Attitude Adjustment

by Rajah Dodger {rdodger@hotmail.com} (c) 2010

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons
Attribution-Non-Commercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License (by-nc-sa). In
jurisdictions where the Creative Commons license is not recognized, United
States copyright and Berne Convention provisions apply; all rights reserved to
Rajah Dodger except that electronic not-for-profit reproduction rights are
explicitly granted with the stipulation that this authorship and permission
note must remain attached.

Abstract: Research into a writing topic gives a writer some new viewpoints

I don't meet a lot of other smut writers. It's not the kind of hobby that holds
lunch meetings or conferences - in ten years I've only met two other writers.
So when I got an email from a fellow writer who mentioned he'd be in my town
for a few weeks, lunch with him sounded like an interesting idea.

He wasn't a total stranger - we both posted on many of the same writers'
websites, and we'd had a long-running discussion on one particular board about
why people pick particular story topics. His stories were mostly male/male
scenes with some mind control subplots; mine tended toward
dominance/submission, short sex-oriented vignettes, and romantic hetero or
lesbian encounters, although I'd written one-off stories in a half dozen
different fetish areas as well.

I might still have turned him down, but I just loved his pen name, "Feygin".
Anyone who uses Charles Dickens for porn is someone I want to meet.

We got together at Applebee's, about as vanilla a meeting place as one could
ask for, and outside the group of places where people I knew were likely to
show up. Not that I'd have any problems explaining lunch with an acquaintance,
but sometimes careful is good.

Somewhere between salad and the third beer, we finished complaining about our
respective jobs and started talking about how we wound up in them. I had
written computer technical manuals before getting into programming; he had
spent a year issuing press releases for a low-budget wrestling circuit then
managed activities at a church community center.

We were both readers, of course. He read a lot of biographies while my comfort
subject was science fiction. We talked about which websites were currently
paying for stories, and played mutual flattery quoting from scenes in each
others' stories. The only thing writers enjoy as much as getting paid is
knowing someone else really likes their work.

That was when he brought back his question from one of the website forums about
why I didn't write stories with male/male scenes.

What do you say to a question like that? In the first place, I had actually
written one such scene, though the action was implied rather than explicit. In
the second place, it seemed a little like asking a romance author why she
didn't write murder mysteries. I was trying to think of a polite way to suggest
that our lunch was over, when he said "I think I know, actually."

There's not a writer around who can sit still when someone else says they know
why he or she writes. I sat back in my chair and waved a hand, asking him to go
ahead and enlighten me.

^^^^^^^^

"You see," he began, "there are just a handful of reasons why someone with as
many stories as you have written would skip that area. First, maybe you don't
find anything about men erotic. But I read your one masturbation story, and
even without hinting at what his fantasies are you nailed the whole physical
sensuality of the experience." He chuckled. "Granted, that's kind of like the
cliche of writing what you know, but it still has to be done well."

"Second, maybe you don't like gays. I've actually spoken with some erotica
writers who are violent homophobes, so I know it's possible - though some of
those guys write the hottest male/male rape stories." He shook his head. "It
doesn't fit though. Anyone who can write a story about a man molesting his
cancer-ridden aunt where the sex is gripping and the guy comes off as a
sympathetic figure - well, that person wouldn't let mere dislike keep him from
writing a story."

He took a long hit from his beer. I appreciated the compliment - I was
justifiably proud of that story - but waited for the other shoe to drop.

"Third, you could be one of those guys who's afraid if he writes about
homosexual activity people will think he must be gay himself. But hell - you've
written half a dozen stories about that transsexual plumber, and nobody in the
critique boards has ever suggested you were writing from experience."

"So that leaves number four. You don't think you're up to it."

My beer bottle hit the table, but he waved off my spluttered response and
continued.

"Of course, I'm not saying you *can't* do it. I'm just saying you don't think
you can do it believably. There's nothing wrong with that. I don't write about
accountants - come to think about it, I don't think anyone writes erotica about
accountants, but that's beside the point."

Somewhere in that comment was at best a left-handed compliment. The pleasant
buzz from the beer vanished, and it took me a few moments to get my reactions
enough under control to interrupt the flow of his lecture.

"There's a hole in your logic," I said. "At least one. For example, a good
writer can pick up what he or she needs from other sources and doesn't have to
rely only on first-person experience. Think about science fiction stories as an
example. Or Pam the Preop Plumber, for that matter. I read Plumbing for Dummies
and spent twelve sweaty hours in a peep show booth listening to the noises from
next door and watching videos before I wrote the first of those."

