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Reality is SO much better than fantasy.
You could be anywhere on the spectrum from gay to straight. I don't care. All I care about is giving you that orgasm.
I'm told that most of the writers of erotica are men, and that most of the readers are men, too. This presents an interesting situation, in that not many of those writers would label themselves as gay, yet they work hard to give orgasms to other men. And those men, in turn, would probably not consider themselves gay, yet they eagerly accept stimulation from other men whom they would not otherwise allow into their beds. Odd, isn't it?
From the comments I've received, I know that most of my readers are men. For you, sir, I deliberately masquerade as my characters, and my goal is to be lured into your bed, and have you ravage me. In your mind's eye, if you are fucking my character, you are fucking me. You penetrate me, you ejaculate, you leave your seed in my womb. In my character, I have created the perfect body as a receptacle of your lust although, if you saw me in person, you might find me unattractive: too small or too skinny or too flat-chested or too old or too bitchy for your taste. In real life, I might not have a chance in Hell of being invited into your bed, but that doesn't matter.
There are a few women among my readers, too. They might not allow me into their beds, either; they may fantasize about the Lesbian lifestyle, but actually touching a woman sexually might be outside of their comfort zones. I don't care. I have made love to you already, mind to mind. I seldom write from the standpoint of a male character, but when I do, it is for those ladies whose taste in sex is straight, and for those men who find the female characters in those stories attractive to them and who want to imagine themselves as the male character I create.
Which brings me to another point. It not only me who is a character in my story; it's you, too. If I am the older, experienced woman in the story, you are the younger, inexperienced man, and I am tracing my finger on the underside of your hard cock, with its glistening drop of pre-cum at its tip, as I part the front of my blouse, giving you a look at my breasts, breasts you're dying to touch and fondle. If I am the older man in the story, free and confident in my sexuality and my ability to please the ladies, you might be the virginal young woman, your belly fluttering as my mouth gives your nipple the first suck it's ever had and my finger traces the cleft of your pussy lips, hot and moist under the sheerest layer of silk panties. You can play whichever part you want.
Who are my readers? Not everybody, and I don't mind that. There are writers who cater to those who want to read about characters with cucumber penises and watermelon boobs and inexhaustible libidos, and I admire how well these writers know their audiences and how skillfully they cater to them. But that's not me. I don't get turned on by that, so I write about what gets me off: the guy who's thirty pounds overweight and balding. He finds a woman who reassures him that he's still as virile and attractive as he was twenty years ago. That woman may have a few extra pounds, too, and tits that sag from years of gravity and nursing. She, too, wants to be reassured of her sexiness and desirability. But when they meet, and kiss, and make love, they rediscover what it was that they once were, and what they once had. As they climax in each other's arms, their joy is boundless and, if I write well, you feel that joy and it becomes part of your life. That's the kind of reader I want.
As I write, I imagine your touch on my vulva and my breasts, your hands exploring my curves, your lips touching mine.