Date: Sat, 25 Dec 2010 05:26:19 -0800 (PST)
From: "Rajah (not Roger) Dodger" <rajahdodger@yahoo.com>
Subject: Attitude Adjustment

Abstract: Research into a writing topic gives a writer some new viewpoints

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(by-nc-sa).
United States copyright and Berne convention provision apply in
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Attitude Adjustment

by Rajah Dodger {rdodger@hotmail.com} Copyright 2010

     I don't meet a lot of other smut writers.  It's not the kind of hobby
that holds lunch meetings or conferences - in ten years I've only met two
other writers.  So when I got an email from a fellow writer who mentioned
he'd be in my town for a few weeks, lunch with him sounded like an
interesting idea.

     He wasn't a total stranger - we both posted on many of the same
writers' websites, and we'd had a long-running discussion on one particular
board about why people pick particular story topics.  His stories were
mostly male/male scenes with some mind control subplots; mine tended toward
dominance/submission, short sex-oriented vignettes, and romantic hetero or
lesbian encounters, although I'd written one-off stories in a half dozen
different fetish areas as well.

     I might still have turned him down, but I just loved his pen name,
"Feygin".  Anyone who uses Charles Dickens for porn is someone I want to
meet.

     We got together at Applebee's, about as vanilla a meeting place as one
could ask for, and outside the group of places where people I knew were
likely to show up.  Not that I'd have any problems explaining lunch with an
acquaintance, but sometimes careful is good.

     Somewhere between salad and the third beer, we finished complaining
about our respective jobs and started talking about how we wound up in
them.  I had written computer technical manuals before getting into
programming; he had spent a year issuing press releases for a low-budget
wrestling circuit then managed activities at a church community center.

     We were both readers, of course.  He read a lot of biographies while
my comfort subject was science fiction.  We talked about which websites
were currently paying for stories, and played mutual flattery quoting from
scenes in each others' stories.  The only thing writers enjoy as much as
getting paid is knowing someone else really likes their work.

     That was when he brought back his question from one of the website
forums about why I didn't write stories with male/male scenes.

     What do you say to a question like that?  In the first place, I had
actually written one such scene, though the action was implied rather than
explicit.  In the second place, it seemed a little like asking a romance
author why she didn't write murder mysteries.  I was trying to think of a
polite way to suggest that our lunch was over, when he said "I think I
know, actually."

     There's not a writer around who can sit still when someone else says
they know why he or she writes.  I sat back in my chair and waved a hand,
asking him to go ahead and enlighten me.

     ^^^^^^^^

     "You see," he began, "there are just a handful of reasons why someone
with as many stories as you have written would skip that area.  First,
maybe you don't find anything about men erotic.  But I read your one
masturbation story, and even without hinting at what his fantasies are you
nailed the whole physical sensuality of the experience."  He chuckled.
"Granted, that's kind of like the cliche of writing what you know, but it
still has to be done well."

     "Second, maybe you don't like gays.  I've actually spoken with some
erotica writers who are violent homophobes, so I know it's possible -
though some of those guys write the hottest male/male rape stories."  He
shook his head.  "It doesn't fit though.  Anyone who can write a story
about a man molesting his cancer-ridden aunt where the sex is gripping and
the guy comes off as a sympathetic figure - well, that person wouldn't let
mere dislike keep him from writing a story."

     He took a long hit from his beer.  I appreciated the compliment - I
was justifiably proud of that story - but waited for the other shoe to
drop.

     "Third, you could be one of those guys who's afraid if he writes about
homosexual activity people will think he must be gay himself.  But hell -
you've written half a dozen stories about that transsexual plumber, and
nobody in the critique boards has ever suggested you were writing from
experience."

      "So that leaves number four.  You don't think you're up to it."

      My beer bottle hit the table, but he waved off my spluttered response
and continued.

      "Of course, I'm not saying you *can't* do it.  I'm just saying you
don't think you can do it believably.  There's nothing wrong with that.  I
don't write about accountants - come to think about it, I don't think
anyone writes erotica about accountants, but that's beside the point."

     Somewhere in that comment was at best a left-handed compliment.  The
pleasant buzz from the beer vanished, and it took me a few moments to get
my reactions enough under control to interrupt the flow of his lecture.

