Sorry, this is getting old. Twins are born in approximately 1 in 80 live births. I suspect that might be a bit higher these days with in vitro fertilization (at least until fetuses get declared “people” as some anti-abortionists wish and the whole practice of in vitro fertilization goes away) but it’s still rare. Yet you’d think they were in almost every family in porn stories.

It’s become a plot crutch, in my opinion. Why?

Well, the traditional plot crutch is that it enables ‘mistaken identity’ plots, one of the earliest of which was Shakespeare’s The Comedy of Errors. This can be used for both comic and dramatic purposes. It does rely on the twins not being separably identifiable, which in my own personal experience is not correct. I’ve known three sets of identical twins and I can tell which is which unless they’re deliberately trying to fool me, and even then I’ve spotted the correct twin more than once.

However, I think erotica offers additional crutches. For one, there’s the common male fantasy about having a threesome with twins. Two beautiful identical women at once? What’s not to love? Well, you have to be into bodies only and not personalities, but why let that get in the way?

But if you think about it, is a threesome with identical twins much different than a threesome with sisters? The taboo is the same and the beauty can be the same. Twins just offer a slight variation that seems more exotic. It’s just a tad more intrigue.

Of course, there’s also the Twincest angle. We know twins tend to be close (as any siblings in close age often are) but now we get the pervy sexual incest side as well.

But honestly, the biggest reason I’ve been seeing it in online erotica is that it creates more sibling at close ages. We can get three or four where in real life there’d be only two. That allows for more erotic combinations, regardless of whether incest is involved. It also leads to a full house.

Now I’m a parent of two kids, one of whom is four and one is under a year old. Multiple young kids would be a nightmare. There’s a reason many parents space them out. Except in a lot of online erotica, where spacing them out doesn’t create the density of sex combinations.

Well, I’ve finally reached the point where it irritates me enough to stop reading stories with twins in them. I can’t do the willing suspension of disbelief anymore.

I really would’ve. The ideas are flowing, the words are flowing, and the characters are talking to me. It’s that magical place writers want to be.

The kicker is, the story is exploding. When I’d started it, I’d expected to knock out a short sweet 5kword or so story. Instead, it looks like I may have a novel on my hands.

The bigger kicker is that I’m seat-of-the-pantsing it. Yeah, the writer who’s proud of how tightly he plots things and how intricate he can make the storyline and still have it hold up has no idea where this one is going. Oh, I know the climactic scene and two or three other key ones, but after that I have no idea. It leads to things like me writing, “his wife had never liked me. She didn’t even like me when we first met,” and then realizing that I’m going to have to do a few thousand words on the scene where the narrator meets the wife.

I really wish I had more time to write. That’s not a new wish, but this time the fire is scorching when I don’t.

I should of course define ‘degradation of sex.’ I happen to believe that Sex is Big. It’s powerful and sometimes it’s incredible and sometimes it’s awful. Sometimes it’s as light as popcorn and sometimes it has more meaning than God (or is a way to find God, if you follow tantra). I think it’s Big enough to allow plenty of views and plenty of opinions.

But the views I happen to seriously dislike are the ones full of disdain. I’d call them puerile, but they’re more than childish in that they actively attempt to devalue the very thing they’re promoting. The best example I can think of is the guy who says, “how can I get one of those bitches to sleep with me?” Err… are they something you want or not? Because your words say both.

Another example is Hustler. I’ve had difficulty getting past the poop jokes and blatant misogyny to appreciate the magazine. It’s crude and it revels in that crudity. But it also does so while making it clear that the crudity it’s reveling in isn’t worth appreciating. Kind of like Religious Conservatives looking down on the very acts their doing in private, except it’s open in the magazine.

Another example–why do some johns look down on the women they just paid for sex? Morally the two are pretty equivalent.

The degradation of sex in porn, where the porn actively denigrates the very thing it features, is unfortunately common. It’s also an easy mindset to slide into.

