SORI Snippets. Enjoy!

Greetings, One and All.

This week took me by storm and allowed me not the necessary time to elaborate on my soon to be released, “Syncopation of Ravishing Intensity”. Therefore, today I have decided to share mini-excerpts with you in the hopes that it might entice your imagination and prompt you to possibly pick up a copy of “S.O.R.I” which is due for release tomorrow, July 7th, 2017.

Enjoy!

Blurb:

Winter Sensations …

Spring Overtures …

Summer Ruminations …

Fall Inhibitions …

The Syncopation of Ravishing Intensity is four seasons of discovery, lust, love and eroticism. A compilation of short stories that are sure to make you swoon in delight. Through a collection of erotic shorts drenched in whimsical prose, Adonis Mann takes us on a trip through a thrilling and provocative year. Stimulating the reader with stories like “Tyronian Rapture”, “Prismatic Slumber” and “Metamorphoses”, Mr. Mann brings sensual delight to every season. A jewel of an anthology for the LGBTQIA community, Syncopation of Ravishing Intensity is a must read for the lover of Erotica. Covering winter, spring, summer and fall, with one story for every month, Adonis gives you the gift of powerful diction and titillating tales. Come, sink in to SORI.

 

 

 

Excerpt: Wanton Wonderland

The air was cold and damp. The snow seemed to flow from right to left, instead of from top to bottom. The breeze made it so. Tiny, a not so tiny man slowly but surely made his way to the rented log cabin, he’d leased for the weekend for he and his lady love. A curvy girl, by the name of Raquel. This weekend Tiny and Raquel had ventured to try something new. Something they’d never tried before.

Sharing.

Excerpt: Prismatic Slumber

I dream in color. Like a vivid, luminescent prism, everything comes to thriving life, and then there he is with me.

Sleigh bells dangling from the edge of the bed jingle whenever I slide deep inside of his scrumptious cleft.

Silver tinsel, tangled around our feet.

How did it get there? When did we play with it? It doesn’t matter.

Only partially covered by a Santa Claus fleece blanket, our skin touches underneath—intense heat emanating from it. In the background Bobby Helms “Jingle Bell Rock” plays, only loud enough to drown our elate moaning.

Excerpt: Jet Tresses and Snow

Long, black hair that grazed my face as he swayed atop me. It smelled of shampoo and sweat—a sweet combination. His arms wrapped tightly around me, and all I could hear was his breath, my moans and his sighs as he pulsed inside me.

Unable to contain myself, I grabbed a fist full of his hair, tugging it ever so softly—just enough to make him groan in delight. Pulling his head back, my lips and tongue devoured the curvature of his neck, inhaling his scent.

 

 

 

Excerpt: Shy Torrents

Supple, soft skin glided under my fingers. Speckled with downy like hairs which electrified whenever my hand’s heat swept over them. My body heat was a magnet. A magnet which had the power to beckon wantonness and yearning. Shy shivered, unable to contain the reaction. I smirked.

Shy lay there, belly down, arms tucked under his chin and completely undressed. I thought of how much I wanted to take my finger, which traced his form, and insert it directly to his tight opening. I yielded the desire because my biggest wish was to savor this moment. This moment right here.

Excerpt: Metamorphosis

I am a butterfly.

The beauty of life is found in the mundane matters of evolution. Therefore, I am a butterfly.

When I was an egg, the shell kept me from breaking free. It prohibited me from being whom I was meant to be. Yet, there was a miraculous event occurring; I was developing. Readying for the inevitable exodus which was about to transpire.

I suppose the world was not ready for me then. Perhaps, preparing for the spectacular event which was about to unfold.

Excerpt: … and she: The Short Story of Constance McBride

He shared me, my Ronin. Yes, he did. That much is true. Withal, I minded not. I’d learned to appreciate the wonders of two men and I. It was a pleasantry that not all knew of.

Many speculate on my consent of being divvied between two.

So, I ask that you allow me a moment to share my story—my truth.

I am Constance McBride.

I was brought up with hard-handed structure and unwavering beliefs. My father, a Baptist Preacher. My mother, the epitome of a Preacher’s Wife—contrite, obedient and supportive.

