Eric Ross: Blog

Well, the final chapter is live.

This one isn’t about climax. It’s about what lingers.

Elara and Jorah return to the mill—but it’s not the same place, and neither are they. The village has changed. The fire has spread. And the sex? It’s slow. Tender. Raw in all the right ways.

She touches the places she was told to hide. He worships her with his mouth. They rewrite everything.

“We’ll be remembered,” he says.
“We already are,” she answers.

This story was sparked by a line from Jethro Tull's Thick as a Brick. I was listening and thinking about irony, conformity, and that undercurrent of yearning for something real. I didn’t have a plan—just an image of a woman standing in the firelight, naked and unashamed.

It started sharp and satirical. But Elara had other plans.
She wanted to burn and bloom at the same time.

Thanks for reading.

—Eric

There is no tag on StoriesOnline for Absurdist Erotica. Nor for Surrealist Erotica. Nor for “What if a symphony ejaculated into your soul and left you sticky on stage.” So when I posted Symphony No. 69 in Erotic Minor, I had to improvise.

Technically, it’s Fiction. Fantasy. Humor. Paranormal. Much Sex.
But those labels don’t quite prepare you for a story where a violinist is literally ravished by a piece of music—where timpani groan, notes seduce, and trousers suffer. This is not a romance. It’s not stroke. It’s… something else.

Absurdist Erotica, if I’m being honest, is where my brain goes when I let it off the leash. It’s what happens when you take lust seriously and not seriously at the same time. It’s where metaphor runs wild, orgasms break physics, and a piccolo can faint from overstimulation.

There was a time in my youth—when I split my affection between bass, french horn, piano, and cello—when I seriously considered a career in music. I played recitals. I learned the rules. I tried to play them beautifully. And maybe that’s why it gives me such wicked pleasure now to bend those rules over a music stand and spank them with a bow.

In this story, Julian—a refined virtuoso—finds himself overtaken by Maestro Vivaldi’s magnum opus: Symphony No. 69 in Erotic Minor. And by overtaken, I mean mentally, emotionally, musically, and yes, very wetly.

It’s indecent. It’s ridiculous. It’s shamelessly over the top.

And it is some of the most fun I’ve had writing all year.

If you’re new to my work, start here with a towel and a sense of humor. If you’re a returning reader, well… you already know I never met a metaphor I couldn’t corrupt.

If I’d stuck with music, maybe I’d be first chair somewhere respectable.

But honestly?

I think I prefer making the oboes blush.

—Eric

The torches arrive. The elders shout. Elara stands naked and doesn’t flinch.

No sex this time—just defiance, bare and bright. She names what they tried to shame. And for the first time, someone answers back.

“She is not ashamed.”
“And neither am I.”

Chapter 4: The Gathering

—Eric

They didn’t mean to be seen. But in the meadow, skin slick and open to the stars, Elara stops hiding.

She names what they called shame. She smears his come on his chest like sacrament. She rides him slow, unflinching.

And when the torches come?

She sits up. Glowing. Unafraid.

“Let them see what they’re afraid of.”

Let Them See is live now.

—Eric

I debated whether to tag this story with “sex toys.”

Technically, there’s a sex scene between a woman named Mara and her toaster. But it’s also kind of a love story. And a slow burn. And a surreal, candlelit kitchen ritual that ends with a barista named Ivy kneeling between the protagonist’s thighs while a chrome appliance whispers encouragement from the shelf.

So yeah—“sex toys” felt reductive, but not inaccurate.

When the Toaster Spoke is absurd, erotic, and tender. It starts with a voice in the night—offering stock tips, then seduction—and ends in the kind of intimacy that doesn’t ask to be explained. There’s humor. There’s heat. There’s a haunted thrift-store toaster that may or may not be a prophet of love.

And somewhere along the way, a woman who’s been half-asleep in her own life wakes up—gloriously, with both hands on the counter.

Enjoy.
—Eric Ross