Now I should be clear that I have no qualms with people having the right to look at degrading crappy stuff. If someone wants to wallow in “Two Girls, One Cup” then that’s their choice and I don’t believe they should be censored or restricted from it. However, I don’t want to be part of it or contribute to it.

This is in part because I’ve had personal experience, unfortunately, of getting so caught up in sex and exploring sex that I did things I regretted and that I believe were degrading to me, if not also to the people involved. I was so interested in chasing the specific sexual event that I lost sight of the bigger picture and I couldn’t really accept what I was doing. It’s not something I wish to repeat as a writer.

So this is, for me, an issue in commercialism. Stroke stories sell. Crude stroke stories sell better. Taboo crude stroke stories sell even better. And that turns my stomach a little. I don’t like what that indicates about our culture. Aren’t we grown up enough to go for stuff that’s more openly honest about sex being a good thing?

Furthermore, the degradation is partially built into commercialism. Advertisers have long found that the best way to make money is to make people uncomfortable or unhappy with what they have. Then you offer them the solution for a price. Political advertising is the most blatant about this, but it’s elsewhere. Notably, personal care products do much of their sales by introducing insecurities about our appearance if we don’t use their product. Any attempt to go for maximum short-term profits has to at least consider degradation as a viable option.

I’m not willing to have that option, and it’s taken me a while to feel my way through to my own limits. I have to acknowledge the temptations as well, to ‘sell out’ for the cash. As I continue to explore sexuality as a writer, I don’t want to have my work contribute to the hypocrisy around sex I see so often elsewhere. It’s good, it’s fun, it’s big, and yes it can be misused. But it’s not worthy of disdain. It’s also not worth the money, when I can remember that.

Which means I’ll need remember that scene from Boogie Nights anytime I get tempted to write, “Suck it, bitch!”

One thing I did do was figure out what I wanted to do about commercialization. As I’ve written here, I’ve been struggling with the art vs. money issue. I’d like to make more money from my art, but I’m not crazy about some of what it would take.

Frankly, what sells best is mindless stroke filled porn. This is not a surprise to anyone who’s wandered an adult video store. The more sex and less plot, the more sales. And nasty, cruddy, taboo stuff outsells high quality, if by the simple fact that one can produce a lot more of the low quality nasty stuff in the time or budget it takes to produce a porn movie with actual plot.

This has bothered me for some time on multiple levels, one of which I’ll muse about on Wednesday. Another is simply that I don’t enjoy writing stroke material.

Lord knows, I’ve tried. Bent and TMI are about as close as I’ve come to pure stroke stories and one of the only reasons I could do them is that I didn’t have to introduce the characters. Since the readers of those stories are theoretically familiar with the Coulters and Hughes, I could jump straight into the sex. Other stories I’ve tried to write that are pure stroke have… well, evolved until suddenly I discover I’ve got real characters and real themes that are as more more juicy than the sex.

Furthermore, as I wrote last week, if I don’t have any personal interest in the story, I can’t write it. The stuff that sells best is pseudo-incest (which I wrote is a silly fig leaf here). Well, I’m writing actual incest in the Chris Coulter stories, or at least addressing the issues around it. I don’t have a lot to say in other stories and the ‘stroke’ part of it doesn’t work much for me. “Oooh, he’s my stepdad, isn’t that naughty?” isn’t enough to sustain me for the tens of hours it would take to produce a 5000 word story.

Bottom line–I’m very happy with the ‘art’ I produce as Big Ed, and I would rather keep producing it despite the lower financial payoff than go purely for the commercial payoff. If you’re one of the folks who’ve bought my books, or subscribed to the sites I’ve reviewed, or made a donation (see the ebooks plus page), then thank you. Heck, if you’re one of the folks who’s simply dropped me an email or commented on my posts, thank you. I’m writing this for you and me, and I’m not going to change that for the money.

That said… I did realize a way I can appeal to the stroke audience. I’ve decided to do it under a different pen name and when those stories are available, I’ll post a link here. That way, if you’re reading a Big Ed story, you can be assured it’ll have the same thoughtfulness as my other works, where the sex is to further the story. If you’re reading the other pen name, you’re reading a story that’s solely about the sex.

