Natterings of a Diseased Mind

I hate blogging.  I hate the very idea of it.  Loathe and detest kind of hate, rather than that namby-pamby ‘Oh, I hate that evil bitch at work’ kind of hate.  You see, if I’m blogging, I’m not writing.  I mean, I’m writing, I’m just not writing anything worth reading.  This means that what you’re reading is not worth reading.  I’m sure there must be some kind of existential mind-fuck logic that goes along with that last premise, so in all likelihood you might well cease to exist when you reach the end of this sentence.

Still here?  Good.  Lucky for you I sucked at logic in school.

I don’t know why I’m writing this nonsense.  Actually, I do.  I’m writing this in order to distract myself from the fact that I’m not really sure what to write right now.  The Peripheral Cocksucker was my very first piece, and I never thought that I would have another story in me.  As it turns out, I was wrong about that.  Terribly wrong.  My large-breasted muse, slumbering for more decades than I care to count, finally awakened, and began whispering all kinds of naughty ideas in my ear: superheroine stories, lesbian brainwashing, lactation tales, mermaids, latex, ad-motherfucking-infinitum.

And therein lies my problem.  Do I really want to crank out more filth?  My loving wife has accepted my porn-writing predilection, even encourages it (she hasn’t read any of it, though, nor am I offering to let her do so—it’s one thing to suspect your spouse is a pervert, and quite another to have it confirmed).  But the plain and simple truth may be that I have no other choice.  I’d like to write straight fiction, for lack of a better term, but when I go to that well there’s nothing there.  Well, yeah, there’s some things, namely big-titted lesbians wearing latex catsuits, lactating college girls, agrarian slut cults, mind-controlled superheroines, and psychopathic self-aware computer programs.

I keep telling myself the smut is just training wheels, the means by which I’m teaching myself the craft of writing.  Please don’t think I’m denigrating the smut, all one or two of you who may read this pointless rambling.  Everyone reads porn, or so I hear, but no one ever seems to recommend it.  “Say, did you read that new John Grisham novel?  Yeah, it’s about this young lawyer who gets in dutch with the…”  People go on about this pap all the time, but how often do they go, “Hey, Milt, I just read this great book about a school for witches, where they cast spells on each other to make their tits bigger, and end up spraying magical milk all over the place.”  I know, apples and oranges, or in the case of my stories, watermelons and volleyballs.

I don’t know, maybe someday I’ll figure it out.  Maybe my large-breasted muse will whisper something grand in my ear.  Perhaps a techno-thriller, or maybe a hard-boiled detective story, or possibly even a tale of spies and assassins set in Elizabethan England.

But not sparkly vampires.  Even a smut-peddler has standards.

 

                         

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