A Bandwagon With No Brakes

"One day I'll come through with my american dream, but it won't mean a fucking thing."

I wasn't going to talk about the Presidential election anymore, but I found myself thumbing through The Independent's special feature on that very subject today. I also found myself confronted by the opinion and endorsement of one Hunter S. Thompson. Thompson stated in the article featured that he both endorsed Kerry and believed he'd win.

For a moment, I have to say, I had a twinge of conscience. Pretty much everybody that's usually on my side has come out in favour of Kerry, while all I have done is called him a non-entity and a man most famous for the fact that he is not George W. Bush. But I can't escape this feeling I have that Kerry becoming President is nothing like the fix America (and the world) needs right now. In fact, it might even be one of the worst things that could possibly happen.

I've already talked about that, though, so let's not follow old paths. For today, let's just say that disagreeing with Hunter Thompson, a personal hero and easily my favourite living writer (not to mention a man with frighteningly accurate political instincts), has left me realising just what a strange angle I appear to be coming from as far as this election goes.

But, as Mark Twain once wrote, "Whenever you find that you are on the side of the majority, it is time to reform."

On a day that saw Eminem releasing a music video via the internet, urging fans to vote out President Bush, I find that rather apt. This is no longer a movement, it's a bandwagon. And in four years time, regardless of the result this November, its passengers are going to look like fools.

Counting Numbered Days

"For a while we can smile for the people that we're passing, and even if they're asking we can lie."

When I first started taking my writing seriously, I carried a notebook around with me at all times, scribbling in it when thoughts or feelings occured, or when I was struck by a particular visual, sound, or smell. I don't do that anymore, largely because I've come to put a great deal of trust in a more intuitive part of my mind, a part I like to let lead the way when I get down to the actual writing of any given piece.

Still, there are times when I make a particular connection or find myself thinking in terms of a certain sequence or rhythm of words and I just have to make a note of it. Somewhere along the line I began using my mobile phone for this, writing my ideas down as a text message and then saving it in my outbox.

This morning was a strange one. At just after seven, I felt about as far from tired as you can be, yet I knew I had to be up for work at four and that it would be best if I got myself into bed by eight or nine. I took a bath and continued with my second reading of Stephen King's Bag Of Bones for an hour or so, letting myself fall into a fictional world and hoping that the warmth and the words would set me on my way towards sleep. And they did. By nine, I was tucked up in bed and dozing.

The problem with this method is that I think and analyse endlessly on my reading, often to the extent that I have to stop whatever I'm doing and go back to the book that's on my mind, either to see theories followed up and developed, patterns and author-specific quirks showing themselves, or for the simple pleasure of getting back to those characters and that place. With Bag Of Bones, the itch behind my thoughts concerned the narrator's description of a state of mind he claims is common to writers, a way of thinking that borders on a trance. Though this state is massively exaggerated in a book that, after all, concerns itself with the supernatural, I saw what King was getting at in a way I hadn't done the first time I'd read and disliked the book a few years back.

I was mostly asleep, and I couldn't have told you in any great detail what I was thinking about. All I know is that I was making connections all over the place and getting so excited about it that I was waking myself up. I remember lying there for what might have been minutes and might have been hours, possibly slipping in and out of sleep, possibly not. I remember sitting up in bed, reaching down for my phone, and tapping at the keys for several minutes before lying down and almost immediately falling into a proper sleep.

When I got in from work tonight, the first thing I did was sit down and finish Bag Of Bones. Nothing I found there reminded me of what I'd been thinking. The narrator's idea of a mental 'zone' slipped entirely into the supernatural, where it came to represent a telepathic link between several of the main characters. Fun, but not the thread my tired mind had grasped so frantically at some hours before.

I picked up my phone, went into its memory, and found I had written the following: 'Couting numbered days. Ray Garratty connections haunted house. The changing face of THE GIRL. Stevey King. Not exclusive 2 writer, but COMMUNICATION...all in a day's work. Patchwork. What r my THEMES?'

Welcome to the oblique and obscure world of Michael's notes to himself. I do still own a notepad, and I almost always laugh when I open it, because the first page is covered with three words I scribbled untidily in biro whilst walking along the A41 one sunny afternoon in the mid-nineties. The nonsense phrase they make up is 'white chocolate snails'. I have never torn that page out because I hope that one day I'll remember what it means and why I wrote it.