     "There's a hole in your logic," I said.  "At least one.  For example,
a good writer can pick up what he or she needs from other sources and
doesn't have to rely only on first-person experience.  Think about science
fiction stories as an example.  Or Pam the Preop Plumber, for that matter.
I read Plumbing for Dummies and spent twelve sweaty hours in a peep show
booth listening to the noises from next door and watching videos before I
wrote the first of those."

     He finished his beer and smiled.  "Yeah, and I don't hear you saying
I'm wrong either.  Hey, it's not a big deal.  I just thought since you've
covered almost every other major area in the tag cloud that maybe you'd
appreciate some leads, references, that sort of thing.  One writer to
another.  We all start somewhere, and I can send you some files and web
links that I found helpful."

     He may have been arrogant in analyzing me, but he had a point.  In
something over seventy stories, I'd written exactly three scenes of
man-on-man action.  None of them had the kind of explicit detail of my
hetero stories or for that matter my lesbian stories, and I shied away
because I just didn't know how to write something that wouldn't sound
stilted or silly.  His stories were certainly convincing in that regard.

     And even though I didn't feel any great need to write male on male
erotica, the fact that I hadn't been able to now grated on me, almost as
much as his casual assumption that it came from some lack of confidence or
ability on my part.  So I thanked him for the offer, finished my own beer,
and we went our separate ways.  He didn't know it, but he'd laid down a
challenge, and I wasn't going to admit failure.

     ^^^^^^^^

     I checked my mail when I got home that evening, and there were three
items from Feygin.  One had the promised web links, one was a collection of
picture attachments, and the third held three video files.

     The pictures weren't what I expected.  I thought of gay porn as
leather, rubber, and hairy guys - I'd certainly seen my share of that back
when I was doing the groundwork for my Pam the Plumber stories.  Instead I
found myself looking at a collection of photographs more focused on facial
expressions, the curves and lines of taut muscles, the contact of skin on
skin.  In tone they reminded me of some of the lesbian porn sites I really
liked.  There weren't any tags on the photos; I wondered where he had found
them.

     They did give me a couple of ideas, one of which seemed promising - a
guy assigned to a detox program where the all-male staff was heavily into
physical exercise and wrestling as therapy.  I fiddled with it for a while,
but it didn't seem to be going anywhere.  By the time I gave up, it was
already past my usual bedtime so I saved my drafts and went to bed.

     For the rest of the week, when I got home I alternated between
reviewing the pictures, looking at different sites on the web, and starting
unsatisfactory story drafts.  Friday night, since I didn't have anything
else to do, I opened up the email with the videos.  The first one was kind
of jittery, and looked like a transfer from the middle of a VCR tape.

     Two guys were working out in the gym, wearing grey workout shorts and
tee shirts, making the rounds of the equipment stands.  Both had worked up
a good sweat, and their shorts clung, framing their cocks.  The taller one
finished off his exercises with a cable kickback.  The muscles of his legs
stood out as he extended his foot behind him.

     While he was catching his breath, the shorter man moved in from behind
and slid his hands around, cupping the other man's crotch, knuckles
shifting as his fingers moved.

     The taller man writhed in that grasp - the camera shifted around the
side to show his growing erection, the legband of his shorts lifting just a
bit to give a teasing glimpse of swollen testicles.  The short man's hand
slid down inside the shorts and the camera zoomed in for a closeup, but the
picture got blurry - I could see the outline of the cockhead under the
fabric, and maybe a stain at the tip, but even looking close it was hard to
tell for sure.

     Suddenly, abruptly, the video ended.  I found myself leaning forward,
squinting toward the monitor, rubbing my thighs together.  Yeah.  I could
write a scene like that.

     At least that's what I thought, but nothing would come together
Saturday morning after I woke up.  I could get the words onto paper, but
none of the music was there.  I filed it away and went back to my most
current TG story, but couldn't find a groove there either.  I opened my
miscellaneous picture folder and clicked at random.  Nothing grabbed me.  I
went back to the video; there was something in the camera work or maybe the
lighting, the scene just hinted at an intense sexual power without ever
getting around to showing it.  I replayed it several times, but I just
couldn't identify the trick that made it so attention-grabbing.

     I had some bills to pay and other mundane tasks to do around my
apartment, then I put on my headphones and just listened to Beethoven,
Ravel and Gershwin for a while.  I was still restless, so I went back to
the computer and opened up the second video.

