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Indie Writing and Lady Porn

Indie Writing and Lady Porn


You know, I operate on the assumption that you are a return visitor to my lowly website. A lot of that is rooted in the belief that the same six people come back and open each of my posts multiple times. Not because they’re so fucking compelling, but because they only give you ten minute blocks of internet time in prison.

So, assuming that this isn’t your first trip to my website, and assuming that you have read my shit and formed your own conclusions, it will come as no surprise to you when I tell you that I am woefully uninformed about a lot of shit that has happened in the last ten to twenty years.

Like Indie Writing...when the fuck did that happen? And how did it grow to become a $350 million a year enterprise without me noticing?

I am positive its not a closely guarded secret, I was probably just busy.

This all came about because, as mentioned in an earlier blog post, I began researching blogging, bloggers, and writers before setting out to begin this miserable website. That is when I stumbled on the whole indie writing thing.

One particular author/book is responsible for piquing my interest.

Blood Drops by WB Welch...the book was fucking outstanding by the way. Great Job WB

I saw on Twitter that there was a degree of excitement surrounding the release of a book by someone in the online writing community. And honestly, I got excited too. Reading tweets from an author I have some distant Twitterverse  connection to was really cool! I got to watch the lead up, the promotion, the chatter amongst the community members, the release day, and the aftermath in the form of glowing reviews from the #writing community.

So, I searched for the book on my Kindle. Found it with no trouble, but was immediately perplexed. The price point was only $2.99.

What the fuck? Why? I couldn't understand how in the fuck a newly released book was only three bucks.

Then my wife, who knows everything...think Google with great tits...piped in that this book was an indie release. Shocked.

Immediately going to Google, without tits, I began reading up on this phenomenon.

An indie writer is a person who believes they have a product worth publishing, and either because there is little interest from publishing houses, or because they don’t want to take a measly cut of the profits from traditional publishers they choose to publish on their own.

The idea is to get the book in the hands of the consumer. The success of the book could compel traditional publishers to “pick up” the book and mass produce it. This would, of course, lead to money and cars and broads and shit.

And it is big business with several well known success stories. Those 50 Shades novels among them.

Speaking of, any idea what  the best selling genre of indie books is?

Lady porn. I am positive there is a more politically correct term for it, but perhaps not as accurate.

Novellas written with a fairly romantic plot and maximum, carefully worded filth. THIS sounds like a genre I can support! I love me some filth, but upon further inspection, I found that the books are just too shitty to consume for anything other than fem-jack material.

“Jesse came at me suddenly. I had been unaware that my womanly wiles were having any effect on his cool demeanor. But, with the feel of his vise-like grip on my slender waist, I realized that my flirting had kindled a fire deep in his loins.

He grabbed me by the back of my neck and, there is no tender way to say it, fucked my mouth with his tongue. I had never been kissed like that in my life. My knees weakened and my feminist resolve melted into pure female desire. Fuck the movement. Fuck the bra burning. Fuck my rights. I wanted this man, in that moment, to use me as he saw fit. I degenerated into a quivering mess of desire who only existed to be the tool of his pleasure.

He pinned me to the floor by my throat. Reached under the hem of my dress. His rough workingman’s hand found the apex of my thighs. He gathered the thin fabric of my rapidly wettening panties into his grip and yanked. The flimsy seam gave way immediately. Almost as if they were made to be torn off of a woman by a demanding man. The traitorous bit of ruined fabric casually tossed aside, Jesse reached back again. That man wasted no time in showing the rest of me that what he had in his right hand had always been his. Even though it was his first time touching it, it always belonged to him. I know that now. He knew it then.”

Now, this is my dramatic reenactment of some of the shit I checked out while learning about the genre. And honestly, I can understand why it is a money making machine. Chicks, for the most part, are not as into the visual of dick in pussy as men are. We men, need to see that shit going down to get off. But, the fairer sex can be just as aroused by the seduction and eventual culmination of events. The anticipation and carefully candid nature of the writing makes this genre irresistible for the sexually frustrated female.

But, it’s all bullshit. While I am not what anyone would call an author, I hacked that scene up there out in five minutes. Fantastical and horseshit. The pussies are untouched and pristine. The cocks are gigantic and attached to confident, yet vulnerable men with chiseled features and flowing hair.

However, I am thinking of writing one of these novellas. Why not? I could make tens of dollars off of its success on Amazon. And for me, it would be fun. Fun writing from a woman’s perspective and making up this ridiculously perfect formulaic storyline. As my wife recently described it, “Disney with fucking.”

