Mom Coaches Me in Writing Erotica

I started reading Literotica several years ago when I was nearing the end of high school. It offered something different from the porn sites I usually visited and aside from the great quality of the best of its writing, it featured realistic characters and storylines that sadly have yet to make it into the visual medium.

At first I read all varieties but gradually, and to my disquiet, I found myself gravitating to the taboo section and specifically to mother-son stories. I couldn't figure this out as I had zero desire for my own mother. I could see that she was kind of hot – think a 1970s frowsy Dyan Cannon; but she was my mother who scolded me, sometimes looked a wreck, talked too much and too loud and would laugh uproariously at lame jokes so long as they contained a sexual reference. The men she dated were usually preening jerks. Also, she smoked; I didn't. She liked martinis. Beer for me.

She was also a published author with several titles in her own name and several others under pseudonyms for one of those bodice-ripper houses. I'd read a couple, make that, I started a couple, but couldn't get past expressions like "her hidden treasure" or "honeypot". Her heroes were bold and smouldering if male and proper yet coy if female. While she wasn't the most highly regarded in her field, she was prolific and her income afforded us a decent standard of living.

My father wasn't in the picture. Too many affairs; indiscreet ones at that. I'm Steve, now in my early 20s and a student at a state college. Blond, 5'11, trim and unlike so many Literotica protagonists, normally proportioned.

Anyway, a couple of years in I'd been focusing on the mother-son stories. I'd picture some imaginary mother who was cool with her son and through various circumstances, they'd hook up. All was fine until one fateful evening. I'd been checking out the latest Taboo offering when I got a call from one of my crew. Word had gone out to a friend that she could take the stage at a local music club since their main act had gotten busted. We all had to hurry down to support her. I closed up my laptop but worried, when, a half hour later, I couldn't remember closing the windows. "Oh well" I figured, my mother surely wouldn't be checking. And had she not, I wouldn't be writing this.

She'd already gone to bed when I got home so the confrontation didn't happen until I got back from school the next afternoon. I'd gotten in and was pouring myself an OJ when she, I'll call her Sheila, appeared in the kitchen.

"Steve, last night after you went out, your laptop started beeping. I went to close it down but I couldn't help but notice what was on your screens."

It wasn't just Literotica. There was a porn window also open and I reckon you can guess its contents. Dread. Anxiety. Shame at being caught. Worst of all, some sort of looming honest conversation.

I remained silent and hoped she would do the same. It wasn't much of a plan but I was floundering. She kept looking at me and for a while, I looked at the kitchen faucet as though it was suddenly fascinating. If it were only the one window I might have said that some unexpected link led me there. Or maybe attribute the beeping to some malign virus aimed at getting young men into trouble with their moms. These and other less intelligent plans came and went while I continued to study the faucet. But eventually I looked up.

"Well?"

"I'm sorry. I won't do it again."

"Of course you will. But why those subjects? Do you have a 'thing' for me?"

"No. It's just a fantasy. Not about you but some fictional mother."

"Fictional mother? You're saying that this 'fiction' never seeps into the real world?"

"No. Honestly, I don't think of you in that way."

"Then why this interest in incest between a mother and her son?"

"I don't know. There just seemed to be something..." I didn't want to say "exciting" or anything more sexual. But it was an honest answer. I'm not given to introspection but I sometimes wondered why I found the topic so stimulating. I put it down to "fantasy mother" but that explanation always seemed to lack something. Now I'd gotten lost in thought and I noticed my mother's look of impatience.

"Well?"

"I really don't know Mom. But I swear it's not about you." And I really hoped that was so.

"Steve, I'll take your word for that but just think how you'd feel if you caught me reading or writing about sex between a mother and her son."

I blushed and went back to examining the faucet. Still, she may have offered me a saving opening.

"But I wasn't writing about anything."

"Does that make a difference?"

I was hoping so but had no idea.

"Well, writing seems more personal."

"It is. But usually one doesn't read unless something about the subject interests them."

How I wished this talk would end. But I was now feeling like a beaten mutt and figured I might as well absorb all the punishment at once. If it got too bad there was always suicide.

