Occupational Hazards

by Gwen Masters

I love being a writer – as if you hadn’t guessed. And I love writing erotica. I especially love writing the naughtiest stuff I can come up with, the fantasies that push the boundaries. As one of the sometimes amusing sidelines to the job, readers are always asking me if I think about sex all the time. If I get horny when I’m writing a short story. If my man reaps the benefits of my workday. Things like that.

Ummmm...well, in short: Yes.

But there are other considerations, too – sometimes the occupational hazards of being a writer pile up to make life even more interesting than the stuff on paper.

I cannot walk through the Williams-Sonoma store without thinking of what can do double-duty in the bedroom. That spatula would leave interesting red marks on a nice, rounded buttock – or that wire whisk! What devious things could we do with that?

The hardware store has the same kind of appeal. I love a good wrench set just as much as the next tool-head chick, but what I love most are the crazy things I think of to do with that nice drill set. Or that set of so aptly-named screwdrivers...for someone into BDSM, it's a veritable treasure trove.

If you want a good sex toy, remember those two words: Hardware Store.

I watch a television show and within minutes I’m thinking up ways to incorporate sex into the storyline. Movies? Same deal. Was the sex necessary to the plot? Yes? Then what could have made it better? What would happen if he had slept with that character instead of the other one? And by the end of the movie I’m off in my own world, making my own ending, and damned if I can tell you how almost any movie turns out. I seem to always remember the beginning and maybe the middle, but the end? No. My imagination has already taken me out of the theater and into my own little world.

My friends call with questions about sex, and I learn much more than I need to know about their sex lives, but at the same time, I relish how comfortable my occupation makes them. Have a question about sex but you don’t want to ask your gynecologist and you sure as hell don’t want to ask your marriage counselor? Ask an erotica writer!

Speaking of that: When seen through the haze of sex, words take on a whole new meaning. A perfectly innocent conversation turns naughty when it’s being heard by my not-so-virgin ears. Something like: “Victor said it was too big to fit in the trunk, so I put the top down and laid it in the front” will make me howl with devious laughter at the naughty images in my head.

A simple walk downtown turns into location ideas. Shagging on the train tracks? Why not? Strolling past the police station brings forth all sorts of steamy ideas, not the least of which involve nightsticks and handcuffs. Wandering around town square is an exercise in delight. There are secluded benches, hidden under tall trees. There are sculptures, all of which seem to lend themselves to odd positions. There is even that imposing courthouse, those long and flat steps, perfect for...well, whatever you might fancy could happen on the steps of a courthouse in the middle of the night.

And then we pass the church, and oh, Lord. Don’t let me get started.

But it’s not all about sex, all the time. The writer in me never quits, even when I’m not thinking about sex at all. For instance, I cannot read a newspaper without searching for typos. Quirky fonts? They drive me insane. I study typesets with the same intensity some study baseball scores or the stock market numbers. But when it comes to books, I’m really terrible. I can read through four hundred pages and no matter how great the story, that one typo on the second paragraph of page 169 sticks in my head like glue. Sometimes I reach for the highlighter – once an editor, always an editor – and then I chastise myself: Why can’t I just enjoy the damn book?

When browsing through a library, I make sure all the books are flush with the shelf -- until I catch myself doing it, of course. Then I shove my hands in my pockets to make myself quit, hoping the librarian didn’t see me taking over her space. I wander to the reference section and have to harness the urge to make certain it’s all in perfect alphabetical order.

Hell. That makes me sound like an obsessive-compulsive writer...

It might be childish sometimes, annoying now and then, and it’s definitely not good for Sunday brunch conversation, but it’s so deeply ingrained in me that I can’t seem to stop. The best part is that I don’t want to stop. I like seeing the world through imaginative eyes. I like shocking my friends with the latest naughty idea. I like taking a normal, everyday moment, turning it on its head, and making it as sexy as I can. Really, stop for a minute and look around...isn’t the whole world an erotic playground?

Now write about what you see.

Better yet, go to the comments section and write about it there. That way, we can all enjoy the products of your deviant minds!