So where am I going to find the emotional juice to write stories that are purely about the sex? From my history, both what happened and various ‘what if’s’ that didn’t.

I’ve already done this in places. For example, the sexy chauffeur scene in Love’s Labor Found actually happened, except it was just one woman (my girlfriend at the time) and not two. Similarly, the Chi-O steps in Friends and Benefits are real, and I’ve really had sex on them.

But I also have many experiences that really don’t lend themselves to inclusions in deeper stories. For example, a few months before my 33rd birthday, a ‘friend with benefits’ asked what I wanted to do for my birthday. I joked that three and three surely meant an orgy with three women. She asked a few probing questions and I said that I’d ideally want a weekend away at one of the high end mountain resorts with three ladies who wouldn’t mind us all playing together.

Well, she was game if I could find the other women. I later talked to a former ‘friend with benefits’ and she said it sounded fun to her and she’d be happy for such a weekend away if she could have some time to herself during the days and only have the orgy in the evenings. She even suggested a woman we knew as a candidate for the third.

So what happened? I met a different woman, fell in love, and was in a monogamous relationship by the time of my birthday. The next time I was single, circumstances had changed enough that setting up the weekend wasn’t feasible.

There’s obviously a fun ‘what if’ story in there, but there’s not much depth to it beyond the sex. I could tack on a romance, but it would be tacked on and weak, at best. I’ve not found a “Big Ed” storyline in the incident despite a fair amount of thought.

So… why not write it? The ‘what if’ gives me the juice and I can slap a photo of a naked woman on the cover, write some provocative blurb, and kick it out. I think it’s a viable commercialization option.

So I’m going to give it a shot, subject to the standard “I have limited time” caveats.

This past week, I started the first such story, The Handjob Demo, and wrote 443 words on it. I also added 82 words to Burst, bringing it to 2,686, and 716 words to Mercy Buckets, bringing it to 1089. I imagine I’ll keep working on all three more or less in parallel for the next several weeks. It ought to be fun.

Martha Stout explores that in her book The Sociopath Next Door. She gives the provocative figure that 1 in 25 people (4% of the population) qualify as sociopaths due to a lack of conscience. A clinical psychologist, she draws on experiences in her own practice and of cases she knows about, as well as some psychological studies. It’s an easily accessible read, as she relies on ‘character’ studies (really amalgamations of people) to describe how sociopaths can function quite well for quite a while without being detected.

The challenge of dealing with sociopaths, according to Dr. Stout, is that they are very good at blending in with others. They’re generally not outside loners but individuals who have learned how to ‘play the game’ even if they don’t have a conscience themselves. One of her case studies is a Fortune 500 CEO and others are successful leaders in their own fields. Not being burdened by a conscience, they can focus on ‘winning the game’. She states that most sociopaths can be quite charming and smooth in their social graces. They are also often quite cunning, having studied human nature well enough to know how to subtly manipulate others. Gaslighting is a common tactic. So are crocodile tears.

That latter, Dr. Stout argues, is actually be a characteristic by which sociopaths can be recognized. Since their world is ‘all about them,’ a common tactic is to make a pity play. Another is flattery. Ultimately, she recommends trusting one’s gut especially in light of repeated broken promises or lies. She believes that sociopaths are incurable—they lack conscience in part due to genetic effects—and so one is best off avoiding them entirely.

I found all of the above fascinating. However, I thought Dr. Stout was stretching a bit on the down sides of sociopathy to the sociopath themselves. She argues that they cannot feel love. This obviously makes sense, for if others are just pawns to be manipulated, how can one love them or feel loved by them? However, “feeling loved” is such a difficult to describe emotional state to begin with, that I’m not sure we can truly say that sociopaths can’t feel it. She uses the argument of ‘feeling love’ to argue for the superiority of not being a sociopath, but again, there’s a value judgment presumed therein. What if the purpose of life really is to “win”? Or if the purpose of life is simply to propagate one’s genes? “Love” as a superior force presumes a view about the meaning of life which can’t be proved.