Numbered Days is an Eels song with a chorus that includes the refrain 'counting numbered days'. When I put it on a little while ago, those first minor chords immediately reminded me of lying in bad and feeling a kind of bittersweet happiness this morning. Sure, writer boy thinks about a lot of things. But at the moment, he thinks mostly of a girl called Jennifer and how he aches to be near her, forever staring at his mental calendar.

I've been here before. Not like this, but I have. That's what I meant when I referred to 'the changing face of THE GIRL'. In my experience, this is more a male thing than a female thing, but then most of those that have bared their souls in my direction have been men. We grow up with an ideal girl in mind, a dream girl. When we're young, it's all about the looks. That's how crushes happen. We see somebody, maybe on the TV or in a movie or in our science class or wherever, and we learn that lust can kick us in the stomach every bit as hard as our youthful idea of love. Then we grow up and start to understand what we need as well as what we want, and somewhere inside our heads we develop a fantasy companion that has the best of both. She isn't an imaginary friend, nothing so crude. She's a basis for comparison. And since nobody could ever live up to such lofty standards, we learn first how to be disappointed and then how to bring our heads down out of the clouds a little more often.

When you're still really a child, that disappointment and understanding is crushing. It's also necessary. You can never love somebody you looked down to find. We need to be brought low and made to see how awful reality can be before we can raise our heads and dream again. When I raised my head, I saw Jennifer. I don't know how it'll turn out, but I'll only need to tear a few more pages from the calendar before I do. I'm counting numbered days.

Seeing the name Ray Garraty in Bag Of Bones made me smile. King has used the name before, in a novella called The Long Walk he wrote under the pseudonym of Richard Bachman. In that wonderful little story, Garraty was the hero. In Bag Of Bones, Ray Garraty is merely the name of a murderer in the protagonist's novel. Still, King did that on purpose. I think King does everything on purpose, and that's why I enjoy reading him.

Connections. That's what this is all about. You read enough of any one author and you begin to see their themes. A larger pattern becomes clear. You can see the things they introduce on purpose (a character called Ray Garraty), and the things they just can't stay away from (One of Stephen King's is haunted houses, so scratch a few more cryptic words from that message to myself). In fact, one of the main reasons I dislike King's more recent work is that he has started to make the connections and subtexts all too obvious. I preferred it when I felt like I was getting something that quite a lot of people were going to miss. That made me feel an intimacy with the storyteller that only dragged me further into the tale. Now he's all but writing the clues in CAPITAL LETTERS, he's leaving me cold.

Because the writer's job, to go back to that text message, is COMMUNICATION. All In A Day's Work, to quote yet another Eels lyric and let you see just how subconscious a place I was in. Sometimes it's emotion, sometimes theory, sometimes fact. For me, it's about taking the things I see and feel and making them into something I can give to others. That's putting it mildly, by the way. On my better days, I like to think I'm throwing them at others, probably laughing and screaming and flipping the bird as I do.

In all honesty, I've never bought the idea of writing as a job. The only way I see it like that is that I'd be very happy if it could someday take the place of the crappy jobs I've had and be the thing that I do to make my living. Other than that, well, I guess it can be a hell of a struggle sometimes, but mostly it's a joy. For this boy, there is simply nothing that compares to reading through something that came from my thoughts and my feelings and being surprised enough to think, "Holy shit, this is good."

Presumptuous? Yes. Egotistical? Sure. Wonderful? Un-fucking-doubtedly.

Having considered all of this, I finally understood what it was that got me so excited this morning. For the first time, I had a clear and perfect picture of my themes and obsessions. I knew what they were, what they meant, and the various directions I wanted to take them in. If you'd have asked me, in my insomniac daze, what I was going to be writing ten years from now, I could have told you.

Of course, subconscious revelations and obscure text messages have a downside. If you asked me the same question now, for example, I'd tell you to fuck off.

Because I really don't remember.

The Magician's Nod

"I live cement. I hate this street. Give dirt to me. I bite lament. This human form where I was born, I now repent."

I thought I might dedicate yet another blog entry to the wonderful, wonderful leaflets and posters that are aimed at the staff of my current employers, Toby. Indeed, I was perusing one particular poster during a cigarette break today and found myself somewhat puzzled by a request that I use the 'Magician's Nod'.

The what?

Of course, I immediately sought out drone-director Steve in order to ask him about this strange phrase. Being rather hot on the vagaries of Toby's weird customer service terminology, he immediately located a print-out on the very subject. So...for the benefit of those that have never visited a Toby Carvery, I now intend to reveal to you one of its most closely-guarded secrets.