"I dunno. It just seemed like a fantasy."

"And you're sure it doesn't involve me?"

"NO!"

"OK, but see it from my position. If I were to write, or just read, about sex between mothers and sons, what would you think?"

I didn't want to answer because I couldn't think. Or maybe I didn't want to think so couldn't answer. One of the two. Maybe both.

"I dunno."

She looked exasperated. "Alright Steve. I'm sorry but this must be embarrassing for you." Unlike her books, this was supremely understated. I nodded.

"I have to collect my thoughts on this and I may have more to say later on. But Steve, I don't mean to be condemning. Lord knows we all have our fantasies. Many of them are just that and would be horrifying in real life. And rest assured, I won't breathe a word of this to anyone."

"Thanks." I beat an exit with nary a look back at the faucet. But I knew there would be a round two.

I stayed away from Literotica and porn sites as though that might absolve my sins, or whatever they were. That if by some divine act, my browsing history were revealed to my mother, she might think it was a passing fancy and there'd been no recent activity of the sort. Recent meaning three days or so.

A few days later my mother had evidently collected her thoughts.

"Steve, have you got a minute?" Leading question.

"You know, I've spent the past few days reading some of the Literotica posts. Goodness, there must be tens of thousands of them. Some are actually very good. Some are better than what I could write. Have you ever given any thought to writing something yourself?"

"Nope."

"Why haven't you?"

"Ah, 'cause I can't write?"

"Nonsense. You did fine on that entrance essay to get you into college."

"Mom, you basically wrote it."

"Oh, I just helped polish it."

"Mom, if you're so keen on writing, why don't you write something there?"

She shook her head. "Steve, I'm working on three different novels that will pay. Literotica doesn't. Do you see?"

She had me. "Well, you're the writer in the family."

"No one starts our being a writer. I got my start submitting recipes. Why don't you give it a shot?"

"Well, I've no idea what I could write about."

This time the look was more of sympathy. "Steve, write about what you like. What you'd like to read. What you think that others would like to read."

"Why should I write about anything? Writers need an audience. Maybe I'm just that."

"Maybe you are. And maybe I'm projecting my own writing urges on to you. But give it some thought."

I did. The idea that I could create some living legacy, anonymously though, had its appeal. But I knew I wasn't much of a writer. I'd been paralyzed by that college entrance essay. It was only salvaged when my mother read what I'd done and basically rewrote it. My major was economics with a minor in math and logic so hardly any essays there. Still, I thought I'd give it a shot.

The first one was a flop, to put it favorably. Rating was 2-something and there were only two comments. One was "Stopped reading by the third paragraph". The other was longer but compared the writing to a 15-year old. Hey, I was 21. You should have seen how I wrote at 15.

The next one was a tad over 3. Nice trending. But only one comment. Anonymously, the coward. He or she cited deficiencies in the plot, characters and dialogue. As Spinal Tap would say, "That's just nit-picking."

Eventually came the day when my mother asked if I'd written anything. I was tempted to lie but decided what the hell. I'd like to have something moderately successful.

"Yes, but they're terrible. They always have the worst rating of anything else that's published that day."

"Would you mind if I read them?"

"Yes I would. They're bad." They hadn't seemed bad when I wrote them but then when I read them alongside of other mom-son stories, I had to admit that they sucked. There was some sort of alchemy others possessed that was beyond my reach.

"They probably are. You're just getting started. You should see some of the rejection letters I got when I was just starting out. Well-deserved ones too. More than a few politely suggesting that I take up some other line of work."

That didn't cheer me up as much as you might think.

"Now I don't know if you want to get better or if you'd rather give it up. But if you want to get better, maybe I can help."

"Help?"

"Steve, I'm a published author. I'm not going to write stories for you but I've been through enough reviews that I can give you some benefit of experience. But I do need to see what you've written."

It was painful but I showed her where to find them. "One thing though Mom. Can you read them while I'm not around?"

"Sure thing dear. Tomorrow while you're in classes."