     This film didn't have a title either.  Two guys were doing laps in a
swimming pool, then went to the shower room where they soaped up and then
started lathering each other.  The video quality was a little scratchy, but
for this scene it didn't matter.  Two bodies sliding against each other,
erect cocks rubbing together, soapy fingers exploring underarms and
asscheeks - sometimes you don't need a plot.  I licked my lips; this was
seriously hot.

     Groping and rubbing gave way quickly to hunching and stroking, and
when one man went down practically swallowing the other guy's cock, I could
just about feel the sensation myself.  The camera focused on the standing
man's face, zeroing in on a look of either agony or ecstasy.  It was
definitely ecstasy, obvious the moment he tensed in orgasm.

     He slumped back against the tile wall and would have fallen, but his
companion eased him down gently, stroking his face.  He turned the weakened
man around and positioned him on all fours, sliding a bar of soap between
his wet asscheeks.  The camera zoomed in, and you could see the anus flare
open.  The wet cockhead was fitted to the soapy opening and pushed slowly
inside, then pulled out.  In, then out, faster and harder, slapping sounds
coming through the speakers until a second explosion occurred and both
bodies twisted and arched under the spray of the shower.

     The file got scrambled at that point, breaking up into weird
geometrical shapes.  I watched a bit longer, but the problem didn't go
away.  The visual fuzz was giving me a headache and I needed to masturbate,
so I went to bed on that note.

     ^^^^^^^^

     Over the weekend I toyed with and tossed out any number of story
setups - a guy trapped in a stable tack room, a college student being
consoled by his secretly gay roommate after breaking up with his
girlfriend, even a setup where a guy was hitting on a woman in a bar only
to find out later in the dark that she was a man.  But that was more of a
TV/TS story and I was trying to write a straight M/M plot.

     Out of curiosity I went to a local adult book store and video arcade,
and used up a number of dollar bills checking out what they had in the gay
department.  The videos varied from quick suck and fuck loops to moderately
complex plots, and they were all clear and crisp without the fuzziness of
the files I'd gotten in the email.  None of them, however, had that
visceral impact.

     When I got back I looked at the emailed videos again.  Despite the
flicker and jitter of the camera work, they had an awesome sense of
presence and reality.  I still didn't have a story idea that was working,
so I opened up the mail message with the web links.  The first one was all
about men in rubber, gas masks, forced handjobs and the like - just what
I'd expected.  I sampled the other sites, not finding anything specifically
helpful but getting a better appreciation of the field.

     I went back to the pictures.  There was something I was missing, some
indescribable difference between "hot" and "erotic."  I could look at a
picture or a video and feel the pulse inside, even though I would never
look at a guy and think "he's hot."  Then again, I didn't really need to be
able to respond to a visual that way myself - I only needed to convey
excitement through my words.  I studied the pictures again, trying to feel
the heat behind the flat screen.  I almost had...  something.

     By the end of the weekend I'd tossed a half dozen ideas into the trash
basket and was getting seriously frustrated.  It couldn't be this
difficult; there were thousands of guys posting gay porn fantasies all over
the internet.  Granted, most of them didn't pretend to have a plot, those
that did were either two characters who just had to be in the same scene to
be banging each other or some variation on coerced sex.

     That was when I realized what my problem was - I was trying to force
my characters into one of those molds, and that just wasn't how I worked.
I needed to let my characters find each other.  With that, a weight seemed
to fall off my shoulders and I sketched out a half dozen different opening
paragraphs.  Things felt a lot better - I was back in my writing groove.  I
checked the videos one last time, just to keep my mind in the right space,
and headed to bed.

     ^^^^^^^^

     Monday at lunch it hit me: The narrator was being felt up by the man
who was fitting him for a suit.  The idea wasn't original - I'd probably
read a hundred lesbian first time stories with that kind of setting - but
it was different with two men.  I could just about feel the fitter's hands,
sliding up the insides of my legs, measuring my crotch.  I don't usually
let a story idea run away with me like that, but I was practically bouncing
in my chair for the rest of the day.  Once I got home, my creative juices
were in full swing - I didn't even bother with dinner, just went to my
computer and opened up a fresh story template.  This was going to be a good
one.  My fingers practically flew across the keyboard as the story took
shape:

     ^^^^^^^^

     "Working Title: Fitting In"

     The good news about the takeover was Jeff's elevation to
vice-president of the western branch.  The bad news, in his opinion, was
having to give up casual clothes in favor of the monkey suits favored by
the Europeans.  At least they covered the expense of his new wardrobe.