When offering customers drinks or food in any establishment, staff are trained in the arts of both suggestive selling ("would you like some wine with your main course?") and up-selling ("Can I interest you in a larger glass? It works out cheaper"). These techniques benefit profits in a rather obvious way, but they aren't always effective, especially when dealing with regulars. This is where the Magician's Nod comes in. You see, offering a customer that 350ml glass of wine is all well and good, but if you offer it whilst engaging in a subtle nodding gesture, they're more likely to go for it.

I'm not even close to joking. Really. There is no doubt in my mind that the ultra-futuristic psychology department of Toby has spent many thousands of pounds and hours in figuring out that this little trick, this cunning incline of chin toward chest, is irresistible to even the most cynical of customers. Indeed, so powerful is this nod, that they could only refer to it as MAGIC.

What could I do but try it out? You see, every Sunday night, we have a group of customers that stay beyond their welcome and simply will not leave until a manager comes out and tells them that they're breaking the law and will be barred from the premises unless they depart post-haste. If the Magician's Nod can make people do things they might not be inclined to do otherwise, I reasoned, then why not give it a whirl with these fuckers? After all, I had nothing to lose.

***

INT. TOBY CARVERY - CLOSING TIME.
The bar is empty. DRONE SAM is cleaning tables whilst DRONE MICHAEL runs glasses through the washer and occasionally glances over at a table in the far corner, where six ANNOYING CUSTOMERS are still seated before full glasses. It is ten-to-eleven, and time they were leaving. DRONE MICHAEL glances at DRONE SAM and she purses her lips to indicate that she shares his displeasure. On this particular Sunday night, though, DRONE MICHAEL has a plan.

The camera stays with our hero as he makes his way across the bar and approaches the ANNOYING CUSTOMERS. Their SPOKESWOMAN looks up when she sees him coming.

SPOKESWOMAN: Oh, here he comes...

There is general laughter amongst the ANNOYING CUSTOMERS.

DRONE MICHAEL: (Firm yet polite) I'm sorry, guys, I can only give you five more minutes and then I'm coming for your glasses, so can you be finishing up, please?

DRONE MICHAEL punctuates his words with a subtle yet very definite nodding of his head. In the silence of the bar, we hear a background noise not unlike that you might get if you were to just barely brush a set of wind chimes with your fingertips.

SPOKESWOMAN: (Dazed) Okay.

DRONE MICHAEL raises an eyebrow but says nothing further. Five minutes are quickly filled with the cleaning of tables, the washing of glasses, and the removing of nozzles. When the allotted time has passed, the DRONES return to the table and remove all glasses, even the full ones, without a word of complaint. The ANNOYING CUSTOMERS leave.

SPOKESWOMAN: Goodnight!

DRONE MICHAEL: Cheers. Have a pleasant evening.

He turns to DRONE SAM, who is looking confused.

DRONE MICHAEL: (Awestruck stage-whisper) My God...it works.

***

I now heartily recommend the usage of the Magician's Nod in everything you do. Other half not putting out? Simply make a suggestive suggestion and be sure to nod your head just a little as you do. Wanting a pay rise? Just approach your boss and very casually let the nod do the rest. Whatever the situation and whatever it is you need, all you have to do is know how to use the universal gesture of affirmation in a very subtle way. Yes, you too can be MAGIC.

I only hope they don't fire me for making such potentially dangerous knowledge available to the general public.

California Dreaming

"This world is big and so awake. I stayed up late to hear your voice. This light is here to keep you warm, this song is here to keep you strong. I made a list of things to say, but all I want to say, all I really want to say is..."

Hell of a night, hell of a day. Work was insanely busy. I spent the first hour of my shift by myself behind a bar that just barely held back a wall of customers three or four deep. Co-drones turned up to help out in the end, but it was an evening of annoying people and minor altercations, the kind of shift where you know that it's all building up and that, sooner or later, that one customer is going to come along and say the wrong thing and you're going to go nuclear.

Except it didn't happen. Not tonight. No, tonight I was the very epitome of customer service. I was quick and efficient, polite and friendly. I had smiles and quick one-liners for every customer I served, even the ones I loathe. Yes, even when they were complaining about the glasses or the girl I was working with or the taste of the beer, I was warm and accomodating and respectful.

