My sexual muse has deserted me. For three months, erotica hasn’t flowed from my pen as it used to. I try, but my writing feels flat and stale.
“We could watch some porn, then do it? Might stir you?” my husband suggests.
Well, it couldn’t hurt to try.
I make mental notes throughout as my breasts are suckled, my neck is kissed and my vagina penetrated. I need unfamiliar words for familiar acts. Sweat breaks out and greases the wheels and, as we come together, we yell.
By midday the next day, my word count is up to four figures.
