Blues, Blowjobs, and Bouncing Back
You may have noticed that I haven’t published anything here in over a month. Well, that’s because I haven’t been writing since well before then.
I’ve really been struggling lately, you guys… The fact that my writing has suffered so terribly is as much a result of the struggle as it is a symptom of my dis-ease. What’s even worse is that then not writing also then becomes a cause of further discomfort.
Not only is writing part of my job, but I do really like it. Writing makes me feel good. To some extent or another, it’s been a primary form of therapy for me my whole life.
But when the depression comes in particularly hot (or cold?), it’s virtually impossible to logic my way through putting words to paper in an attempt to boost myself up.
Back in mid-March, I was ready to make some big pushes in all aspects of my professional endeavours. I was hot on the heels of Eroticon and a Rachel Kramer Bussel erotica reading event.
I was ready to, as they say, slay.
However, the Universe had something else in mind.
Immediately upon returning to Canada, the worst possible thing happened. I fell brutally ill with the nastiest flu I’ve known to date. On the first day of Spring, no less. It came on quick and was in no hurry to leave.
It took until last weekend—the first day of Summer, in fact—for my energy levels to finally begin to stabilize. I know—I lost an entire season to the darkness. REALLY not ideal.
But everything dies, including the lows. At long last, I feel the rise once again. I’m still not top shape yet, but it’s markedly better than it has been.
So, I finally did it.
I forced my way through a writing exercise.
I wasn’t sure what I was going to write. I have had plenty of ideas during my hiatus, for sure. But they’ve been half-formed at best. Nothing that can be developed quite yet. I took to free writing as I am wont to do and found myself in the midst of a very sweet, kind of power play scene.
It’s blowjob-centric, which makes sense because have you met me? But it’s not really about the blowjob at all.
On one hand, we have the narrator who is exhausted by life’s demands but still wants to get to know her partner. The partner is familiar, but this version of their relationship is still relatively new and she’s still trying to figure out her place in it.
She wants to give something to her partner—who is just as exhausted if not more so. The gift of attention and affection. But there is an ulterior motive, of course. She also wants to feel the power of governing their pleasure; their submission to the moment.
“I like that I’m still fully clothed and (mostly) dry while you’re naked here in front of me. In part because I relish in the little rush of power I get out of it, but also because there’s something beautiful about you trusting me to care for you in such an open, vulnerable state. Even one as simple as this.”
I was pretty chuffed to have finally written something from start to finish, for sure. But there was something even more to it, which I didn’t realize it until I read the draft back to myself:
the narrator is very clearly an iteration of me acting out some very smutty metaphor on another iteration of me.
I’ve been so on-the-go, and so drained both physically and emotionally these past three months that I haven’t had a lot of time for connecting with myself or the people around me. I’ve done what I could to maintain my relationships and my physical, but it was no small task when all I wanted to do is hide in a dark room and cry until the gooey shadows had leaked out.
Finally, I was able to find the wherewithal to stoked my sad, depleted fires back up to a little crackle, at least. By both offering myself the restorative space that I’d been lacking after too many weeks on the road and catching up with all the friends I’d lost track of while I was hiding, and gently forcing myself to enjoy a little indulgence.
But instead of giving myself a blowjob, I just disconnected from the internet for 4 days and slept under the stars.
Same same, really.
This isn’t to say that the erotic fiction I write are true stories or literally represent what I’m thinking or how I’m feeling at a given time. But it’s a curious thing how I can set out to write a little smutty vignette because I feel the pressure of expectation, being a smut writer and all, after an unintended sabbatical and then find a bunch of insight that really only I can see.
Like reading tea leaves, but with sex scenes.
They might not be true, but they are all authentically me.
And it’s nice to feel like my self again today.