The other drones that orbit the small and rather unhygienic satellite that is the Toby Carvery were perhaps a little perturbed by this. After all, they may only have known me a couple of months, but in that time they have no doubt become used to a tired and somewhat brooding version of my character, a boy playing experienced yet weary barman. This happy, friendly person was surely some kind of doppelganger. The Michael they know does not bounce.

But bounce I did. Earlier in the day, I screamed and danced and hugged my frightened mother and ran around the house for no good reason that anyone could see. For the first time in a long time, I felt like there was some kind of a future, a light at the end of the tunnel, a whole world of possibility. And it made me a little crazy.

Yeah, I'm still typing at you from the same old Darkened Room. I'm still the same guy thinking the same thoughts and dreaming the same dreams. But in at least one very subtle way, I am different.

Because less than four weeks from now, on November 19th, I'm flying to California.

Land Of The Blind

"They shifted the statues for harbouring ghosts, reddened their necks, collared their clothes. Then we danced the dance till the menace got out."

Regular readers may remember an essay entitled The Politics Of Weakness that I posted way back in sweaty, sun-blind July. In that particular piece, I took a look at the recent political past and then offered a few opinions of my own about where we were at and where we might be headed. I offer this post in that same spirit. NFADR is not a news and current events blog, and it never will be. Most of what ends up on these pages comes directly from my twisted mind and my little black heart. In that respect, you will not find me referencing 'learned' sources or providing links to related articles. This is all opinion and all speculation. Any notion of objectivity has been shown the door.

Let's start with America this time. Globally speaking, all roads lead to and from the US at this point, and with the world watching a nation stagger toward a Presidential election that could conceivably be even more ridiculous than the last one, this seems like a pretty good time to jump on in and say a few things.

Firstly, I think George Bush will win. History, the current political climate, an existing powerbase, and an incredibly ignorant electorate are on his side. Secondly, it doesn't actually bother me that I think he'll win. A victory for Kerry would make no difference at all to anybody anywhere, except that those who have spent the last couple of years relentlessly bashing the current President would suddenly find themselves at something of a loose end as far as the issues are concerned. Indeed, a victory for Kerry would amount to nothing more than the slaying of the Great American Folk Devil and what amounts to a massive blow to the legitimacy of Western Democracy. Because really, the most important thing about John Kerry is not his stance on the issues or what kind of America he believes in. It's not even how well he can speak or how photogenic he is or how well his campaign machine can throw out soundbites or put a poll-influencing spin on current events. None of these things matter at all. The one thing that could get John Kerry elected as the next President of the United States is that he is not George W. Bush.

That, I think, is why this election is a mockery of everything Democracy is supposed to be about. There are only two votes that mean anything at all. One is for Bush, the other is against him. The struggle for the most powerful office in world politics has, for the past couple of years, been about one man. That this man is clearly incompetent, stupid, and possibly even a power-mad demon of some kind should not be cause for America's disaffected to rise up with flaming torches and pitchforks in order to chase him out of office. What should have happened is that America should have stood back, thought about things for a little while, and then perhaps begun to wonder how it is that its system for electing representatives of the people could possibly have given them the man they call 'Dubya' as their leader.

He was elected President. You can't change that fact or hide from it. Even accounting for situations like the alleged Florida vote-rigging, he was - at the very least - a powerful and legitimate contender for office. Correct me if I'm wrong here, but isn't the idea of elected representatives fairly clean-cut? I mean, when you get right down to it, the President is America. You can't really turn around at this point and tell me to hate GWB but not the country that appointed him as its Chosen One, not if you intend to go on voting in elections carried out under these rules and this philosophy. If you're saying Bush doesn't represent your America, then you're not so much attacking the man as admitting participation in a flawed, corrupt, and hugely outdated idea of Democracy. Yet in order to correct this wrong, you intend to go out and use this very same idea to force him out of office.

It isn't my skewed perspective, it really isn't. There is something very, very wrong with this picture.

If I was a Bush-basher, I'd vote for him this November. Voting for Kerry would be a stupid and senseless waste of time. Consider this scenario: Kerry wins a closely-contested election and rides into the White House amidst grand fanfare and much celebration. Then, because much of his thinking isn't all that different from the administration that came before him, he does absolutely nothing of note for a couple of years. The current events radar swings back to more important things, like Janet Jackson's nipple or Britney getting married. Around 2006, those national deficit chickens let loose by Dubya come home to roost. Kerry has neither the time nor the policies to cope with the fact that suddenly everybody's talking economy and taxes. He is ridiculed and destroyed and people start to mention him in the same breath as Jimmy Carter. In 2008, a fat, power-hungry, Right Wing Republican very much in the mould of dear departed Ronnie Reagan...like, say, ARNIE (although more likely candidates are Giuliani or McCain)...stomps the Democrats into an indecisive pulp and storms into office on a wave of popular support in order to re-live the eighties.