I never fit in. I never could.

 

 

 

Excerpt: Timeless Daze; Reimagined

Footprints on golden sand lined the expanse, perfectly positioned, making a lovely pattern down the shore—some being washed away by the waves. The tawny hue of the sun bounced off the waterfront creating currents of various yellow pigments, drenching the entire domain in the same colorant.

It was a sight to behold. A beautiful, wonderful vision. And with all of its wonderment, the one thing that held my attention the most, was the individual making the impressions. His tall, strong fame, blotted out the brilliance of the seascape wherever he stood and created a silhouette of gray.

Excerpt: Mystical Nights

A gust of wind caused the white, sheer curtain on the only window in my room to dance. The light from the new moon permeated the room causing blue-gray rays to cross its expanse. Yet, there she was. A phantom. A phantasm of desire and wantonness. Real and surreal. A combination, though inexplicable, also intoxicating. The way she swayed her hips. The way she used her hands to lift the thick tresses of her hair just enough to allow her figure to come into focus. Black against pale gray. The rhythm of her movement seemed natural yet mystical. A temptress, a jezebel.

Excerpt: Tyronian Rapture

I was captured by my dear Regina’s beauty. Her full lips longed to be licked, while I imagined that her smooth skin and voluptuous curves yearned to be caressed.

From a distance, I basked in her allurement, secretly—watching as she picked the wild flowers from the field in order to prepare a centerpiece for our dinner table for tea. If I could walk through the window ajar as a phantom, then as a phantom I would delight in her existence.

The impasse, my predilection. The penchant to fancy the reprobate. And, whilst my heart and mind remained enthralled by my point of desire, my body lay captive inside of this wretched place.

 

 

Excerpt: Her Seductions

Silence is suffocating. Dense, even. Yet, it is in the silence of the night when my true love comes to me. She whispers in my ear that she loves me, running fingers through my long blonde locks. The effect is a rush which causes my hairs to stand on end and my femininity to pulse with desire.

The arid autumn air squeezes through a tiny sliver in the window ajar. The small attic apartment window, scarcely patulous, does little to cool the ardent vapors of our combines bodies. Nor does it quell our thirst for one another.

Heat rises; silence falls.

Excerpt: He & She

Her reflection was a stranger, always had been. Looking at her mirror image, Yehanna considered that she’d been born with the wrong face. Perhaps the Fates had misrepresented what she was really supposed to look like—gotten it wrong somehow. She was a foreigner to herself, usurped the body of another, or at least that’s what Yehanna told herself on a daily basis.

Grazing her finger across one check in the dimly lit bathroom of a tattered old apartment, which was falling apart at the seams, Yehanna moved her face from left to right, then back again.

Excerpt: Reckless Abandon

Convinced that life had to be grander at some scale, I threw carefulness to the waste side and opted to live life as I would have it, and not as others would impose. What good were people’s opinions anyway? Look where they’d gotten me. Having recently lost my job to a series of unfortunate events, I knew that it was now or never to take the proverbial bull by the horns and do with my life as I wanted. With reckless abandon, I would enthrall my every emotion and thought, not to be withheld by naysayers.

That was it. My mind was made up. Now, if I only knew how to accomplish said feat.

There you have it, my esteemed followers.

To obtain your copy of “Syncopation of Ravishing Intensity” visit:

Thank you again for visiting. And, once more, I am highly grateful for your unending support.

May blessings rain upon you all.

Official Book Release

DE Book Release Banner

Welcome!

Today we are celebrating the official release of “Demoness Enchanted”, Book Two of the Fate’s Endeavor Series.

Blurb:

Normalcy, was not a word recognized by Zita. Her entire life was nothing, if not abnormal. Her family, herself, her entire existence, all of it; unnatural. Yet, to her it was nothing but the truth of her actuality. Such, was her life—making it to her normal, as she knew nothing else. Still, it was what made her whom and what she was … a hybrid!

Roman; a witty, silver tongued young man with an average life. He looked forward to finishing High School and thereafter going on a missionary trip to Brazil. He knew that something special awaited him there. What he didn’t know was exactly how special it was.

