Tag: erotica

A thousand and one unfinished novels

The problem with writing Erotica is that you have to think of a million different ways to say the same thing.

‘He walks in, pushes her up against the wall, they kiss.  She wraps her legs around him, moaning softly, groaning a little. He lifts her dress, feeling, finding, wet, he’s hard, so good, she reaches for him, all of him, moans, can’t wait, now, in me, go in, please, now, harder, deeper…’

‘She’s on the bed, wearing only her French underwear. He’s watching. She plays. One finger, one, no, two, in her, on her, oh god, can’t wait, legs, thighs, nipples, he watches, he sips, she comes, he stands, undoes his jeans, she pulls him, he, they, oh god, come in me, can’t wait, oh oh, more, now…’

‘He’s cooking. She creeps up quietly behind him, pushes herself against him, hard, urgent.  He stops, turns, grabs her, lifts her, yes, jesus, the kitchen table, garlic, onions, rips off her panties, goes in, quickly, deep, oooh, from behind, oh oh, oil splatters, the chicken burns, but more yes yes jesus more, flour, eggs, the ice cream, dammit, god again, harder, deeper…’

Shattering moans, groans, taut nipples, quivering sex, thumping cocks, whipped cream, one finger, two fingers, jesus and god and yes more oh oh no yes please oh my god, harder, deeper, shit, deep no not my ass, hey, my ass, no not my ass, no oh no…

The problem with writing Erotica is that it can be very bloody predictable.

But it can also turn you on, halfway.

‘Which is why you call him, you ask him to come over, now, yes, I want to feel you, against me, in me, come now, open the door, oh fuck, yes, your fingers, your hand, skin, your oh god yes this is really good, yes yes…’

The problem with writing Erotica is that it is impossible to finish writing the bloody stuff.


Maybe that’s a good thing.

1001 unfinished novels.

Each one with a happy sexy ending.


A different direction

I would like to apologise
for the delay
in any kind of sexual
or erotica
on this here sensual platform
it has all been about
I’m sorry
inspirational too
I will get back to normal
I hope
there has been a break
in sexual
there is this lovely poetry



I’m good at a lot of things but possibly not very good at business. I write for a beauty Spa in exchange for anti ageing treatments. I write for a lingerie shop in exchange for lingerie. I travel blog for travel and I sex blog as Violet for fun and love but mostly just for fun.

But I don’t do any of that for money and I really need to earn. This morning I sat with a friend, over very expensive coffee and croissants, moaning about my financial situation.

There are tons of jobs going on Freelancer, Violet.  A lot in your field. Try.  It’s worth a shot.’

I’m not sure what my field is, but I googled Freelancer and signed up immediately.

Profile:  Writer. Quick. Creative. Funny. Imaginative. Perfect grammar.

Writing skills:  Erotica. Sex. Soft Porn.

Then I added a few more, suddenly anxious in case my dad found me on Freelancer.

Travel.  Advertising. PR.

Somewhere along the line I ticked Italian too.

A mistake, a mistake!

I do not speak Italian.

My first job offer came in. I got so excited and hey, it wasn’t in English but still it seemed to be well paid and of course I had to take it.

I turned to google translate. An erotic story set in a bank. Seven hundred words.

Easy, I could do this in my sleep.

I did it. Wrote it. Translated it. Sent it in.

Oh mio Dio ti prego prendere ora , alzare la gonna , duro , in me, più forte più forte , spinta, oh Dio , sì , così, di più, di più, cazzo me , oh Gesù venire venire cazzo me girare intorno al mio culo sì, come che , oh sì sì più di più , sei così grande , duro , il tuo spessore difficile Oh cazzo cazzo cazzo.

I got quite turned on just reading it.

They replied quickly.

In broken English.

‘Violet, it’s Marcello.  Your writing is fabulous, amiamo,  bellisima, but we are looking for content for a banking website.’

Oops. I’d got it a little wrong.

‘Sorry about that,’ I typed.  ‘So sorry.’

But then I added:-

‘Shall I try again?’

‘Why not,’ said Marcello. ‘We like your style.’


I think I’m going to like Freelancer.


English or Italian?





She is barefoot. On stage. A poet.

A poem, a fan calls out to her. Give us a poem about erotica.

She thinks about this. She is silent for a while. Her poetry is not erotica. She calls it erratica.

And then she begins. And we learn.

She is turned on by words, by music, by song.
She is turned on by paint and pencils.
Inspired by strings, the saxophone and the piano.
By ballet, hip hip, kwaito and rap
By the hands that play
The legs that fly
The lungs that breathe
And the lips from which the words tumble.

And by thunder

She is turned on by the earth
Green grass
Sharp rock
She feels
Her skin, her neck, her breath
That place where we all feel
It keeps her alive
It turns her

She is little, this poet.
Her hair is wild
There is nothing cautious
She flies free.
She wears her feelings.
They are women.
She is not scared of feeling.
She is not scared of anything.

Her eyes are fierce.
And they.
Those eyes.
They are the most erotic of all.

They are erratic.

Her eyes are me.

I too have become unafraid
I have learned this new feeling
This erratic
Unafraid feeling
It works for me
It is freedom.
It is a thank you.
It is erotic.


Inspired by Philippa Yaa De Villers last night at The Orbit Jazz Club.  She is the most astonishing poet.  Her words are extraordinary.  Listen to some.





It’s very fucking stressful for everyone around me when I get sick.

Because apparently I can be dramatic.

‘No yoga today,’ I texted my girlfriend. ‘I’m dying. Fever, shaking, delirious…’

She’s heard it all before. ‘Feel better, she sighed. Call me if you need anything.’

Well, what would she do anyway? What does one do for terminal disease?

I turned to the internet.


Do not turn to the internet when you get sick. EVER.

Because I definitely had the plague. Bubonic plague.

I texted Tessa to tell her she could have my dresses and Sarah my shoes. Katy got the art, Julia the dogs, and BB could have the rope and handcuffs.

I wasn’t sure about the erotica. Maybe they could bury me with it.

And then I phoned my doctor to see if he would do a house call. It would be nice to at least be comfortable while I was dying.

‘Violet, honey. The flu is going around. Take two panado, you’ll be fine.’

I argued. And he reminded me of all the times I’d had lung cancer (a cough) brain tumor (headache) and was pregnant even though two tests and a scan had showed up negative.

Never mind menopause.

Oh, fuck them all. They’ll feel bad when I die.

I took two panado. I lay on the couch, switched on the television and watched Grey’s Anatomy.

Do not ever watch Grey’s Anatomy. Or ER. Or Scrubs.

It’s not the plague, it’s worse, far, far worse.

Life is hard for a hypochondriac. And lonely.

Anyone wanna come lie in bed with me?

It’s cosy. I’ve made tea. And it could get sexy.

Even if I’m contagious.


Violet offline

I’m almost ready
in my pretty dress
sexy shoes
and those stockings and suspenders that I keep talking about.

My hair
has been washed, blowed
and styled
with a few new very blonde streaks.

And then

My bra snapped
my heel broke
I got liquid eyeliner in my eye
my eye turned red

And I look like a drug addict.

It’s very hard being a celebrity, even if just for a night!