Christ, Schwarzenegger is perfect for that. If Kerry wins, I bet that little piece of legislation regarding the rules about foreign-born candidates pops up before too long. It's a stupid, stupid idea. But then we live in stupid, stupid times.

John Kerry doesn't even deserve to inherit the kind of mess that Carter inherited back in '76. Jimmy is remembered as a lame President and little more than a footnote in political history, but it's worth noting that, compared to Kerry, he is both an outstanding orator and a damn fine politician. Kerry is neither, and if he manages to win, he's fucked.

So let Bush win. If you take the long-term view, it's a good thing. If I hold onto that Carter comparison for a little while longer, then GWB is Nixon, and sooner or later, either his policies or his links to various corporations and institutions are going to bring him down. Let him be the one to reap what he has sewn, and you open the door to a White Knight in 2008. Maybe that man (or woman) won't be there when needed, but if you create the opportunity, then the possibility is there. Better that than another four years of a Democrat that knows nothing and does nothing and gets slapped aside by a Republican machine that has always been more powerful and well organised than anything the Democrats have managed.

So yeah, NFADR recommends that you VOTE BUSH, but only if you understand and agree with the kind of scenario postulated above.

I'm going to come home to England now, but before I do, I'd like to look into my red, white, and blue crystal ball one last time and urge you to keep an eye on Democratic Convention hero and rising star Barack Obama. Mark my words, friends, it may not be in 2008, 2012, or even 2016, but I honestly believe that this man will be the first African-American President of the United States. That, I think, would be one of the best things that could possibly happen.

To England then. To a static and empty Democracy with neither the excitement nor the glamour of the race to the White House. Tony Blair is our Prime Minister, and Tony Blair will be our Prime Minister until he stands down after serving his next term. The General Election that will be held in this country over the next year or so is a formality. I believe that the Conservatives are coming back into fashion, and I believe that things will be a little closer the next time we go to the polls. That said, Michael Howard will never be Prime Minister. He's the best candidate the Tories have fielded in a while, but they are so wounded and so lost in the past that the best he will be able to do is bring them into an era that at least resembles the new millenium.

The key element in the future of British politics is (shocking, I know) public opinion. But that isn't as wonderfully Democratic as it may sound. Public opinion in this country is largely dictated by the frighteningly powerful News Corporation, owned by media mogul Rupert Murdoch, which espouses (through The Sun, The News Of The World, The Times, and The Sunday Times, together accounting for an overwhelming majority of England's newspaper-reading public) Right Wing, Euro-sceptic views that have generally been regarded as the dominant perspective in British politics since the whirlwind electoral coup of New Labour in 1997.

I'd like to focus on The Sun for a moment, if I may. While this incredibly popular tabloid newspaper is oft-credited with having a little political clout, I'd argue that it is one of the most powerful forces in British politics. In General Elections since 1979, The Sun has invariably come out in support of the eventual winner, with infamous examples being headlines like (on the day of the '92 election) 'If Kinnock Wins Today Will The Last Person To Leave Britain Please Turn Out The Lights' (followed by 'It Was The Sun Wot Won It' the day after, when the Tories came from behind to claim the win in a photo finish), and 'The Sun Backs Blair' (only days before the Conservatives were comprehensively destroyed in 1997). The Sun's influence cannot and should not be denied, and the headlines and editorials contained within its pages are generally an interesting barometer of where we're headed. In recent times, the paper has shown a marked swing back towards the Conservatives, with its coverage of their recent conference in Bournemouth far exceeding its sidebars about the Labour conference weeks before.

With Blair set to win the next election and a resurgent Tory party claiming the headlines that matter, the joker in this pack is one Gordon Brown. There is much speculation that, following the death of then Labour leader John Smith in 1994, Blair and Brown cut a deal whereby the popular Brown would stand aside in order to allow Blair to become the overwhelming favourite to win the leadership (which lead to the electoral events of 1997 and all that followed). In exchange for this, Blair would eventually stand down and pave the way for Gordon to be Prime Minister. Given all that has happened since, it stands to reason that Tony's announcement of his intention to retire after he has served his third term is an indication that he intends to fulfill his part of the bargain.