My other criticism is that I don’t think she addressed the blurring between sociopathy and normalcy. She does refer to the Milgram experiment where people were willing to torture others when under orders. She also discusses how fatigue, low blood sugar, and group dynamics can also lead people to make decisions against what their conscience would recommend during more normal times. However, I strongly suspect that the line between sociopathy and normalcy isn’t either/or. I’ve known too many people who could be ruthless conscience-free bastards in numerous circumstances, and then express genuine love and warmth other times.

Obviously, the book made me think. As such, I recommend it. It can be found at Barnes & Noble and The Tattered Cover.

(oh, and for those wondering what this has to do with erotica and sex? Four words: Dealing with the Devil.)

So I managed 1100 words, roughly. That’s a pretty good week, especially considering I didn’t have extra writing time compared to a normal recent week. In fact, I lost one writing lunch due to dead laptop battery and no available electrical outlets in the restaurant I’d picked (won’t be going back there).

I also put 25 to Life in the mail and worked a tiny bit on website stuff. What did I not do? I didn’t edit Center Stage. I just couldn’t bring myself to work on it.

Now I happen to think Center Stage is a decent story. Yeah, it needs some editing, but it’s real problem is that it’s not quite erotica and not quite not-erotica. That makes it hard to figure out what to do with, which is frustrating me. That frustration, I think is seriously affecting my ability to work on it.

If I look back at the weeks where I barely wrote, I was working on Center Stage. I didn’t abandon the story because I believe quitting on a project when you’re most of the way through should only be done if there’s a serious flaw in it. There are always options for quirky stories even if I don’t know what I want to do with them when I’m writing them. Besides, working on the difficult stories is how I get better as a writer.

But now I’ve learned it slows me down.

Given how little writing time I have these days, I’ve decided to focus on the ‘fun’ stories. Hopefully that will help both my productivity and my overall mood.

Have a go at writing the exact same sex act, using nothing but the tone of language and the POV of the narrator to present it as either kinky or vanilla.

My attempt is below. Note that the physical actions and all the words spoken are identical in the two versions. Only the punctuation and observations/judgements of the narrator have been changed.

Also note that I addressed some of this Vanilla vs. BDSM in my guest post at Lisabet Sarai’s blog last week. It’s here, entitled Running the Fuck.

Vanilla Version:

She smiled when she saw our table. In the back corner of the restaurant, it was shielded by curtains and the curve of the wall and almost private. She nodded to the maitre d’ when he pulled her chair out and placed the napkin on her lap. Then she leaned toward me.

“This is special,” she said her eyes bright with anticipation. “What’s the occasion?”

“Our six month anniversary,” I said. With a flourish, I extracted the long flat jewelry box from my jacket pocket and placed it in front of her.

Her eyes went wide. She hesitated just for a moment and looked at me. When I gestured toward the box, she made a small nod and reached for it. The lid askew, she pulled the necklace out.

“It’s beautiful,” she said as she held the thin silver choker up. The sparkle off the metal reflected the one in her eyes. “But….”

“I wanted something you could wear in public that showed what I thought of you.”

She smiled, happy. “I’d be honored.”

“Put it on,” I urged.

She fumbled with the clasp, but then swept her hair back and affixed the choker around her neck. She had to fiddle a bit with getting it to lie correctly; she’d worn a summer halter top dress and had to get the fabric tie out of the way. Once it was in place, she arched her back, displaying the jewelry in all its brilliance. Our eyes met and she smiled, but then grew serious.

“I didn’t get you anything,” she said.

“That’s alright. I know what I want.”

She waited, the corner of her mouth turning up in amused anticipation.

“I want you to flash me.”

“Here?” she said with a laugh of disbelief.

“Here. Undo your top and pull it down.”

Her eyes darted past me to the main room of the restaurant. Since I’d made an early reservation, few other diners were in sight.