Fate’s endeavor is Fate’s design, and Fate’s design is unlike any humanity has ever known.

Demoness Enchanted, the story of two completely different beings and the scheme which destiny has preordained for them.

The Fate’s Endeavor Series, surpassing the emotional fabric of angels and demons and delving into the delicate threads which infuse Fate’s tapestry.

DE Front CoverExcerpt:

I no longer saw any use in keeping track of time—it was nothing to me anymore.

Useless.

In actuality, everything was nothing to me now.

The void that consumed my heart was not an innate part of me. Melancholy was my mind. Malevolence, my spirit. Anger, my breath.

I pondered on how things changed just like that. How one moment in a being’s life could make all things different.

This was my life now.

Zita, the demon.

The children were the only exception to that rule. They were innocent; did not ask to walk the face of this miserable planet. Like me, they’d been pushed into something that was not of their own choosing. They were my only concern now. Some time back, I’d located an abandoned building and made a home for the children and I in it. No one knew we were there, and no one ever would. It was an old, haggard, battered place, but it had four walls and a roof. That was better than beaten, wet boxes. I’d taken care of making it habitable.

My secret had been well kept. I made sure of it.

I toyed with the wicked at my whim. Took the very last cent that they carried in their pockets, then made sure that the deed was completed by their own hands—a deed that I’d prompted them to commit. Their termination.

Perhaps I was wrong. Yet, the people I ended were even more reprehensible than I.

Immediately after my nightly hunt, I’d return to the makeshift home I’d created for us, and take care of them.

They need a mother. I shall be that mother.

I had heard through the grapevine that there would be a missionary group coming to town sometime soon. Little did I realize that it would be so soon. I couldn’t help but wonder what their true intentions were—these missionaries. If I so much as suspected that they had sneaky plans, I’d take care of them myself.

Early morning peeked through the horizon—golden hues of sunshine beamed over the hills and plains of Feijo. The sun made her entrance like a Queen over her people, raising her fanciful scepter, bright and majestic. Roosters announced her arrival, like nature’s heralds, crowing loudly for all of the world to hear.

The richness of the sun’s auspicious rays slowly grazed over the extent of Feijo, little by little turning the purple shades of night into the orange blush of morning.

From within the bounds of the gray, peeling walls, and enormous windows of our large room, I heard giant trucks running down uneven roads. People jargoned loudly and scrambled around to get to their morning rituals. Market owners prepared their kiosks, making them ready for the day’s business. All of the commotion could be heard from within the thin shabby walls of our provisional home, for provisional it was. At least until I had gathered together enough money to give the children something better.

The smell of freshly baked bread came wafting in through the open windows which helped fully awaken me, and in turn, the remnants of the children that still slept.

I could hear a little boy running and yelling down the road, “They’re here! They’re here!” he called euphorically.

Hmm, so they are here, I thought. This will be interesting.

“Josue, go see what’s going on.” I instructed when I saw Josue getting out of bed.

He immediately jumped out of the bed to wash his face, then quickly ran out the door.

“Children; wake up babies,” I said softly as I shook Leilani tenderly. It was a joy to see their innocent eyes opening every morning. Gratitude displayed in the joyous smiled on their faces as they awoke in an actual bed. Although tattered mattresses on the floor, this was better than a cold, damp, ransacked cardboard boxes lined up in dark alleyways.

Anything is better than that.

“Let’s go see what these missionaries are up to.” I said tenderly.

“Okay.” little Leilani grumbled.

“Alright sweetheart,”

“Do you think they will have food?” she asked.

“I hope so baby,”

“Do you think that they will share?” Leilani was so young, so naive. She lost her parents at the hands of a brutal, vicious police officer. She had no family left to care for her. It was Leilani against the world, much like me. I had to protect her. She was only five!

Furthermore, like I had once been, she too was so innocent, so guiltless. She needed someone to care for her. I had no one and I would not let that happen to her. I had to learn the hard way and I would free Leilani from that miserable grief.

“Yes Ani, if they are as nice as all the other children say they are, I think that they will share,” I replied more so for her benefit than mine. “Alright Ani, let’s get you washed up and dressed.”

