stories, in longhand in a notebook. My friend and I wrote about the boys from school, the ones we had a crush on. These were tales of innocent romance, about being noticed and kissed. In our dreamworld we were attractive, we became their girlfriends. There was, as far as I can remember, no actual sex involved. We were 15 or 16 and pretty naive.
Real life overtook us, real boyfriends were found, Wendy left school and started work, she went out with a number of boys including a very odd distant cousin of mine. Her next boyfriend was older and much more mature. She grew bored with our stories, indeed we grew apart. Her life was more interesting than the fiction we had created.
I also had a boy friend, but for me the exploration of my sexuality and his body meant I wanted to write more. I began to fantasise about what sex could and should be about, without even knowing why. Without even recognising that I wasn’t fulfilled in the way I could have been.
I started my nurse training and my writings became essays about nursing care, anatomy and psychology. Hell, there was no time to think about erotic stories, much less write them. Anyway I was having proper, actual sex. In a single bed, in a nurses home, in London. Boys weren’t allowed in our room after midnight, so I was living on the edge here.
At some point soon after I became a married woman I picked up my pen and paper again. Marriage wasn’t quite as I had imagined it to be. I worked shifts at a local hospital, often we saw little of each other. At some point in those first years my hubby strayed with someone at work. He pretended to work late, go out with mates and left me on my own for long periods of time.
Looking back, the stories I created in my A4 notepads were pretty raunchy. There was a lot of sex, often involving more than two people. I explored the idea of lesbian sex, even though I knew that I wasn’t turned on by other women in real life. I brought back the men (previously boys) that I had a crush on as a teenager. These were now hot-blooded men rather than boys. I had no knowledge of BDSM but did explore being controlled by a man. I guess this was a direct result of needing to exert quite so much control over my own life, back then.
Then I became pregnant, for a while I continued the fantasies. But then I was a mother. Juggling work, family, marriage with an unfaithful man (not that I knew) who was incredibly needy, I had neither the time or the imagination. I threw the books away and got on with life.
From time to time I tried to recreate the stories. In those early days I had been able to almost lose myself in the fantasy of the fiction I had created. But responsibility to work, motherhood and paying the mortgage mean that you need to centre yourself. Once I found the blogosphere I was more interested in describing the world I inhabited (mainly work related) that I forgot about any kind of fiction.
Until this week, I had blocked from my mind that I ever wrote fiction, let alone that it might have involved erotica. But I did. Thinking back, there is no reason that I couldn’t get my brain around a kinky story right now. I have the time, the space and dammit the ability to make this happen. I just need to give myself the permission to do so.