Confessions of an Aspiring Porn Writer

The author tries his hand at another genre, so to speak

I talk during sex. Not talk, exactly. Monologue. A guided visualization, if you will. I whisper and growl semi-fictional stories about sex during foreplay and as I’m doing the horizontal mambo.

Yup, that’s weird. In my defense, it works for me. And the women on the receiving end of this bizarre form of aural sex. In fact, they’ve urged me to write porn.

An activity with which I wasn’t entirely unfamiliar. Practiced in private for my own, uh, amusement. Shared with no one. Deleted as and when.

For a number of reasons, I’ve resisted the collective clarion call to put smut on paper/online. Of which I’ll share with you. But first a message from my future sponsor…

Porn Uber Alles

My name is Robert Farago and I approve of pornography. To channel my inner Elvis, 4.5 billion fans can’t all be wrong.

In fact, watching porn is a natural evolutionary adaptation. Humans jerk-off to porn to control their fertility by masturbating. No really.

That said, I haven’t gone blind to porn’s dark side.

Porn production is a nasty business, fueled by pernicious pimps who think nothing of ruining the lives of vulnerable women. Just like the fashion industry.

On the consumer side, Monica AI warns of compulsive behavior, intimacy issues, anxiety, depression, body image issues, erectile dysfunction, desensitization and social withdrawal. Not to mention money.

Yes, well, alcohol. Anyway, my reticence was unrelated to any of that.

The Progeny and Porn Production Problem

My daughters know they were sired by a pervert. As many if not most children are, assuming your definition of pervert jibes with Oral Roberts’ (the University).

But it’s one thing for my children to ignore/suppress that private intel, quite another to discover their old man’s using his literary talent to hawk his kinks to the general public. OK, other perverts.

Be that as it is, any thought of creating carefully-crafted manuscript-length smut was hamstrung by my inability to finish a story. Truth be told, I couldn’t write a piece of porn without pausing to control my fertility (see: above). At which point, mission accomplished.

Tempus Fugit

My daughters are grown-ass adults. If genetics are a thing – which they are – my children have their own non-missionary ways of exploring their sexuality. Which I have point zero desire to know about, thank you very much.

More to the point, they have their own lives. Which makes what I do with my life a lot less important on a whole bunch of levels (save financially). A thought that jibes nicely with entering my “old man don’t give a damn” stage of life.

Another change/porn enabler: Vyvanse. The ADHD drug’s a fucking miracle, eliminating formerly regular bouts of depression.

Strike that. Vyvanse is an anti-fucking miracle. The drug’s euthanized the black dog of depression (no animals were harmed in the making of that metaphor). But the cur’s departure came at a cost: my soldier’s ability to stand at attention.

Necessitating a prescription for Viagra. (Nice one Big Pharm). On the positive side, if I don’t take a rod-stiffener, I can write feature-length sexcapades without feeling the need for literary and physical consummation.

And Away We Go!

literotica.com’s published my first two stories in a series under construction.

The site doesn’t pay for content, but it’s a safe space to dip my [non-shrimped] toe in the genre. At some point, when I nail down my style and choose a suitable sub-genre, I’ll go pro.

I gotta say, I’m getting off (metaphorically) on applying my skills to a new field. Working on character development (seriously), motivation and plot. How much exposition? How much anatomical detail? WHEN DO I USE CAPS?

Fool that I am, I’ll share insight into my porn process on this Stack. Stand bi – I mean subscribe for additional not-to-say TMI insight.

Meanwhile, despite the erotica epiphanies described above, I’m reluctant to link directly to my porn. I’m not sure I’m ready for intelligent feedback from Substack’s educated audience.

Oh what the hell. Here you go. Please be gentle. Or, if it’s your thing, rough.