I didn't start out writing retro space smut. No sir. I'd tried various genres nobody bought or that I got bored with after the second paragraph, but somewhere in the back of my mind about two years ago a story about a space captain with creative ways of diplomacy appeared. And festered. And dug around and made a nest. That festering, nesting tumor would eventually become my third published erotica story "The Empress of Orgazma" but I had to kick it around and abuse it for a few months before I even typed up anything that resembled notes. Up to then it was only a stupid story I amused myself with at work when things got dull, and made myself choke with suppressed laughter when I knew it was hopeless to try and explain the expression on my face to my boss.
Recently I dug out some emails when I was mid-process in my plot to ruin modern erotic sci-fi. I apparently wrote the outlines (such as they were) for the first three stories while I had a nasty cold during the Xmas holidays. Fever wouldn't explain this distressing paragraph which I sent to an actual human because it was sent nearly a week before I left town.
"Today at work I was mentally writing my space porn epic and because I'm a terrible person I decided it needed a guy with an artificial ass. I already have a guy who wanks into the quantum drive (dunno what that is but it sounds science-y), a woman who has a fetish for mining robots, experimental sentient vegetables and a poor diplomat who's forced to fuck some godawful alien queen so she'll sign a treaty."
And this odd bit a couple days later:
"I'll have to think up an embarrassing name to put in honkin' big letters. I'm leaning towards a fake pulp mag umbrella title with each story having its own even dumber title. Saucy Space Adventures: Sentient Tits From Mars."
Disappointingly I haven't written a story with sentient tits from any planet. Battletits, yes, but no sentient tits. I'll get to the artificial ass eventually.
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