I know nothing about the art of erotica though the urge to plunge the depths of carnal delicacies seems an exquisite pursuit. Perhaps it is less than noble? Purely animal in origin–the male organ a ribald extension of a beast? Yet, so many emboldened analogies of the artist arises, rivets through my thoughts as I envision the want of a composer — Beethoven’s symphonies written from guttural passion; a painter’s brush — Caravaggio depicting the beauty of young Narcissus; and the writer, ever with the glans penis cradled in his palm — the pen, pencil or quill, the obvious extension of his beautified erection. Such music, art and triumphs of the mind, though what should I say or think of women in regard to these lascivious considerations? I, who am nascent in the pursuit of arousal? I long to say every woman is a delightful, scented garden. Her flowers the aroma of all imaginative endeavors. Though I am perchance, inadequate in the art of stiffening a man or moistening a woman with my words, I must contend that my last statement is false. Not every woman is a veritable row of parted, sweet scented earth. Like men, they sin with equality and their methods are far more subtle and seductive.
Withholding my thoughts of Don Juan, Don Giovanni and all the other infamous Dons–satirical or serious–I recall a few women as I sit betwixt a lonely twilight and eventual dawn. Sex is a song sung best at night. When the animal within us is nearest the subconscious; the hidden desires.
To spare the identity of my clients I will withdraw their names from any possible circulation. Such precautions will also ensure that my practice will be maintained though I admit with forthright curiosity, that I long to abuse my position. The secrets I have listened to are enough to bring me to the edge of irrevocable decisions. I never knew that desperation could be the root of so many aberrant lusts. So many delicious, desirable possibilities by which I allow my own member to engorge and feast upon until the white fluids flow in milky rivulets upon my bare chest and midnight thighs.
Young, innocent Alice, (a girl fraught with so many ploys and devices that she never tells herself the truth) explains to me how often she’s been taken advantage of and abused. At fifteen her senses are perceptive; her lithe, supple body moving with the experience of a woman despite her naive facial expressions.
“It was an older neighbor who–you know–felt between my legs,” she would saw with a coy demeanor. Her fidgeting, sweaty hands. She sits in a playful manner alone my couch discussing her inmost desires–ideas that should perhaps be left behind in the silent pages of a diary. “It felt weird and scary … part of me liked it though–“
“Tell me more about the dream?” I will ask; a refrain to alter her tone and the potential for temptation. Her nightmare is ceaseless and unchanging.
“I just keep falling through a hole–a deep hole that’s not too narrow… I can’t see the walls either but I know they’re near.”
In my private, uncensored notes I make comparisons to the interior of a penis or the vital, inner working of a mother. At times I have wondered about the father–his possibly questionable relationship with Alice and her feelings of being out of control which are so apparent in her dreams. In my thoughts, I become the father and then chastise myself like a guilty child after my orgasm.
Casey–“Cassandra for formal occasions,” as she has informed me several times–completely mystifies me. Her sexual arousal is almost entirely related to violence. The humor of a middle age mother screaming from the stands at boxing matches quickly wore off when I realized by the tone and slight tremor of her voice, that she was indubitably stimulated as she told me with detail how she loved the sound of a man’s aggressions and the sight of flowing blood.
With paranoia, she elaborates how an army of men will over throw the world. Enslaving women for sexual and procreative processes, she will be amongst the most revered–the king’s whore; the warrior’s sweaty slut.
At night she will, “bath in their come,” and drink “goblets of their hot piss” simply because it pleases her to be used.
Usually when she arrives at my office her eyes are stale from late nights of uninterrupted intercourse with strange men who must meet a specific profile: athletic, virile and willing to fight at any length to appease her appetite for savagery.
When she leaves my presence I am either erect from her verbal humiliation or horrified by some of the things she has told me.
Sandy, an unhappy and often ignored house wife has recently begun an old and daring practice she exercised in college. Unfortunately there have been some exceptions that put me at professional jeopardy if I do not inform the proper authorities. My only reason for restraint stems from being unable to decide her veracity in these envisaged stories she shares.
“I can’t say when or why exactly I started hiding out in men’s bath rooms,” she will begin with a mischievous smile. “The entire process is terribly arousing–I even enjoy all the nasty odors … sitting on the toilet wearing my slut skirt waiting for a willing man who wants me to suck him for free,” she will continue without hesitation. Her eyes flare as she cradles the recent remembrances in the silent depths of her glossy iris orbs. “I’ve seen so many beautiful cocks–they all make me so wet — each remembered shape… the curved ones… the fat, uncircumcised ones… the husky farmer’s cock — not too thick or long — just right, erect and simple like a hard day’s work or fucking for that matter,” she will say, laughing lightly as I try to refrain from comment.
“But lately … some unexpected things have happened and I feel actual guilt though at the same time I can hardly stop myself,” she says with a freshly painted blush face. “I’ve ended up sucking several boys off–well, not boys per se–but not men either … puberty, pubescent penises… I never thought such a word would arouse me but it does now … they’re so much smaller, quaint in a way and their cream tastes so much better than a man’s… it’s sweet, almost sugary–a fine creamy precum ooze and the instant shock of their quick release… I can still recall the first boy… the strange, wild look on his face when he opened the stall. Instantly I invited him in and carefully began unbuckling his pants and undoing his belt before I–“
“I’m so sorry, I keep getting caught up in all the tasty details of my naughty exploits–“
Have you been writing again?” I ask in hopes of a verifiable excuse; a legal means to demonstrate that what she confessed, (despite the possibilities that it could be true) was, from my point of view, mere fiction.
“Mrs. Flanders… I must know.”
“Yes… yes I have been writing my little stories… my husband is so boring and uninterested in life I have nothing better to do than to make things up but for a moment, you believed me, didn’t you?”
Nodding my head while hiding my erection by the soft splayed fan of my fingers, I realized I learned something about the art of erotica from Mrs. Flanders. Essentially, to maintain suspense, an audience must not know if what they are experiencing via an allotment of arousing words is true or no. Indeed, it is better not to know. When I begin writing my adventures of Alice or the sexual fall of Cassandra, I plan to keep this well in mind.