Smut Marathon 2020
In the end, I dropped out of the competition, for reasons you can read about here. A short while later, the competition was cancelled.
Round 1: An erotic sentence including alliteration
It wakes
No longer an indolent weight upon my tongue; you hardened and rose, infused with want, to my welcoming incitements.
Round 2: Base a story on someone else’s R1 entry
The Reverent (based on ‘One Look’)
One look is all it ever took from him to turn her sensual sensations into sexual lust, her thoughts from pure to pure passion.
Perched upright and above suspicion on the unforgivingly hard organist’s bench, Caitlin would speculate upon the man beneath the priest’s robes. How such a man might taste when breathed in, whether his hands would touch with reverence or greed; dreadful, delightful, hell-bound musings.
She was wicked and she knew it; praying fervently for forgiveness by her narrow widow’s bed every night, yet passing each Sunday in a haze of unholy desire.
Her sin would burn within her, tongues of flame licking trails through her skin and quickening her blood; she had tried cold showers, hard work and more prayer but it seemed the only way to quench that smouldering impurity was to administer to it with the handle of her tortoiseshell hairbrush.
Round 3: A voyeur watching a character masturbate
Hot Man Sluts
She might be approaching her 73rd birthday, but Geraldine Copps still has enough of her marbles to know that when one receives a message containing a link captioned “Hot Man Sluts XXX: Impaled”, one should probably leave well alone for fear of unpleasant digital infestations. Minutes later, a flustered apology pops up on her phone; Brian, her great-nephew, is abject in his remorseful embarrassment, having accidentally sent Aunt Gerry a message intended for his boyfriend.
Evidently, the link is safe to be clicked upon. Curious – and feeling jolly daring, Geraldine pokes a finger at the blue text.
“Oh my goodness,” she breathes as the video begins to play.
The young man is slender, wiry with broad shoulders; a swimmer’s build with strong leg muscles. They must be strong, otherwise he’d never be able to-
“Oh my,” says Geraldine again. The performer, presumably one of the aforementioned Hot Man Sluts, is lowering himself gradually onto a kitchen chair – or rather, onto the outsize red ribbed dildo suctioned to the seat, the other end disappearing slowly between his flexing buttocks. He seems to be enjoying himself immensely, bouncing and squeezing himself a little harder with each increment of penetration.
Geraldine is fascinated.
Still gazing at the decorative fellow on the screen, she rummages in her handbag for her credit card. Apparently there are fifty-three more Hot Man Slut videos available, a bargain at only £7.99 a month. Much better value than her Crochet World subscription.
Round 4: A story that features dancing
All By Myself
You said I couldn’t manage my own life, that without you, I wouldn’t make it through a month without falling apart. Maybe you were right, but I kicked you out anyway. I’d rather disintegrate on my own terms than wilt under your benevolent dictatorship any longer.
Which is exactly why I went out clubbing, something that would horrify your overprotective sensibilities. Alone? Dancing? The risks!
Hard-edged, pounding bass squeezes my sternum and throbs in my stomach. Overhead, smoke and green laser-light wreathe languorous patterns, stroking the air with lovers’ hands. I move with them, following their curves.
Why have I not done this for so long? Because I might get broken; fall, dislocate, sprain, snap, splinter. Another trip to A&E, another dreary round of casts and rehab. Painful, tedious; not worth it, you said. Not sexy.
But this is sexy. Heat, darkness and pounding music, so many crowded-in bodies that it‘s impossible not to brush against each other as we dance; all of this is lighting me up. It’s heady freedom and thrilling danger, even in my flat boots and knee-braces. I’m out alone.
I don’t stay late. Just long enough to get sweaty and breathless, breathe in fuck-me pheromones and taste my own agency. Only until I can’t wait any longer.
Home safe, I lock the front door and set the shiny new bolt, already yanking off my coat with one hand. The other goes between my legs, balled into a fist for me to squirm against. I need both hands to get my dress off though, and to unhook my bra so I can pinch and tweak at my swollen nipples. Ohh…yes…
Greedily, I tear the crotch of my flimsy fishnets apart, shove my knickers aside and slide two fingers through my wetness, back and forth.
Fuck me, I whisper, do me til it hurts.
And I will.
All by myself.
Round 5: Fireplace
The Missing Ingredient
“The problem is, I just don’t feel sexy!” you wailed, as yet another Smut Marathon draft exceeded the word count without achieving even a trace of eroticism. “That was the ninth attempt, and not one of them would make anyone go ‘mmm’, let alone ‘unngghh’! This prompt is impossible. No, it’s not the prompt, it’s me. My libido is in hiding. I’ve got all sorts of stories featuring a fireplace and they’re all depressing, sarcastic or just plain boring. Sex is too much effort. I don’t want to think about it.”
Draft after draft piled up, promising characters, plots with possibilities, ideas that just wouldn’t let themselves be squeezed into a maximum of 400 words, and the more frustration you accumulated, the more difficult it became to write. Days passed. Weeks slipped by. The deadline approached.
Perhaps you had become so focused on the craft that you had forgotten about pleasure. A vital ingredient for nourishment of a tale, especially when writing about pleasure itself. That was what the stories had all been missing. Not sex. Enjoyment. Careful construction of simile and metaphor are fine things, but when did they ever elicit a helpless moan of arousal? A clever turn of phrase may be admirable, but is unlikely to leave the reader flushed and breathing hard with desire. Fretting about craft had leached you of carnality.
You still have hope though and time to try again, if you can create the right conditions for inspiration to bloom. Bath oil with patchouli, a scent you associate with sensuality. Candlelight to soften stark white tiles with yellow flicker and shadow. Each item of clothing that crumples to the floor is a burden relieved. Forget about writing, says the voice of reason. Think about feeling.
Think about touch and sense and desire. Contemplate your lips parting in urgent hunger, eyes glazed and darkened with lust. How do you like to be touched? Light, flickering fingertips here? Long strokes and a firm grasp there? Yes. Oh yes. You like that.
Reason gives way to sensation.
Hot water laps at slippery bare skin, and traces your outline with liminal touch. One finger lightly circles a nipple in the rising steam, teasing until anticipation borders on torment. Splash and ripple; hands slip below the waterline.
Relief floods you, at last you have a story. Apparently, all you had to do was not write about a fireplace.
