So I read things I would never write. It is the otherness of the words that strikes me. This is someone else talking about sex. I could not emulate his style or try to write like him and yet we have these things in common. We share a sense of play. We use plain words or make them up, equally delighted by the naughtiness of language. We both have a fondness for breasts and have no issue with the size of them or the shape of the woman they are attached to. We both have a lust for variety and are happy to laugh at ourselves in the moment of pleasure.
We are different too. He is heterosexual perhaps with a nod towards a fondness for watching women lick each other. I am astounded by the variety he can imagine in the connection of man and woman. I am a little more erratic with my coupling, switching genders as quickly as I switch partners. He likes his cock big. Or perhaps this reflects the size of his own penis. The women are always wanting something bigger and better, the men they long for are long haired and muscled. Too many of the penises have a large bend in one direction, I suspect this is a quality he is intimate with. Perhaps his own banana bending penis? I have different desires. I don't need a huge cock for my pleasures. I am more tactile I suppose. There is not enough cunnilingus in his work.
We are sexually mismatched and yet I read him voraciously. He inspires me to create more outrageous scenarios. I borrow from his particular tastes. I like the scene where they are shopping for pens because I can see the eroticism of the written word. I am aroused by his difference to find my own voice. I am shocked by his new words into words of my own.Reading is good for writing. Reading is a part of writing. Sometimes I forget this in my desire for consummation. Reading is the foreplay, writing is the act itself.