“Okay.” She dragged, her sweet voice heavy with sleep.

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Would you like to savor the entire story from the start? Then pick up a FREE Kindle copy of “If Death Should Love Me, Fate’s Endeavor Book One“, TODAY!

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Now, don’t delay. Go and get your copy of “Demoness Enchanted” and “If Death Should Love Me” TODAY!

2 at the price of 1!

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Writing More

Greetings wonderful people.

blowing kissesPS:
I look nothing like that when I’m blowing kisses—I’m a bit more like a fumbling oaf—but the image was irresistible. * giggling *

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Now on to the topic of today’s blog post. 😀

I was asked by a very dear friend of mine the other day, and I quote, “Donny, how do you feel now that you are writing longer stories?” This question led me to write this blog post.

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The question left me pondering, “Am I indeed writing longer stories?” I find that the answer to this question is twofold. In part, I am. In part, I am not.

You see, I consider myself a sort of short story connoisseur. By no means a master or king as said trade, but certainly a specialist. You see, every writer has his/her preference. Many refer to it as “their thing”. Short stories—particularly, LBGT Erotic short stories—are mine. I do also babble in other contemporary fiction genres, as I did for my recent contribution to “Concordant Vibrancy 2: Vitality” which will be hitting book shelves January of next year. As well as my Contemporary Fiction Romance contribution to “Crackles of the Heart: Divergent Ink Book One” this past summer. However, I irreversibly return to what I know and love, LGBT Erotic.

Now …

In recent weeks I’ve been doing quite a bit of writing. Granted, some stories have been longer than others. So, I suppose, that this is the part of the answer which is a yes.

For example:

Simmer

With the anthology that I am a part of in conjunction with author and wonderful friend, Synful Desire, called “Simmer: Smoothe & Sweet“, (being released December of this year) I wrote a whopping 6,167 words. This is far above my typical 1,000 – 1,500 word pieces.

And for my upcoming anthology, named after my slogan, “Syncopation Of Ravishing Intensity“, I wrote a longer piece, which is as yet unnamed, that is about 3,000 words in length. Again, an enormous feat for a person that typically writes stories half that size, sometime even smaller.

In this regard, I am indeed writing longer stories, albeit still short in comparison to most writers. Principally, those whom dedicate themselves to novel writing.

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However, the part of the answer that is no, relates more so to another reason.

While my stories have not been much longer, in essence, than what I’d originally been writing, my writing has been more frequent.

That is to say, I’ve been writing more in general.

I’ve had an innumerable amount of stories floating around in my head. All short thus far, but there nonetheless. Each one yearning to be told, therefore, I am breathing life into them. 🙂

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Truth be told, I am highly excited about what the future holds with/for my writing venture. I believe that this was what I was meant to do all along, and it is an indubitably wondrous feeling to achieve your lifelong dream.

I, thank you, dear fan/reader/follower. Your insurmountable support has been invaluable, and I look forward to sharing my art with you.

Lots of love to you all.

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Alan, Fay and Demona by Synful Desire, A Deeper Look

What happens when passion blinds reason? The ardent fire of desire meets the shocking and harsh blows of reality in this Prelude of Prism. The convoluted relationships of three individuals morph into a rainbow of disarray.

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Recently I sat down with Author Synful Desire and asked her a question about her upcoming story, “Alan, Fay & Demona: Preludes of Prism 1“.

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Adonis Mann: As simple a question as this might be, I only ask because I am genuinely intrigued. I’m am fascinated by the name Demona. Was this a name of your creation, or is it a real name? Please tell us a little bit about it, if you do not mind?

Synful Desire: As far as the name Demona, I actually made the name up, although the character she is based from is not. I wanted to pick a name that was ordinary but seemed different due to the emphasis I placed on the divide between the background of Demona and the background of Fay.

I know it’s not the most glamorous answer but it is the most authentic one.
Thanks Adonis!
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Well, there you have it folks. With that being said, stay on the look out for Synful Desire’s upcoming book “Alan, Fay & Demona: Preludes of Prism 1

Thinking About Short Stories

thinking_man_statue

What is the most beautiful thing in life?

