We all know I follow pretty much everything Remittance Girl writes with a creepy determination.
Recently through her blog posts I have learned the word jouissance.
Go read some of what she has to say about it here.
We all know I like learning things about writing and how those things relate to or express things about my writing I’ve not had words for previously.
This bit from her entry speaks to me on a huge level about how I write erotica.
The sexual aspect of the word jouissance, and the one which would seem initially to be of more use to us comes from the verb form:jouir, which is the verb to ‘enjoy’ but is also used as a term for reaching orgasm.
Also this part.
Now, of course, I get to tell you that jouissance, in the sense I’m using the term, really isn’t about orgasms, but a state beyond that sense of physical relief. It’s about the climb towards and experience of all ecstatic ruptures. They are all exhilarating, frightening, and bittersweet.
One of the themes that has been in my erotica from the beginning is the idea of the climb to use her phrase. The ways the climb happens. For me when I write erotica, outside of yes the arousal there is that climb and I like it messy.
I write these things in ways that are often difficult for others to get into. Just recently (I’ll post it at the bottom of this entry) I’ve been digging into threat, danger, fear as part of the climb towards orgasm, release.
I read some about jouissance and via wikipedia found the link to limerence.
In my brain there were fireworks and an AHA moment.
In my mind, romance is often not hearts and flowers. It’s not necessarily about alpha male protagonists who are forceful but not scary, good looking with good jobs and nice teeth and six packs who are after heroines with long flowing blond hair, perky tits and a go get em attitude.
Here is where I find my trouble with a lot of erotica.
Those things don’t’ turn me on.
The standard very Western do they don’t they, hand wringing over things like but I want to travel and he wants a stay at home wife (yes I’m being hyperbolic) etc are not my jam.
The love in my stories is often depraved, it is criminal, sometimes it is violent. I like to walk the back alleys with it and my characters often don’t walk in the light because they don’t want to.
That turns me on.
Thus that is what I write.
I am enamored that there are words I have learned, that bring these things into a tighter focus in my head.
I feel like there are more than enough heteronormative gorgeous people who do cool things or whisper sweet nothings to each other.
Those are not my stories to tell.
In terms of eroticicism in my little universe in my brain, there are dangers. There is blood. There is fatality and cellulite, hairy assholes. Periods. Laughter. Superficial I only want to fuck you because I can type arousal.
These are the things that make me happy and turn me on.
Okay enough yammering and wriggling from me for the moment. how about some smut?
First theme music. This is the playlist I was listening to last night while I was writing. Unfortunately my raggedy old computer at home has puked her soundcard so I had to listen to it via my phone. I need my office. Under the fold find a tiny smutty story. Unedited. Presented to you as it came out of my head. I’m thinking as I am writing these little things, I will probably wait a few months and put them together in a little collection. Until then, enjoy.
It’s too cold, I see your breath.
I turn my head to steal that hot whiskey scented mist.
Our eyes meet. Your hot mouth trembles.
I can’t respond, I can’t lie and say no. Instead I burble nonsense.
“The lips. The teeth. The tip of your tongue.”
My hands shake, I look away and feel your breath on my cheek.
“Lips on your face, teeth on your neck, the tip of my tongue on your clit.”
Your words are crisp and cold as the air around us. Your hand is warm as you slide it beneath my jacket, spread it across my belly.
When you move slowly I want to strike. You know, you always know.
“Don’t tease me.”
I want to sound like my words will take you apart.
I see your breath, hear your chuckle.
“No, don’t tease.”
When your face comes too close, I turn and sink my teeth into your lip. Pulling, holding, making you see it in my eyes. You pull me closer, slide your hot hand out of my coat.
For a moment we are wild creatures, raptors locked claw to claw, plummeting and spinning towards the earth. Death. Blood. Mating.
I only let go when I taste hot copper. I lick it away and smile. I feel you, tense against me, wanting.
“I have a blade at home.”
Before I pull away, you quiver.
I walk away, knowing you will follow. I smile at the streetlights in front of me, ready for blood.