The titles do say it all:
A Billionaire Dinosaur Forced Me Gay
Gay Blob Monster
Forced Gay By A Merman and His Friends...and on and on and on.
Whereas the typical erotica reader might find these novels (around 17 pages, actually, so "novel" is a loose term) absurd, mystifying, unintelligent, and, hardly, sexy.
Perhaps they aren't sexy, but they are definitely brilliant. Strangely, I don't have to read them to know they're brilliant. The level of the writing skill needn't be great, and if it is terrible, all the better: it'll just make them funnier.
Because funny is the point. They're funny and creative and ironic up the ass, pun happily intended. They're grotesque conglomerations of myth and beasts as a send up of kink, fetishes and pop culture. What is sexy gets glopped together into a festive, colorful, slick stew of lube and various bodily goos. The titles themselves betray the author's ironic intentions, as Billionaire dinosaurs "forced me" gay.
In a world where dinosaur erotica exists and people, seriously, can successfully masturbate to cartoon ponies, there's no reason to believe that a reader can whack off to irony.
I've been extraordinarily open minded about sex ever since my first year in college, when I learned women could have orgasms. (I was a late bloomer in high school.) Nothing shocks me. All of it interests me. I can never get enough of it.
All of the pics in my blog are stolen/borrowed from other websites. I consider myself not really a thief, but a pirate. Arrrrrrr!!!
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crazy, dirty bastard.
And I thought I was fucked up.