Pipe Dreams: An Appeal for Sextual Help


Does anyone know how to write really good erotic fiction? No – genuinely – If you’ve got a few spicy sentences stashed in a notebook, or languishing in your text inbox, I’d really appreciate it if you’d slide them my way. You see, I have to write a sexy story for a friend. And I don’t mean a “Friend”. Things on my corridor have just got a bit out of hand. Secret Santa was too successful. The penis pasta and cock rings, the raunchy raincoats and the bittersweet taste of suppressed desire: it was all too wonderful to be momentarily enjoyed and then forgotten until next year. My pals had got their fix of weirdly intimate social ceremonies, and now they want more. And the next obvious choice? Valentine’s Day. So this weekend an actual, normal group of friends will be sitting in a circle and reading out each other’s debauched fantasies. Because apparently fumbled attempts at literary loving are some sort of gift to the world. That’s why I’m scrabbling around for something resembling a shocking story or fetish in order to satisfy my civic duty (apparently also a requirement for the House of Lords.)


My early efforts sound a bit too much like recipes. Add 500g of candles and a bottle of wine, throw in the toy handcuffs, sprinkle with Miles Davis and mix thoroughly. I’m really struggling to add the spice. It’s all a bit too mild, more like Netflix and Dill. You’d think being an English student it would be easy. I mean, what the hell is the point of wading through all the musty old crap if you don’t find the juicy bits and milk them for all they’re worth. And I don’t just mean Tess of the D’Urbervilles’ cows. It could probably be renamed Erotic Studies without too much difficulty.

The problems arise when you’re submerged in medieval romance and the best you can do is Tristan and Isolde dying entwined in the belly of a giant fish. Or red hot pokers between buttocks in the Miller’s Tale. Neither of which, you’d imagine, are likely to elicit the desired response. Not that I know exactly what sort of response is desired. Maybe off-putting medieval erotica is the way to go to avoid a situation where we’re all sitting around pretending not to be awkwardly aroused.


Another option would be to draw upon personal experience. A risky tactic. You don’t really want to know if your friends are turned on by your erotic adventures. Even worse, they might laugh at ‘Giles’ and the exploits of ‘Russell the love muscle.’ To be honest, while most people have a few sconce-worthy stories up their sleeve, my life is fairly tame. I fear autobiographical material might not reach the heady heights (or cavernous depths) of fancy that my warped chums are dying for.

Where to turn for inspiration then, but to the bizarre depths of internet fanfiction, and maybe a second-hand copy of Fifty Shades? It feels like a betrayal of my literary ambitions. Shakespeare is all well and good, but you’re never going to find the phrase ‘bald headed yoghurt slinger’ in a sonnet. Sorry Will, it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make. Unless…


David Brent once said: Never do today that which will become someone else’s responsibility tomorrow. And in the spirit of not-quite-relevant quotes and lazy delegation I am making an Appeal for Sextual Help. If you’ve read this far, please, have a heart and spend a minute composing a sentence or two of erogenous prose. It would really help me out. Imagine the masterpiece that will emerge! In fact, you don’t need to imagine, you’ll be able to read it next week.


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