     "The fitter will see you now, Mister Harrison."  Jeff put down the
magazine and followed the menswear assistant into the back of the tailoring
area.  The young man waiting there with an impatient attitude was blandly
sleek in the manner of magazine covers.  He gave Jeff the shortest of looks
and fluttered his fingers dismissively.  "I am Emile.  I will be measuring
and preparing you for your proper clothing.  Now remove those."

     Jeff looked around, confused.  "I thought you took measurements over
the pants."  The fitter looked pointedly at Jeff's khaki slacks.  "Perhaps
at J.C. Penney - here you are being measured for real clothing."  The
put-down was delivered with a scathing tone, as if such material might
contaminate the high-end suits of the clothier.  Jeff unbuckled his belt
and slid his slacks down to his ankles.

     "Dress left or dress right?"  The question left Jeff completely
baffled.  The younger man circled around him like a lion sniffing its prey.
"Oh, never mind - you wear briefs.  You'll have to change that for the
formal dress pants, of course.  Now get it all off and stand on the
platform."  Jeff flushed, but sat down to take off his shoes and trousers,
then wriggled out of his briefs as well.  He stepped onto the raised
platform with his face flushed and his cock dangling, reflected in all
three mirrors.

     [...]

     The orgasm caught Jeff by surprise, his groin clutching painfully as
he emptied himself into Emile's mouth.  "Now," Emile said after licking his
lips, "we give you a real fitting."  He half-dragged, half-pulled Jeff over
to lie atop the tailor's table, then rubbed something slick between his
cheeks.  It tingled, but Jeff didn't have time to appreciate that before
Emile was inside him.

     Jeff moaned at the intrusion, his cock still dribbling as the other
man's shaft drove deeply in and out.  His head was cheek-down on the table,
and the nearby mirror showed a distorted reflection of their bodies
bouncing against each other.  He wondered if this meant he was gay now, and
then Emile grunted and the first thick blast drove all thought out of
Jeff's mind.

     ^^^^^^^^

     I didn't like the working title.  I changed it to "Attitude
Adjustment" - I had planned to use that for my story about a perverted
chiropractor, but that idea had gone nowhere and the title worked well
enough for this one.

     I did a word count, updated the story summary codes, and saved the
file.  Then I uploaded it to my online repository, put a note on my blog,
and kicked back with a grin on my face.  If I'd had a bucket list for
writing, I'd have slashed a big red "X" in the male/male category.
Celebrations were in order, but first a certain writer needed to know what
his "analysis" was worth.

     I opened up my email and there was a message waiting from him.  He'd
sold a collection of his stories, and did I want to be his guest for lunch
before he left town?  I liked the idea of springing my story on him at
lunch, so I turned on my instant messenger, caught him on line, and
confirmed the restaurant and time.  It was a good restaurant, too - not one
that I'd go to on my own wallet.

     Lunch was great!  He had lobster and Scotch; I had a tender filet and
a rich Tuscan cabernet.  Between ordering and getting our food, I handed
him my printout.  He chuckled a couple of times, lifted his eyebrow twice,
and finally set the papers down.  "Not bad," was his comment.  "I know a
couple of short story aggregators who would be interested in this."  A
couple more drinks, and we wound up heading to his hotel room to get the
names of his contacts.  I sat at his laptop to copy down the information
while he went to relieve himself.

     When he came out of the bathroom he was naked.  In the moment between
my thinking "what the hell is going on here?" and "wow is he hung," he
crossed the room and wrapped me in a bear hug, covering my mouth with
Scotch-flavored lips and rolling his crotch against mine.  I struggled in
his strong arms, but that only made my surprising erection harder.  His
hands gripped my ass and pulled me against him, and while I was weakly
fighting, my body was still responding.

     It was different, up close and personal.

     Somehow my pants were unbuckled and his hand was around my cock,
stroking, rubbing my erection against his.  I strained to hold myself back
but he could tell.  The next thing I knew I was bent over the back of the
hotel chair and he was doing obscene things with his tongue inside my ass.
I whimpered.  I cried.  I came.

     My body went limp, but he manhandled me into a sitting position and
slapped that thick cock against my face a couple of times.  When he pushed
it against my lips, I opened my mouth but then turned my face trying to
lick the taste away.  "I'm not gay, you know."

     "This wouldn't be nearly as much fun if you were.  Now shut up and
suck."

//END//

Endnote: Workshopped at the Fish Tank (http://www.desdmona.com).