Woman notices man but doesn’t believe she is in his league.

Man pursues woman because she is intelligent and different from the rest.

Wooing and passion occurs.

Tremendous, earthshaking sex happens.

Situations tear them apart.

Longing and want.

Finally, reconciliation (and one more violent/passionate sex scene for good measure.)

While certainly fun, and guaranteed to make a few bucks, I am not overly interested. I would prefer to do something a little different. Almost mocking the genre a tad. Instead of the traditional formula listed above, I will be writing it from a perspective of reality.

Fiona has been around. Semi-successful dental hygienist. While not overly pretty, she has always had the one quality men in their twenties look for the most in a girlfriend; deep daddy issues. She nearly falls on her back with legs open for the first attractive man who she thinks might treat her badly. Desperately wanting love and acceptance, but not knowing how to demand it, she flits from one destructive relationship to the next.

They meet in the usual 2019 way; on Tinder.

Fiona, tired of having no one to share her life with, updates her profile. She describes herself as a fun loving girl who is looking for commitment but knows how to have a good time.

(Meaning I'm looking for the one, but if you're hot I'll fuck you.)

Chad labels himself as a one woman man. And says the only thing on his body bigger than his cock is his heart.

(Meaning I'm not looking for anything but sex)

Fiona accidentally swiped on Chad.

Chad had quite intentionally swiped on Fiona.

The basic chat function kicks in and their whirlwind romance begins.

Detailed flirting. Exchange of pictures and particulars. She is intrigued by his disarming humor and mistakes his aloofness for charm. Plus, he is not her type, and at this point in her life she is ready to try something new.

After two days of light conversation and veiled sex talk, Chad asks to meet.

Description of insecurities and laboring over what to wear and what each outfit suggested to her date. Excitement and nervousness.

Quick meet for coffee. Back to her place for sex.

The reality continues…

After some initially awkward kissing and some equally awkward heavy petting, they bump and grind their way to the bedroom. Chad trips while trying to toss Fiona on the bed. His legs tangle in the 5 pairs of unwashed jeans and assorted pile of underthings littering the floor. Fiona is summarily tossed near the bed, back hitting the bed rail in the process. Quick recovery, clothing discarded, they quickly prepare to consummate their union.

Chad comes up onto his knees to survey his prize. His view:

Fiona laying there panting with anticipation. Her shirt and bra pushed up over her full tits. Bologna nipples rapidly hardening in excitement. An old tattoo of a scorpion just above her pubic bone had once been a perfect way to accentuate the area. But now, it looked like it had melted with dramatic weight gain and weight loss over the years. It fairly resembled something Salvador Dali might have painted. Her milky thighs laying open, inviting him to take what he came for. The glistening pussy that was so big it could only be described as an axe wound.

With a deep breath, and a prayer she might feel him, he plunged inside.

Her view:

Chad was out of shape. Simply put, he looked like a baby with chest hair. His sagging man tits and bulging gut already damp with sweat was not attractive. But what about this man’s supposedly massive member? His rock hard 4 ¾ inches of man flesh can only be described as pale, engorged disappointment.

With a sigh she prepared for the first thrust.

He entered her. Blissful union of flesh...well...kind of. She was not sure he was in yet. And then he started rocking and pushing. So he must be…

He was fucking for all he was worth, but getting little in the way of friction. Musing to himself “Jesus, what has she been fucking, fire hydrants? Its like throwing a hot dog down a hallway.”

Fiona however, was caught in the waves of passion. Her mind was putting together her shopping list and deciding whether or not to call her mom over for dinner.

2 ½ minutes later, with her three cats watching, angry straining grunts from him with polite gasps and appropriately placed cries from her, it was all over.

Pleasantries exchanged. Quick dressing. He was escorted to the door for the short walk back to the coffee shop.

A modern tale of romance and passionate sex right? I think I’ll publish.

On some random shit. I have spent a good bit of time in the air recently. And i have decided that I prefer propellor planes to jets. No, hear me out.

We have been doing propellor planes for a long time. That means we are good at it. All of the kinks worked out.

While slower, the ride on a prop plane is smoother.

And if a fucking random duck flies into the propellor of your prop plane, it simply gets chopped to shit and thrown out the back. If that duck flies into your jet engine, you’re going to fucking die!!

That’s all, prop planes good. Jet planes bad.

Until next time...

 

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Guest Contributor: Has Empowerment Ruined Women?

Guest Contributor: Has Empowerment Ruined Women?