“No one can see,” I said. “Please? Show me your breasts?”

She sucked in her breath. “For how long?”

“Until I say stop.”

She gave me one of her “I’ll humor you, but don’t make me regret it,” looks. Then she reached for the knot that held her dress. A moment later, the fabric fell, leaving her nude to her waist.

I sighed happily. Her nipples, hard and stiff, rose and fell with her breathing. I could almost see goosebumps on the curve of her breasts, down and underneath. As I let my eyes trail up her body, I realized she wasn’t entirely nude–she wore the choker after all.

“Thank you,” I said quietly. I met her eyes and nodded.

She quickly pulled her dress back up and re-affixed the knot. A moment later, and not a moment sooner to our mutual relief, the sommelier appeared.

I declined his offer to see the wine list and ordered champagne. “We’re celebrating,” I explained.

She smiled indulgently in return and lightly caressed the silver choker. It was a promising start to what I was sure would be an exciting evening.

BDSM Version:

She pursed her lips when she saw our table. In the back corner of the restaurant, it was shielded by curtains and the curve of the wall and almost private. She nodded. Then she allowed the maitre d’ to direct her to her chair and place the napkin on her lap. She leaned toward me.

“This is special,” she said her eyes wide. “What’s the occasion?”

“Our six month anniversary,” I said. With slow deliberation and almost a ritualistic air, I extracted the long flat jewelry box from my jacket pocket and placed it in front of her.

Her eyes went wide. She trembled just for a moment and looked at me. When I pointed toward the box, she bowed her head and reached for it. The lid askew, she pulled the necklace out.

“It’s beautiful,” she said as she held the thin silver choker up. The cold sheen of the metal matched the wonder in her eyes. “But….”

“I wanted something you could wear in public. That showed what I thought of you.”

Her eyes widened further and she failed to suppress a smile.. “I’d be honored.”

“Put it on,” I ordered.

She fumbled with the clasp, but then swept her hair back and affixed the choker around her neck. She had to fiddle a bit with getting it to lie correctly; she’d worn a summer halter top dress and had to get the fabric tie out of the way. Once it was in place, she arched her back, displaying her new silver collar in all its brilliance. It also thrust her chest out, as I’d taught her to do. Our eyes met and I could tell how pleased she was, despite her calm demeanor.

“I didn’t get you anything,” she said.

“That’s alright. I know what I want.”

She waited, the corner of her mouth twitched as she struggled not to speak; to wait for me as she knew she should.

“I want you to flash me.”

“Here?” she said. Once again she failed to suppress a laugh. That earned her punishment later, of course.

“Here. Undo your top. And pull it down.”

Her eyes, a mixture of fear and anticipation. darted past me to the main room of the restaurant. Since I’d made an early reservation, few other diners were in sight.

“No one can see,” I said firmly. “Please. Show me your breasts.”

She sucked in her breath. “For how long?”

“Until I say stop.”

She gave me one of her “If this is what you wish” looks. Then she reached for the knot that held her dress. A moment later, the fabric fell, leaving her nude to her waist.

I sighed, satisfied. Her nipples, hard and stiff, rose and fell with her breathing. I could almost see goosebumps on the curve of her breasts, down and underneath. As I let my eyes trail up her body, I realized she wasn’t entirely nude–she wore the collar after all.

“Thank you,” I said. I met her eyes and nodded, quietly giving her permission to continue.

She pulled her dress back up and re-affixed the knot. A moment later, and just a moment too late to my disappointment, the sommelier appeared. He’d missed a chance to see how beautiful my girl was, but I hid my disappointment.

I declined his offer to see the wine list and ordered champagne. “We’re celebrating,” I said.

Her eyes wide, she couldn’t help but agree with her smile. She lightly caressed the silver choker; my gift, my symbol. We had so much more in store for us this night.

2715 words for the week. That’s pretty damn good by recent productivity standards. And I completed a story to boot.

I must admit to being surprised. Sure, I had one good evening, but that’s only half of the output. I’m going to have to pay a little attention this coming week and see if I can duplicate it and, if so, how I did it.