The ability to have freedom of thought.

One’s mind is the most treasured element in the universe. Why? Because it creates ideas, implements those ideas, and then if need be, alters them in order to provide a more elaborate idea or a more fundamental truth.

What was born from the gift of the human psyche? Everything that we know and love today. It was our ever expanding minds that gave us a more profound understanding of the universe. It was our ability to analyze and learn which provided the pathway to whatever truths we know today.

Had it not been for our ability to think, discover, understand and process information we would not have half as much knowledge as we do in this day and time.

When you add to this mathematical equation the gift of free will, we find an innumerable amount of conjunctures and hypotheses undiscovered, merely waiting to be ascertained.

I love the human mind. It fascinated me. I find that personal perception is a galaxy of possibilities all sitting tightly inside of the cerebral cortex. Alive and tangible, if not to others, at the very least to that person.

brainYou’re probably wondering what any of this has to do with the title of this blog post.

Well, in all actuality, everything.

I have had the immense blessing of learning quite a few things on my venture in this industry.

I’ve learned that not everything is as it seems. That one truth has laid the foundation to a vast amount of different suppositions which have altered my viewpoints in a great many ways.

Please grant me the benefit of your time and I will enlighten you with the understanding that I have obtained.

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The Mind is an Ever Expanding Labyrinth

When I first started my walk in the Literary Industry, I had a set concept of what things should be and why they should be that way.

Perhaps, to a certain extent, I was putting myself in a box. Although, I hate to think of it that way. Mostly, because I am the first person to testify that I am an open minded individual. In having implemented a previously decided group of speculations to my frame of thought, I was admittedly limiting my own understanding.

That being said, I am grateful that I opened my eyes and was able to see things in a different light.

different light

Among those things was the opinion of Short Stories.

I like to think of short stories as “my thing“, if you will. By “my thing” I mean to say, my forte and/or my strong point.

Truthfully, I love the art of storytelling. I feel that it’s such an enormous part of me. A part that goes far beyond a mere hobby or simple practice for entertainment.

If I wanted to be entertained, I’d turn on the television.

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Yet, for me, storytelling is an extension of who I am. It is, in every meaning of the term, a little piece of my soul. Therefore, I take great pride in the material I deliver. I want my readers to see my aptitude therein in the best light possible.

I found that in short story writing I was able to deliver the greatest kick with the least fuss. With short stories, I felt that I could easily tell an entire tale in just a few well placed and well selected words.

I do, methinks.

however...

I had the common misconception that all short stories should be constructed just as any full length novel. That is to say, with a “beginning, middle and end”. Now, by “end”, I meant that the tale should not leave room for question and that all threads must be tied by the last page.

Perhaps, I was tainted by the running trend of readers and writers misconstruing short stories with full length stories.

What do I mean by this?

Well, I’ve come to see that many a time readers and writers expect the short story to read just like a full length story. Moreover, they are absolutely fine when a full length story is incomplete.

The latter boggles me, to be sure. I can openly say that this was never something I believed.

Nevertheless, I do think that I was highly affected and corrupted by the misconception that short stories had to be “this way” and “not that“.

i_was_wrong_by_misterjamez-d465clrHere are some things that I’ve learned since.

  1. First and mostly importantly; short stories are a form of art and must be appreciated as such. Some would argue that point, I’m certain.
  2. They are not incomplete if the message has been delivered.
  3. I’ve particularly come to enjoy the open ended short story. Perhaps it is my theory on introspection and belief in theoretical consideration. I cannot say for certain. What I can say is that the open ended story always allows me to ponder on the story for a longer amount of time. It gives me the ability to consider what could have happened next. To me, this provides hours of entertainment. LOL. 😀

While some might believe that my newly acquired knowledge is inapplicable to them, I find that this should be a universal concept. Why? Well, because I trust that if people opened their minds to those possibilities they might learn how to love the short story again.

Thanks for reading and until next time.

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Someone Asked Me an Interesting Question …

Disclaimer: This blog post will have some foul language.Question

“How are the short stories you are producing different from any that are currently on the market in your genre?”

