I want to make love to you.
I want to arouse you and excite you. If I do my job skillfully, I will tease you and delight you, not stopping until you experience an orgasm that will leave you shaking and squirming with delight. A wonderful lassitude will befall you, leaving you drained and contented. Your breathing and heartbeat will return to normal as your body recovers from your climax.
And then you will go on to the next story.
That, in essence, is the relationship of the writer of erotica to the readership. We have shared an intimacy through the contact of our minds, yet we have never met. It was my pleasure to lead you to your climax, and your pleasure to receive it and succumb to it. I will do this to hundreds, perhaps thousands, of readers. Every day.
You do not know who I really am, or what I look like, or what my tastes in bodies or personalities or sexual kinks are like (except, possibly, from those shown by the characters in my stories, and these may be wildly exaggerated). That doesn't matter. I don't know your tastes, either. You could be young or old or dark-skinned or light-skinned or male or female or whatever other gender label that you feel comfortable with. You could be anywhere on the spectrum from gay to straight. I don't care. All I care about is giving you that orgasm.
I'm told that most of the writers of erotica are men, and that most of the readers are men, too. This presents an interesting situation, in that not many of those writers would label themselves as gay, yet they work hard to give orgasms to other men. And those men, in turn, would probably not consider themselves gay, yet they eagerly accept stimulation from other men whom they would not otherwise allow into their beds. Odd, isn't it?
From the comments I've received, I know that most of my readers are men. For you, sir, I deliberately masquerade as my characters, and my goal is to be lured into your bed, and have you ravage me. In your mind's eye, if you are fucking my character, you are fucking me. You penetrate me, you ejaculate, you leave your seed in my womb. In my character, I have created the perfect body as a receptacle of your lust although, if you saw me in person, you might find me unattractive: too small or too skinny or too flat-chested or too old or too bitchy for your taste. In real life, I might not have a chance in Hell of being invited into your bed, but that doesn't matter.
There are a few women among my readers, too. They might not allow me into their beds, either; they may fantasize about the Lesbian lifestyle, but actually touching a woman sexually might be outside of their comfort zones. I don't care. I have made love to you already, mind to mind. I seldom write from the standpoint of a male character, but when I do, it is for those ladies whose taste in sex is straight, and for those men who find the female characters in those stories attractive to them and who want to imagine themselves as the male character I create.
Which brings me to another point. It not only me who is a character in my story; it's you, too. If I am the older, experienced woman in the story, you are the younger, inexperienced man, and I am tracing my finger on the underside of your hard cock, with its glistening drop of pre-cum at its tip, as I part the front of my blouse, giving you a look at my breasts, breasts you're dying to touch and fondle. If I am the older man in the story, free and confident in my sexuality and my ablility to please the ladies, you might be the virginal young woman, your belly fluttering as my mouth gives your nipple the first suck it's ever had and my finger traces the cleft of your pussy lips, hot and moist under the sheerest layer of silk panties. You can play whichever part you want.
Who are my readers? Not everybody, and I don't mind that. There are writers who cater to those who want to read about characters with cucumber penises and watermelon boobs and inexhaustible libidos, and I admire how well these writers know their audiences and how skillfully they cater to them. But that's not me. I don't get turned on by that, so I write about what gets me off: the guy who's thirty pounds overweight and balding. He finds a woman who reassures him that he's still as virile and attractive as he was twenty years ago. That woman may have a few extra pounds, too, and tits that sag from years of gravity and nursing. She, too, wants to be reassured of her sexiness and desirability. But when they meet, and kiss, and make love, they rediscover what it was that they once were, and what they once had. As they climax in each other's arms, their joy is boundless and, if I write well, you feel that joy and it becomes part of your life. That's the kind of reader I want.
As I write, I imagine your touch on my vulva and my breasts, your hands exploring my curves, your lips touching mine. I arouse myself as I write, as I hope to arouse you. In turn, I expect that you are imagining my hands on your crotch, my eyes looking into yours, my smile encouraging you. We are far more connected sexually than two dogs in heat, who have little use for each other once their lusts are satisfied, because we revel in the consequences of our interaction. I stay in your mind even after your orgasm is spent, a lasting fragrance after the flower leaves the room.
I like to imagine my readers in front of their computers, robes open, hands on their genitals, stroking, feeding the flame that I'm igniting, waiting for the climactic moment that they've trusted me to provide. I do not want to fail you, dear reader. I want you to cum hard and wet. That way, even if we never meet, even if our bodies never touch, I will have done something to make your life a little sweeter from my having been there. I have connected with you, and you with me.
We writers yearn for that connection. That is why we read every comment on our work, even if we don't respond. We need to know if your lust is satisfied. We're asking the old question: "Was it good for you, too?" But we mean it. We do want to know. On sites like this, that is our only recompense. It is your way of giving me that final sweet kiss and hug before we drift off to sleep, to dream, to live our separate lives again.
So as you read a story of mine, listen to me asking at the end, whispering into your ear: "Did you like what I gave you? Was it good for you, too? Do you want us to make love again?"