I recently had an unfortunate fall out with a friend. Well, ex-friend now. I won’t go into too many details, but the blow up was sparked after this person having made a couple of comments that made it clear they did not like that I wrote erotica. In amongst the many things that were said (and there were many, many things said, on both sides), the idea came up that I don’t handle criticism well, and was defensive about the writing that I do because, deep down, I wasn’t sure that I really believed it was ok to be writing erotica.
It got me thinking about the different kinds of criticism that people involved in creative pursuits, if they take them seriously, have to deal with. And, of course, how I handle it.
[video]
From where Brendan held him, Marc gazed down on Brendan’s face. The water had made his hair flat, though the curls tried to reassert themselves. Brendan features were placid, almost gentle. Unusual for Brendan, so much that Marc grinned, slipping his hands up to frame Brendan’s jaw and cheeks, like a cup for libation.
“Who made you?”
Brendan sighed. “You know.”
There was a pause as the memory of the desert threatened to dry the pool with harsh winds and sand. Marc quickly leaned down to kiss Brendan’s forehead, and said to his skin;
“Remember that harmony was born of love and war.”
Brendan chuckled sardonically. “Never thought I was that harmonious.”
Marc brushed his hand down Brendan’s wet hair. “Just saying that people can come from the most unlikely of places.”
Brendan pulled back, and met Marc’s eyes, curious, a little puzzled, but soft and warm too. His fingers clutched at Marc’s back, adjusting him so he sunk a little further down. Marc was grinning until he realised his cock, stiff as an arrow, brushed against Brendan’s own.
TBC
Photo by Dominic’s Pics found on flickr and used under the Creative Commons License.
TRUTH
(Source: agriking)
When Marc did sink his teeth into Brendan’s shoulder, Brendan gripped his forearms, his own trembling, the water drops shuddering down his back. He would have melted into the pool itself, gasping for air as he sank.
The sound and feel of Brendan quivering against him was enough to make Marc catch him closer, pull his teeth away, and bury his face in Brendan’s neck.
They say blood is thicker than water, Marc mused. But water, when it enters the body, and is absorbed, becomes blood.
Brendan was both his water and blood, and Marc ached to absorb him through his skin.
Brendan must have sensed Marc’s impending desire to collapse into him, and scooped his hands under Marc’s buttocks, making him bring his legs up around Brendan’s own. Marc’s feet left the bottom of the pool. They could never have done this without the buoyancy of the water; Marc was taller, broader, and heavier.
“You fucking amaze me,” Brendan breathed.
Marc exhaled, knowing it was him he should have said that. Jesus, what the hell would Marc do without him?
Been in Hell, no doubt.
TBC
Photo by R.S., found on flickr and used under the Creative Commons License.
(Source: chiwetelejiofor, via mswyrr)
(via mswyrr)
Sheep’s Green, Cambridge, UK. Part of Sunday in my City
Making a real attempt to start weekly updates on the blog each Sunday - am a little obsessed with trying to remember everything, and I think it would give me some peace of mind to make sure I do it, though whether or not an interesting read for everyone else, I cannot say! Also going to start doing Sunday in my City (though the picture may or may not have been taken on Sunday)…the above was taken Thursday.
But onward!