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You ever had a question asked to you and the first thing you think is “Wow, that’s a great question”? Such was the case in this particular situation.

It was one of those times when I really got to thinking.

You see, for the longest time now I’d been complaining about how today’s Erotica just doesn’t cut it for me. It is true. However, the question above begged the following question:

What is it about modern day erotica that I loath so?

This too is a good question.

It seems to me that one mimics what one respects and one rejects what one detests. (Yes, I know that for the Gramma Nazi’s out there this sentence has too many “ones” in it. That was done on purpose.)

So in order to give a more thorough answer to question number one it’s important that I explain question number two.

Here we go!

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Modern vs Historic Erotica:

It’s a darn shame when a book lover pics up a book only to discover that the authors has a vocabulary limited to foul language and vulgar innuendos.

problem

Dick this …

Pussy that …

Clit this …

Asshole that …

Suck this …

Fuck that …

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IT’S EXHAUSTING!

If a reader is anything like me, he/she wants the reading experience to be something special, something otherworldly. If I wanted to read a story that was comparable to cheap pornography I would have picked up an Issue of Adult™. No offense to the lovers of said magazine.

Yet, apart from being a gay man I am also a sapiosexual. For those of you who do not know what that means, it is a person who finds intelligence the most sexually attractive feature.

This does not make me a snoot, I assure you. What it does make me is a person who values cleverness and finds it alluring—nothing more.

This is to say, when I pick up a book that is replete with obscenities it’s very much a turn off. It defaces the wonderment of using your imagination to conjure up an unearthly feat.

Allow me if you will a moment of honest conversation …

I do realize that in today’s society vile jargon is inescapable. It’s a way of life. It is how people communicate. However, I also know that many ages ago communication wasn’t littered with the enormity of foul language that we encounter today. As a matter of fact, Erotica in that time was awash with cryptography.

It would have been frowned upon had a writer used the word “titties” as opposed to  “bosom”. Even more so if said writer used the word “pussy” instead of “femininity”.

You see, demureness in adult literature was considered sexy and mysterious. It allowed for a fantastic expansion of the imagination which was something the people considered arousing and attractive.

Perhaps I have an old soul, which that could very well be the case, but for me “He slid his cock into my wanton hole” just doesn’t make the mark. There isn’t anything sexy about that! Nothing at all. Where is the splendor, the seduction and temptation?

I find that in using vulgar language one takes away from the “taboo effect” that erotic literature is supposed to have. To me, using ethereal verbiage seems to add to the ambiance of sinfulness. It’s like having to decipher a plethora of cryptic diction—something written just for your eyes to see, and just for your mind to discover.

It sometimes helps to imagine my readers hiding under the blankets, with a flashlight in hand, reading my stories knowing that not only are they naughty, but written just for their enjoyment.

It is the limited vocabulary of today’s writers that irks me so. The English language is so expansive and beautiful when used properly. It has charisma and can create elegance and desire when written well.

Think of the legendary Casanova. He did not win women over by saying “Hey Mami, you got a tight ass!” Women melted at his feet because he said things like “The goddess Venus would quake with envy at the exquisite delight of your countenance.

And so, all of this brings me to question number one.

My erotica is different because I write it from the perspective of an artist whom treasures beauty. To me words are dazzling, and glorious art is to be admired. In admiring my words, I respect my reader and in respecting my reader I deliver that which they crave.

I, Adonis Mann, am a gentleman.

Non-Erotic Erotica

A few days ago I was asked to talk about a comment that I made in reference to the lack of eroticism in today’s erotic writing. I think that the reason I was asked to do so was because of what I called it. My words, verbatim were, “Non-Erotic Erotica“.

Portraying proper and sexy Erotica is the difference between opening up a Center-Fold and seeing this …

not sexy

As opposed to this …

sexy

And leaving your reader feeling like this …

hate reading

As opposed to this …

happy reading

Trust me when I tell you that there IS a difference.

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The best way to start is by looking at the meaning and the origin of the word Erotic.

