Even more luckily, most of the people I choose to tell about my extra-curricular smut-mongering take it pretty well.
That’s probably because I’ve sussed out what I think their reaction will be before hitting them with the news. Oh, and though I won’t post a naughty photo, I don’t want my post to just be text.
I’ve been asked lots of daft questions to do with my writing – which you can see in more detail here.
Luckily, I’m thick-skinned and am able to laugh most of them off.
I aged ten years overnight, averted my eyes when I passed a mirror. * I have worn different bodies, different lives, different people.
The first time we made love, months late, you touched my scar. I’ve been a smear of bright skin, a drunk exposing myself, a good dancer.
’ Every photo, I’m running naked in sunshine, clothed in fresh air. You sit and fix your eyes on a spot on the floor, and eventually start to hallucinate. There’s never been a person, a body, I’ve not wanted to draw. Everyone is just an arrangement of lines and colours.
That’s why I was having so much trouble coming up with an angle. Even without nudey photos or explicit true-life scribblings, using my own name as an erotic writer exposes me. It’s the non-writers, and even worse, non-readers that give me trouble.
And if they’re old fashioned to boot, then I’m really in trouble. I’ve written them on many different themes; sex outdoors, sex in uniform, phone sex, sex with a woman and even sex with a guy delivering grocery shopping.
Behind a green curtain, they cut me open and pulled the baby out. As he finished putting me back together, the doctor took a sweepstake on how many staples I’d need. * After the birth, I carried myself round in a stranger’s body.
At last, they tucked the baby into my nightdress, naked, struggling, his nails dirty with scum and blood. I realised – all I needed was strong shoulders and arms. Scarred, sagging, striped like a tiger with purple stretch marks.
Andrew with his greasy leer, beer belly and occasional erection.