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This one started with a simple idea—the old classroom trope: two students, too much tension (they are studying Lady Chatterly's Lover, after all), and not enough restraint. I wrote several drafts, always in third person, always at a distance. But I wanted something more intimate, more atmospheric. Second person turned out to be the key. It let the reader inhabit the seat, the stillness, and the slow burn of the story.
There were a few different endings along the way—some obvious, some explicit—but I liked the tension of this one best. The unfinished edge felt truer to the moment.
Have a hankering to revisit college when a pretty co-ed sits next to you? Then I hope you enjoy The Body as Text.
Eric
P.S. The margin, aka comments, are open. Leave your note there; I’ll be reading between the lines.
If Chapter 3 was humiliation as initiation, Chapter 4 is temptation as rebirth.
Lawrence’s next lesson from Ambassador Whiskers is risk—and Whiskers, ever the sadist in silk, enforces it with a masquerade invitation and a bedsheet toga. What follows is part comedy of errors, part erotic rite. The man who once hid behind screens and irony is dragged, blinking, into a ballroom of Gods and Monsters, where everyone glitters, no one apologizes, and shame becomes a form of dance.
Enter Claudia: half goddess, half chaos, and fully the undoing he didn’t know he needed. She doesn’t rescue Lawrence so much as rename him. In her hands, embarrassment turns into arousal; exposure becomes revelation. By the end of the night, Lawrence has been stripped—of clothes, certainty, and finally his own name. What’s left is Ren: raw, ridiculous, radiant, and awake in a way he’s never been before.
It’s a turning point not just of plot but of voice. Curriculum of Desire has always been about transformation through absurdity, and this is the moment the comedy begins to sound suspiciously like grace.
You can read it here: Chapter 4: Claudia and the Art of Being Seen
Tell me what you think. Did you laugh, squirm in sympathy with Lawrence (a.k.a Ren), or want to join the party?
— Eric
P.S. Ambassador Whiskers reminds you that comments are a form of confession—or foreplay, depending on tone.
You’ve all heard of magical swords, right? Cursed blades with names. Weapons that choose their wielder. Artifacts that grant strength, glory, and maybe a tragic backstory or two.
But what if it wasn’t a magical sword? What if it was… a magical sex toy?
What if the spirit bound inside didn’t thirst for conquest, but demanded devotion—and preferred velvet cushions to scabbards?
The Flog Prince is based on that classic fairy tale The Frog Prince, reimagined with magical kink, power-play seductions, and a submissive Prince.
At its center is Lady Verity Thrustworthy, Viscountess, viper-tongued heartbreaker, and mistress of Aurelia—a golden vibrator with a mind of her own, a sparkling magical core, and a fondness for meddling in court affairs (and other affairs, for that matter).
There’s a sacred spring. A transformation. A moonlit balcony. A terrace tryst that turns the season’s most pompous ball into a breathless scandal. And through it all, our poor cursed prince Cassian—obedient, reverent, ruin-ready—is finally given a reason to kneel.
It's a fairy tale turned inside out--bawdy, enchanted, and maybe exactly the sort of depraved comedy I wish had been tucked between the Grimm tales growing up.
—Eric
The mat waits like a crime scene.
In Chapter 3, “Sasha and the Art of Falling Over” Ambassador Whiskers delivers on his first promise: humiliation as curriculum. Lawrence, still reeling from the idea that a talking cat is now his life coach, is marched to yoga—the most peaceful battlefield known to humankind.
What follows is part slapstick, part sacrament. There’s Lycra, sweat, a betrayal of hamstrings, and a trumpet solo of mortification so pure it could cleanse a soul. When Lawrence falls face-first into the thigh of a goddess named Sasha, it’s not seduction—it’s education. And somehow, he survives it.
Sasha’s patience is quiet, luminous, and devastating. Her simple “You’re doing fine” opens him like a door he didn’t know was locked. Under her guidance, and Whiskers’ unhelpful commentary (“A posture both noble and tragic!”), Lawrence discovers that being ridiculous isn’t death—it’s proof of life.
This is the first real transformation in Ambassador Whiskers’ Curriculum of Desire: laughter as oxygen, shame as permission, failure as initiation. By the time he leaves the studio, dripping with both sweat and reluctant enlightenment, something in him has cracked open.
If you’ve ever fallen out of a yoga pose, a relationship, or your own idea of control, this chapter’s for you.
Ambassador Whiskers calls it Lesson One: Humiliation.
He says we can’t skip ahead.
— Eric Ross
P.S. Whiskers reminds you that comments are a form of confession. He reads them religiously. Absolution may be available... on request.
For as long as humans have asked questions of the divine, someone—often a woman—has had to give it voice. And that voice rarely came from stillness. It came from the body.
In the ancient world, prophecy wasn’t distant or clean. It was breath, tremor, moan—ecstasy made sacred. The gods didn’t whisper from on high; they entered. They filled. They moved through. And somewhere between the gasp and the silence, revelation arrived.
In Sumer, more than four thousand years ago, priestesses of the goddess Inanna enacted what the later Greeks would call the hieros gamos—the sacred marriage between goddess and king.
In this New Year’s ritual, the king stood for Inanna’s mortal lover, the shepherd god Dumuzi, and the high priestess embodied the goddess herself. Together—whether through actual lovemaking or a ritualized drama—they united heaven and earth. The hymns left behind are unmistakably erotic:
“Make your milk sweet and thick, my bridegroom.
In the bedchamber, honey flows; in the holy place, honey flows.”
Another describes Inanna preparing her bed, perfuming herself, and inviting the god to “plow her holy vulva.”
To the Sumerians, this wasn’t metaphor. Inanna's pleasure was believed to renew the land and ensure its fertility. Whether the act was physical or symbolic, its meaning was clear: the body was divine speech—its climax, a kind of prophecy.
Later, in Canaanite temples, the same connection endured. The qedesha—women consecrated to the goddess—spoke prophecy through touch and rhythm. Their ecstasy was an offering, a kind of living scripture. Centuries later, male chroniclers would call them prostitutes, twisting reverence into shame. It’s a pattern that repeats: when a woman’s pleasure carries authority, it gets rewritten as sin.
By the Hellenistic age, that authority had shifted but never disappeared. The followers of Dionysus and Cybele found revelation through trance, dance, and sometimes sex. Their ecstatic cries were recorded as divine speech. Euripides wrote:
“The god is in us! Our hearts are lifted, our bodies shudder;
the world blurs in his embrace.”
Each of these traditions shared the same grammar: possession, surrender, revelation. But when the Judeo-Christian patriarchy tightened its grip, the gods went quiet, and women’s voices went with them. The sacred moan of prophecy became something to fear—or erase.
Those were the themes that were in my mind as I wrote The Mouth of the Oracle.
It’s a story that begins in silence—an oracle who has spent her life being spoken through, her body a mouth for gods who never thanked her. I asked what would happen if wanted her own voice. The story ends when she finally speaks in that voice. Not as vessel, not as miracle, but as herself.
No ritual. No divine permission. Just a body remembering its voice—and using it.
- Eric
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