Member-only story
The work. The work. The work. . . . THE WORK!
You, who sit at home so comfortable in your athleisure or nothing at all, you who so easily decide what’s wrong and what’s right, what’s acceptable and censurable, what pushes the bounds of kink and what titillates, and what is off-limits and call it a night.
I’m not hear to garner your sympathy. I know what I am and what my place is. I produce disposable porn for your insatiable appetite. You read the first few lines, glance down the page, slow down when you get to something juicy, jack-or-jill-off when you find the best bits, and, post-onanistic frenzy, cuddle up with your spouse, partner, or no one at all, and continue about your business until the next twitch, the next fix, the next hit of the pixel pipe.
To you, this is nothing that gives you pause, no splinter-in-the-mind-porno-ride. This is just a hit-or-miss, click-of-the-finger, fap-it-and-forget-it funhouse.
But it’s more than that to me.
Let’s remember, if you will, that this is all written from the context of a flesh-and-blood relationship. A lot of flesh. A lot of my blood-sweat-and-tears over the typewriter. (No, I’m not that old. I do use a computer. It’s about the alliteration. If you haven’t noticed, allow me to point out how I like to use alliteration. Now that I have done you that favor, you…