Eric Ross: Blog

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

In Chapter 1, our hero Lawrence returns home full of self pity after yet another disastrous date.

In Chapter 2, things get stranger. A lot stranger.

Lawrence wakes to find his life in the same shape as his carpet — worn down by routine, mapped with regret, and faintly sticky in places. The apartment itself is practically a crime scene—hope delinquent on rent, basil deceased, pizza boxes forming geological layers. Into this lair of entropy steps a cat with better grooming habits and worse diplomacy. Ambassador Whiskers, equal parts therapist and tyrant, arrives with a mission: to save Lawrence from himself through an improbable syllabus of four lessons—humiliation, risk, surrender, and connection.

This chapter is where their arrangement begins. There’s broom-fencing, philosophical debate, and a good deal of one-sided wit. Whiskers quotes Lawrence's favorite incel forums the way professors quote scripture, dismantling each line with feline precision until Lawrence, cornered by reason and a tail, reluctantly agrees to the first assignment.

No sex yet — unless you count ego death as foreplay — but Curriculum of Desire isn’t shy about getting there. This is the beginning of the transformation, where embarrassment becomes initiation, and laughter starts sounding suspiciously like healing.

As always, I’d love to hear what you think.
Drop a comment, tell me your favorite line, or just admit which part made you laugh.

— Eric Ross

P.S. Ambassador Whiskers considers comments a form of tribute. He also considers silence an act of cowardice. Choose wisely.

Lawrence thought his life was destined to be small: bad dates, awkward silences, and forums full of terrible advice shouted by avatars of wolves and swords. Then one night a scratching at the door announced something stranger. A cat in a tuxedo walked into his apartment, demanded to be called Ambassador Whiskers, and informed him that his education was about to begin.

This isn’t your typical romance, and it’s definitely not your typical erotica. Ambassador Whiskers’ Curriculum of Desire is an absurdist erotic tale—equal parts heat and humor, with pratfalls, philosophy, and a smug feline who insists that humiliation, risk, surrender, and connection are the only lessons worth learning. Poor Lawrence has no choice but to stumble forward, often literally.

Chapter 1 is just the threshold: the collapse of his old life and the faint scratching sound of a new one beginning. What follows is lusty, ridiculous, sometimes tender, sometimes sharp—and always watched by a cat who knows too much.

I’ve always loved writing in the overlap where laughter and lust collide, where the absurd doesn’t undercut desire but sharpens it into something memorable. If that sounds like your flavor, give this one a try.

Ambassador Whiskers thanks you for your attention. Comments are considered a form of tribute.

- Eric

It’s that time of year again—the nights come earlier, the streets shine slick with rain, and mystery lingers in the corners of the city. Perfect weather for a good spooky tale… or something close.

My newest short story, The Red Shoe, isn’t exactly horror, but it leans into the territory of the unexplained. Think of it as a steamier Twilight Zone maybe... well, maybe not. But anyway, it begins with an abandoned shoe on a wet street, an alley with a velvet curtain, and the kind of invitation no sensible person should accept. What follows is less ghosts and ghouls, more shadows and seduction—an erotic mystery about curiosity, temptation, and what happens when you step past hesitation.

I’d love for you to give it a read, and as always, I welcome your comments.

—Eric Ross

I’m back from my break—and I’ve brought a new story with me.

The Mirror Knows is gothic, sensual, and a little haunted. It begins at a midnight masquerade in a crumbling hotel, where Sienna meets a stranger in a raven mask. Beyond the velvet curtains, desire mixes with danger, and every reflection seems to whisper secrets.

Although this is a short story, it isn’t a quick-flash piece—it’s a slow burn that lingers in the atmosphere, letting the tension coil until it finally breaks open. Think chandeliers swaying, candle smoke curling, and a mirror that feels almost alive.

If you’ve missed my stories, I hope this one feels worth the wait. And if you’re new to my work, welcome—I’d love to hear what you think. Your comments always help shape what comes next.

Step past the masquerade. See what the mirror remembers.

—Eric Ross