I had a fatalistic attitude to the review. I knew it wouldn't be good and I wasn't convinced that I should even continue. But I really wanted to write something that wasn't crap.

"Alright Steve. You want to hear this?"

I nodded.

"Well, both stories are variations on a simple concept. The son asks his mother if she would fuck him and she says Yes. There's more to it of course but that's basically it, right?"

Nodded again, this time with a heavy sigh.

"Look. Look at me. For any story there has to be some build-up. The characters have to have motivations based on their personalities or background. There has to be some set of circumstances that would lead them to taking such an unusual action. Two people don't just look at each other and then one says "You wanna have sex?" and the other replies "Sure." Given that what you're describing rarely happens, you have to invest it with more thought as to what led them into taking such a step."

More nods. She was making sense but it wasn't quite a roadmap.

"Look, here's what we'll do. Have you ever heard of a story pitch?"

Shaken head this time.

"Think about a story you'd like to write, and explain it to me. Give me the plot outline; tell me a bit about the two people and how they get to where they're going. Do you think you can do that?

Back to nods.

"OK, it's Wednesday. Why don't you present me with something on Sunday afternoon? And Steven, don't be dismayed if your first suggestion gets shot down. That's happened to me many times and more often than not for good reason."

First Pitch

I'd been skimming through some stories trying to come up with something. Many stories had similar plots so after a while I stopped worrying about originality. I picked one that I thought might work.

My mother was in a business outfit, something I rarely saw her in on weekends.

"What's with the suit Mom? Job interview?" I'd heard that somewhere and thought it was hilarious. But I just got A Look. She must have heard it too. Many times judging by those pursed lips.

"No, I'm trying to instill some professionalism into this process. When I go into a meeting to pitch a story, I like to look like I'm someone who should be taken seriously. The people who hear my pitch dress the same. Now what do you have for me?"

Geez, this for an amateur story site?

"OK. The son has the hots for his mother. One day she catches him jerking off in his room and is in awe of his 9 inch cock. She doesn't say anything but continues to watch. Just as he's about to come he cries out 'Oh yes mommy.' She's startled. Shocked that her son lusts for her and she can't get that enormous cock out of her mind. At one point she observes 'He didn't get that from his father's side of the family."

"Stop there."

"Huh? I was just getting to the good part."

"Maybe you were but by now most readers would have shut down their screens and gone on to something else."

"How do you know? I've read stories like this and they get better ratings than my first two."

"Steve, do you like Chuck Norris movies?"

Holy non-sequitur Batman!

"What's that got to do with anything? And you know I don't."

"What you've written is Norris porn. No country's army can stop him. He's almost super-human. So is that 9-inch cock. And in this fantasy, no woman can resist it. By the way, is yours 9 inches?"

I was still trying to work out the analogy and just caught the question.

"Ah, no."

"8 inches?"

Head shake. "But stop there. I'm not going to keep answering until you guess."

"Steve, you can write something like that but it's far from original and frankly pretty ridiculous. Do you call out anyone's name when you masturbate?"

Shocked I was. We had an unofficial don't-ask-don't-tell policy when it came to that. Or so I thought. "I don't think so."

"Look, you can create schlock and you'll find an audience. But do you want a Chuck Norris audience or one that enjoyed that awful Tokyo Drift movie you made me watch? Or would you prefer something more like Almost Famous or The Italian Job?"

"Tokyo Drift wasn't that bad, OK, not as good as the original, but I take your point."

"Good. Next time try to make it more believable. Shall we try again next Sunday?"

Second Pitch

For reasons I can't currently recall, I was much more confident this time. Mom was professionally dressed and I put on a clean shirt for the occasion.

"It's the son's 18^th birthday. His mother says it's a special birthday and she wants to give him a special gift. He's long had the hots for his mother and says he'd like a special kiss. She asks what that means and he says 'a real kiss'. After some back and forth she agrees and is overcome when they do it. This leads to more and more and eventually they do it."

Mom paused for a while. "OK Steve. This one at least has some plot development. But I'm sure I've read near-identical stories and the plot is thin and overdone. You're improving though. Do you really think that just one kiss is going to change a normal mother into a woman lusting for her son? Really?"

