Amarillo at sunset. The light was low, a long day of driving behind, but I wasn’t going to drive past in the dark.
One of the most surreal sights of my life. A line of classic Cadillacs planted nose down in a Texas field, all painted bright red, manic workers at the end of their long day of hot sun and paint fumes and perhaps the odd bit of horseplay with the brushes dripping red.
I made a few photos of the weird scene and oddly enough, it’s lodged in a corner of my memory like a pubic hair stuck in a back tooth. Kind of irritating, kind of fun.
This is what I want to explore in my writing. A combination of travel, sex, and quirk. Not fetishes. Fetishes are strange and disturbing and raise all kinds of flags in my mind about consent and gender roles and the idea that one party isn’t enjoying the process as much as the other(s).
I get no fun out of that; if I write about such things, this will come through to the reader, and I want my readers to finish my stories with a happy sigh of satisfaction.
I’ve been researching erotica. Kind of fun, kind of irritating. A lot of it is well-crafted and arousing. A lot is horrid, just body parts sliding around without the benefit of grammar or context. And a lot of both ends and most of the middle is formulaic; a bit of setting, a couple of characters, enough unlikely sex in the latter pages to support a one-handed reader.
Formulaic equals boring in my eyes. You know what’s coming, you read on regardless. The half-witted characters either plough on without worrying too much about whether the relationship is at all plausible, or they obsess about whether the other party is interested in their well-described charms. (News flash: they are.)
Give me a bit of imagination and quirk. And I’ll give it back.
Image by Britni Pepper