Erotic Definition:

Per Dictionary.com

Adjective
1. arousing or satisfying sexual desire: an erotic dance.
2. of, relating to, or treating of sexual love; amatory: an erotic novel.
3. subject to or marked by strong sexual desire.

What I love so much about the definition above is the first line “arousing or satisfying sexual desire: an erotic dance.

I like to think about Erotic Writing as music. A soft, sensual, beguiling tune—enchanting and dominant—which creates a melody inside the readers’ mind and causes them to sway to it’s rapture. Good Erotica IS a craft. One which must be practiced knowledgeably.

Think of it as the difference between Kenny G and a Junior High/Middle School band.



That is dissimilarity between well portrayed Erotica and not so well portrayed Erotica.

Now, let’s look at the history of the word Erotica:

Original of the Word

The word Erotica comes from the Greek Word “Eros” which was the name for the Greek god of Love; also known in Roman as Cupid.

ErosCupid

According to Greek Mythology, Eros was the 4th god to come into existence.

At the beginning there was only Chaos, Night (Nyx), Darkness (Erebus), and the Abyss (Tartarus). Earth, the Air and Heaven had no existence. Firstly, blackwinged Night laid a germless egg in the bosom of the infinite deeps of Darkness, and from this, after the revolution of long ages, sprang the graceful Love (Eros) with his glittering golden wings, swift as the whirlwinds of the tempest. He mated in the deep Abyss with dark Chaos, winged like himself, and thus hatched forth our race, which was the first to see the light.

He is also known to be the son of Aphrodite, goddess of of love, beauty and pleasure. Per all accounts, Eros was as beautiful and enticing as his mother. By all accounts, just as splendorous, if not more.

Per the story, Eros (Cupid) carried arrows whose tips were blessed with a love potion. He would use this arrow to make people fall in love by shooting them with it. In one instance Eros, using his love-carrying arrows, made Medea fall in love with the great hero Jason. However, the god himself, was not immune to the powers of love—this of course makes sense, because he was made of love—and he famously fell for and married Psyche against the wishes of his mother Aphrodite.

eros and psyche

Now, let’s put all of this into perspective.

The Word Erotica come from the Greek word Eros, which means “God of Love”. To the Ancient Greeks a part of “love” was “love making”, yet being the hopeless romantics that they were, they realized that love was much more than a carnal act. It entailed so many other characteristics:

  • Emotion
  • Connection
  • Synergy
  • And, Sensation

What are these things:

Emotion:

An effective state of consciousness in which joy, sorrow, fear, hate, or the like, is experienced, cognitively.

Connection:

To join, link, or fasten together; unite or bind: to associate mentally or emotionally.

Synergy

The interaction of elements that when combined produce a total effect that is greater than the sum of the individual elements.

Sensation

The operation or function of the senses; perception or awareness of stimuli through the senses.

div64wy

The Ancients were smart. Which makes one wonder, has intellect diminished with time?

Far too often, particularly in this day and age, writers have dumbed down Erotica so much that it can barely be considered Erotica.

This brings us to the “Non-Erotic Erotica”

I remember as a child, in Kindergarten, there was a desk that was lined up with books. Above that desk was a sign that read “My First Reading Book”

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My first book was simple. Two to three words per page. Each one rhymed. They were all simplistic and point driven.

“I see Sam.

Sam eats ham.

Sam loves ham.

Ham is good.

Ham is food.

Same loves food.

The end.”

Not that I have anything against Sam and his ham. I don’t. However, as I said before, these books were point driven. They were meant to teach us how to read. Nothing more.

And yet, to my discontent, more and more Erotic books are popping up that remind me of Sam and his ham.

“I see penis.

Penis is hard.

I like hard.

Hard penis humps.

Humping is good.

I’m coming.

The end.”

One word …

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Am I supposed to get hot and bothered by that? Is that supposed to get me aroused?

Are you serious?

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That’s not the worst part. The worst part is that there is a growing number of people that find this sexy!

I’m certain that society (as a whole) is plummeting in IQ points. Or, who knows? Maybe my Erotica pallet is much more mature than most. Personally, I cannot deal with Non-Erotic Erotica.

For me, the writer must be Kenny G.

div64wy

That’s all for now. Until next time!

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