This leaves us with some interesting questions. Blair wins the next election (for that not to happen would require a fuck-up of inconceivable proportions), perhaps fulfills his ambition of bringing Britain into Europe, and then stands aside with a huge endorsement to his potential successor. At that point, I'd imagine that the Conservatives would be at or at least close to a point where they could challenge the current electoral dominance of Labour. Such a scenario leaves us with Gordon Brown versus whoever is Tory leader (nobody presents themselves at the time of writing). I see Brown winning, though I have absolutely no evidence to back that claim up except for my feeling that the British public will undoubtedly be looking for a change of leadership though perhaps not a change of party at that point.

The question, I suppose, is what Brown will do if he does become Prime Minister. His politics are undoubtedly more in line with Rupert Murdoch's than Blair's, yet we know nothing of his reaction to or relationship with News Corp. Ultimately, I lean towards a retention of the status quo as the most likely outcome. That said, the next few years will be interesting, if only for the inevitable decision on the question of Europe. With News Corporation firmly against, Blair's government firmly in favour, and an electorate caught between a general fear of Johnny Foreigner and a sense of inevitability about the whole thing, a referendum (if it happens) will be key.

As a last amusing and diverting sidenote, Gordon Brown is actually blind in one eye. How did that old axiom go again? Oh yeah, "in the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king."

As for British Democracy, well, stifle a yawn, folks. Nothing's changing. In this country at least, apathy still seems to be the most attractive policy.

NB: If, after reading this junkpile of thoughts, feelings, hunches and vague predictions, you feel interested in pursuing the train of thought boarded by The The Politics Of Weakness and ridden to various locations by the essay above, then I can only recommend overdosing on Hunter S. Thompson, Bill Hicks, Max Weber, Karl Marx, Antonio Gramsci, Matt Skiba, Chris Cornell, David Fincher, Thom Yorke, Niccolo Machiavelli, George A. Romero, Albert Camus, Franz Kafka, Hubert Selby jr., Henry Miller, Rene Magritte, Frank Black, and Don Delillo. Also, the not inconsiderable archives of this very page. In the absence of some kind of bibliography, or the derivative, link-happy, second-hand thoughts found on the many political blogs I've read over the last three months, that's about the best I can do. It isn't everything, but it is something.

Comments and e-mails are, as always, welcome.

Secrets Of Erotica...Revealed!

"The difference between pornography and erotica is lighting."

Yes, in this one-time-only post, I, Michael O'Mahony, bestselling author of such self-help books as "But It Looks Nothing Like A Fucking Flower!": How To Write Descriptive Prose About The Female Genitalia, and Why Everyone Laughs When You Call It Admiral Winky, have gathered my considerable knowledge of writing dirty stories into one, easy-to-read package so that you, my readers, can go away and write the kind of erotica that will ruin underwear all over the world.

Be Able To Write In The First Place
If you can't string simple words together in a coherent fashion, you will never be an erotic writer. Brutal but true. While erotica is a much-maligned genre that is rarely taken seriously by the mainstream, it still requires a certain degree of talent to become respected and read in the field, even if your hardcore audience does consist of men in dirty raincoats who buy books with glossy covers that depict impossibly beautiful women pouting seductively whilst writhing amongst silk bedsheets.

Understand Your Genre And Your Audience
There are many different varieties of erotica, and not all of them are literary. On the internet for example, The Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository (Adult Site) contains a veritable blizzard of strange, horrible, and poorly written tales in categories ranging from Non-Consensual Gay Sex to Mind Control (I wish I was kidding). ASSTR is basically a portal to the largest collection of erotic stories on the internet. I haven't read them all. I doubt I've read 1% of them. But I have seen enough and know enough to be sure that of these thousands and thousands of dirty stories, about twelve are actually any good. The reason I want you to go there is not so that you'll have a fine old time reading some awesome fiction, but to give you an understanding of just how huge and varied this genre is. If somebody somewhere has fantasised about it, you're bound to find a story that features it.