The answer is actually yes, but not in the obvious way. Self-censorship is appropriate as a way for a writer to fulfill their obligations and responsibilities as a writer. Of course, that just pushes the argument down one level. What exactly are a writer’s responsiblities?

I believe there’s only one: informed consent for the reader.

It’s pretty simple–there are no responsibilities for content, or even quality. The responsibilities are simply to give the potential reader a choice about whether to read the writer’s work and enough information to make that an informed choice.

Giving readers the choice is pretty easy. Most of us don’t live in dictatorial circumstances where we have to read Mao’s Little Red Book. Even most schools allow opt-outs of required reading. It’s hard for a writer to not give a reader choice.

Coupled with that, I have no issue with requiring discretion in displaying or marketing a book, which is not the same as banning it. It’s the consent issue again–if I walk into the airport newsstand with my kid, I haven’t consented to have magazines with naked women on the covers thrust in front of him. Discretion in marketing, especially in the public sphere, isn’t the same as censorship. It’s like zoning in setting expectations. The adult bookstore? Bring it on. The children’s section of the library? Not an appropriate place for sexually explicit material.

Once we’ve established ‘consent,’ the issue becomes ‘informed.’ So the primary responsibility is to provide adequate information before the reader picks up the story. This means getting the genre correct (thriller fans are going to be annoyed if the novel turns out to be a romance). It means tagging it for potentially disturbing content, either through blurbs or story codes. It means picking the cover and writing the description to accurately convey what the reader is likely to encounter. It’s basic ‘truth in labeling.’

After that, the responsibility lies with the reader. Is the story a piece of crap, without merit? Or perhaps so filled with technical errors as to be unreadable? Then set it down. It’s not your cup of tea? Set it down. It’s disturbing, or evocative? Deal with it. And if it triggers thoughts that might be best not acted on? Don’t act on them.

Harsh language, but it’s a sore point for me. If we’re truly to have informed consent in our world, we have to insist that others take responsibility for their own choices. A writer has the responsibility to be clear about what they’re offering. The reader is responsible for the rest.

The unfortunate news is that I’m throwing out everything I did last week, and before last week, on Need to Know. Nick and I coordinated the SC Universe timeline, and it just doesn’t fit in Spring 2003. I might be able to revive some version of the story for Spring 2004, but Nick needs to write a lot more before I can be sure about that. For all effective purposes, it’s dead.

Now I’m only annoyed by this because it was last week’s entire, albeit meager, output. I throw words out all the time, but rarely does that coincide with a recent week’s work. It also makes it hard to judge my output. Do I count last week’s word count in my yearly total for writing? I threw a bunch of words out in 2012 that I wrote in 2011. Does that reduce my total?

That’s why a better judge of status is really stories completed. This doesn’t capture the differences between long and short stories particularly well, but the words aren’t going to be thrown out. I’m already not counting words written for ideas that don’t turn into stories I intend to finish in the near term (I have dozens of “first pages” of stories to capture the essence of an idea that flitted through my brain). If I only count words from completed stories, I’ll have a much more accurate measure of my output over a year. It’ll just be harder to judge how I’m doing in the short term.

Anyway, by that metric, I’ve completed two stories this year. It’s not been a productive year. Fortunately, it’s not over.

I actually did manage some writing on Burst this past week (622 words), which is now the next story in the Chris Coulter saga. I’m also changing Baptized back to Christening. The latter just fits better even if it blows my pattern for titles. My story CNN is also going to get kicked/killed, but I’d put so few words into that, it’s not a huge loss. The Tzratzk art would’ve be wonderful, but c’est la vie.

So the Chris Coulter storyline is now:
Burst (takes place during Leah and Erin’s prom)
Busted (over Memorial Day)
Christening (first week of Camp)

After that, I’m not making any plans because I don’t want to get too far ahead of Nick and then have to throw stuff out. It’s not like I don’t have plenty of other projects anyway…