When she said it it seemed so obvious. But by now I was determined to improve. "Next Sunday then?"

Next Sunday came and I had nothing.

"Mom, I've wracked my brains but every story has been taken. I can't think of anything original."

"Steve, there's a balance. Nothing is completely original. I took a writing course once where the professor taught that there were only seven basic story lines and everything was a derivation of one of these. What makes a work original lies in the execution. How believable are the situations? How well drawn are the characters? Are there plot holes? Does everyone have to be an idiot for the unfolding of events to occur exactly as conveyed? Why should an audience be interested enough to continue with the story?"

Man oh man. It seemed like I should have already known this but hearing it put into words was revelatory.

"Gotcha. Next Sunday then?"

Third Pitch

I was less confident than the 18^th birthday kiss pitch but felt that I'd improved.

"Shipwreck scenario. Mom and son are shipwrecked. After a while their clothes wear out and they walk around naked. The son has frequent erections and the mom is getting lonely too. They can't be sure when they might get rescued and as the nights get cooler, they have to cuddle at night. Passion eventually overcomes them and they have sex."

"I think I've seen two or three shipwreck stories so it isn't that overdone. But you're getting there. Take care not to plagiarize or borrow too heavily from the others but why not take a shot?"

Wow! This was well short of a Pulitzer but by far the most positive response I'd ever had. "Great, and thanks Mom. I'm getting started right away."

"One other thing Steve. Let's get you a new ID so your future stories aren't tainted by association with those first two."

Done. I started working away, writing and rewriting, while trying to keep character motivations and plot development in mind. Also, to change enough details so that it wasn't too much like the others. After a week it was as ready as it was ever going to be and I sent it in. I considered asking my mother to proof it but decided to hit her with the finished product.

I had to wait a few days until it was approved but finally it appeared on the New Incest Story page. I kept checking throughout the day and was enormously pleased when the rating crossed the 4 barrier. It eventually settled in around 3.80 but this was much better than my first two. And there were three comments. "Nice first story." "Hawt!' And a longer one that emphasized how derivative it was. Even that I didn't mind. "Derivative" sounded so much better than "fake" or "sucks". I prefer erudition in my critics.

"That's getting better Steve." My mother was at her screen reading. "There are a few typos but overall it's nicely developed and much more believable than your first efforts. Want more?"

This was encouraging. "Sure."

"Having the father get killed off in the boat was jarring, though it does set the stage. But Freud would have fun with it."

"Freud?"

"Freud. Don't tell me you haven't heard of him."

"Sure I've heard of him. The super-ego, subconscious and all that."

"Very good. And don't forget about the Oedipal Complex."

Wow. He'd written about that too? I was taking a while to reply.

"How about The Doors?

"The Doors? Light My Fire?"

"Dear, try listening to The End. You'll get the idea. But back to your story. It's an unusual twist that the two don't get together sooner because the mother's hairy legs put the son off, just as his beard does the same for the mother. Of the other couple of shipwreck stories I've seen, I don't think that's been mentioned. Presumably it takes place off-screen and isn't relevant to their plots."

"As for how they come to have sex, it wasn't bad but let me give you a couple of tips. The deterioration of their clothing works for me and consequently their nudity is plausible. But you make it sound like when the mother sees your hard cock; I mean the story's son's hard cock; for the umpteenth time, it isn't as simple as the sight of it just driving her wild. Women aren't as visually oriented as men and it's more the sight of your, his, cock reminds her of the physical comforts she's been missing and she doesn't know when she'll ever be able to enjoy them again."

Most of this went in one ear and out the other. Except for the stumbles on "your" and "his". That made me remember what else I knew about Freud. Slips. I wondered if this could be one.

The Next Stories

The pitches were becoming perfunctory and I had a couple more. One was growing up on a farm with just the mother and her son. It was not well received. Typical response came from my mother.

"Steve, the mother isn't going to get aroused by seeing a bull humping a cow. Presumably she's seen that all her life. Now try something else and if that doesn't get better, we'll go back to the full-on pitches."