Chosen A Category? Spiffy. Now Let's Get To The Actual Writing.
Now you've chosen a Category (and those that chose vampires, vacuum cleaners, a video game character, or Mind Control can find the exit in the top right hand corner), you need to think about how you're going to write your story and what it's going to be about. In my own work, there is a huge difference between Fitz And Me (a lengthy tale with three-dimensional characters that actually attempts to tell a story and tap into the reader's emotions as well as their pants), and Rain (in which two anonymous characters engage in clumsy, passionate sex against a backdrop of rain in an empty, nameless city). The contrast, to me, is obvious. Whereas the latter story's erotic content is its centrepiece and meaning, the former uses erotic elements as a means to an end, in this case the telling of a doomed love story. These are two different approaches that attempt to make the reader feel similar emotions (though the overwhelming e-mail response to Rain suggested that it invoked a feeling of nostalgia and lost love).

So...decide what your story will be about, how long or short (approximately) it will be, and what it is you want to give your readers. If your answer to that last question was "an orgasm", then that's absolutely fine. I now plan to show you how to do this with style.

How To Write Sex
There is no right way to bring the glare of your descriptive prose to bear on sexual interaction of any kind. But there are many, many wrong ways. In my experience, and assuming the writer has talent in the first place, there is a tendency to go in one of two directions.

"Pamela screamed in ecstasy as I splattered her smiling face and jiggling tits with my thick, creamy man-custard."

This kind of thing is most commonly found in works written by males that spend too much time reading the letters page of Reader's Wives and surfing internet porn sites. Crazy as it seems, I have read work exactly like this. Erotica can be funny, but nobody wants the audience to laugh when they're not supposed to.

"Camilla gasped and clapped her hands to her heaving bosom as Robert unveiled his throbbing manhood and then reached to rend her blouse asunder."

You are a woman. You read too much Mills And Boon. Your writing would lose a battle of erotic content to a cheese sandwich. Danielle Steele sucks, and if your work reads like a sub-par attempt to copy her, then you may as well give up now.

While those two examples are still fresh in your minds, I'd like to deal, for a moment, with language. 'Man-custard', unless you're writing in character and such a colourful turn of phrase comes (no pun intended) naturally, is not an acceptable euphemism for semen. Admittedly, 'semen' is not exactly an erotic word in the first place, but surely you can do better than that. I pretty much always use 'come'. Yes, that's 'c','o','m','e'. There is no such word as 'cum'. If you attempt to use it in your erotic fiction, I will have you killed.

Acceptable Euphemisms For Penis: Cock, Dick, Prick...or any descriptive variations on the theme...it's not too difficult to write descriptive prose about the penis and its activities. There certainly isn't a need for any of the following: Bacon Bazooka, Bald Avenger, Beef Missile, Bitch Stick, Captain Howdy, Charlie Russell The One-Eyed Muscle, Dr. Cyclops, Fun Truncheon, Gash Mallet, Godzilla, Jive Sausage, Little Jesus, Meat Thermometer, Mini-Me, Mr. Giggles, Muff Mole, Optimus Prime, Piss Whistle, Pump-Action Yoghurt Rifle, Purple Avenger, Slit-Eyed Demon, Soul Pole, Spurt Reynolds, Twelve-Inch Train Of Pain...or any variation thereof.

Acceptable Euphimisms For Vagina: This one's tougher. The only really useful one is 'cunt', and some folk are deeply offended by that particular word. I rather like it myself. 'Pussy' is also widely used, but I've always thought it sounded a bit lame. Then again, it's possible it has simply been ruined for me by too many years of hardcore pornography. Either way, a good writer can see the image in his or her head and write about it without ever resorting to using any of these: Bearded Clam, Beef Jacket, Birth Cannon, Bitchcake, Camp Coochie, Cock Holster, Finger Warmer, Flesh Wallet, Four-Lipped Man-Eater, Front Butt, Fuck Hole, Garage Of Love, Gleaming Mound Of Venus, Growler, Gutted Hamster, Hairy Chequebook, Meat Curtains, Momma's Silk Purse, Ninja Slipper, Old Toothless, Panty Rabbit, Pink Palace, Snake Charmer, Wizard's Sleeve, Wookie....etc. etc.

Rely on your natural talent for writing good, sound prose, no matter how obscure the similes you may find yourself drawing on. Good erotic fiction understands the rules so that it can break them.

You Are Now Ready To Write Erotica
That's it...the end of this short but educational trip into the realm of the erotic. Go forth, my students. Go forth and write of warm skin, glistening flesh, and throbbing shafts. Fill the world with love and spectacular prose, not man-custard and beef missiles. Your readers will thank you, and so will I.