He finished his beer and smiled. "Yeah, and I don't hear you saying I'm wrong
either. Hey, it's not a big deal. I just thought since you've covered almost
every other major area in the tag cloud that maybe you'd appreciate some leads,
references, that sort of thing. One writer to another. We all start somewhere,
and I can send you some files and web links that I found helpful."

He may have been arrogant in analyzing me, but he had a point. In something
over seventy stories, I'd written exactly three scenes of man-on-man action.
None of them had the kind of explicit detail of my hetero stories or for that
matter my lesbian stories, and I shied away because I just didn't know how to
write something that wouldn't sound stilted or silly. His stories were
certainly convincing in that regard.

And even though I didn't feel any great need to write male on male erotica, the
fact that I hadn't been able to now grated on me, almost as much as his casual
assumption that it came from some lack of confidence or ability on my part. So
I thanked him for the offer, finished my own beer, and we went our separate
ways. He didn't know it, but he'd laid down a challenge, and I wasn't going to
admit failure.

^^^^^^^^

I checked my mail when I got home that evening, and there were three items from
Feygin. One had the promised web links, one was a collection of picture
attachments, and the third held three video files.

The pictures weren't what I expected. I thought of gay porn as leather, rubber,
and hairy guys - I'd certainly seen my share of that back when I was doing the
groundwork for my Pam the Plumber stories. Instead I found myself looking at a
collection of photographs more focused on facial expressions, the curves and
lines of taut muscles, the contact of skin on skin. In tone they reminded me of
some of the lesbian porn sites I really liked. There weren't any tags on the
photos; I wondered where he had found them.

They did give me a couple of ideas, one of which seemed promising - a guy
assigned to a detox program where the all-male staff was heavily into physical
exercise and wrestling as therapy. I fiddled with it for a while, but it didn't
seem to be going anywhere. By the time I gave up, it was already past my usual
bedtime so I saved my drafts and went to bed.

For the rest of the week, when I got home I alternated between reviewing the
pictures, looking at different sites on the web, and starting unsatisfactory
story drafts. Friday night, since I didn't have anything else to do, I opened
up the email with the videos. The first one was kind of jittery, and looked
like a transfer from the middle of a VCR tape.

Two guys were working out in the gym, wearing grey workout shorts and tee
shirts, making the rounds of the equipment stands. Both had worked up a good
sweat, and their shorts clung, framing their cocks. The taller one finished off
his exercises with a cable kickback. The muscles of his legs stood out as he
extended his foot behind him.

While he was catching his breath, the shorter man moved in from behind and slid
his hands around, cupping the other man's crotch, knuckles shifting as his
fingers moved.

The taller man writhed in that grasp - the camera shifted around the side to
show his growing erection, the legband of his shorts lifting just a bit to give
a teasing glimpse of swollen testicles. The short man's hand slid down inside
the shorts and the camera zoomed in for a closeup, but the picture got blurry -
I could see the outline of the cockhead under the fabric, and maybe a stain at
the tip, but even looking close it was hard to tell for sure.

Suddenly, abruptly, the video ended. I found myself leaning forward, squinting
toward the monitor, rubbing my thighs together. Yeah. I could write a scene
like that.

At least that's what I thought, but nothing would come together Saturday
morning after I woke up. I could get the words onto paper, but none of the
music was there. I filed it away and went back to my most current TG story, but
couldn't find a groove there either. I opened my miscellaneous picture folder
and clicked at random. Nothing grabbed me. I went back to the video; there was
something in the camera work or maybe the lighting, the scene just hinted at an
intense sexual power without ever getting around to showing it. I replayed it
several times, but I just couldn't identify the trick that made it so
attention-grabbing.

I had some bills to pay and other mundane tasks to do around my apartment, then
I put on my headphones and just listened to Beethoven, Ravel and Gershwin for a
while. I was still restless, so I went back to the computer and opened up the
second video.

This film didn't have a title either. Two guys were doing laps in a swimming
pool, then went to the shower room where they soaped up and then started
lathering each other. The video quality was a little scratchy, but for this
scene it didn't matter. Two bodies sliding against each other, erect cocks
rubbing together, soapy fingers exploring underarms and asscheeks - sometimes
you don't need a plot. I licked my lips; this was seriously hot.

Groping and rubbing gave way quickly to hunching and stroking, and when one man
went down practically swallowing the other guy's cock, I could just about feel
the sensation myself. The camera focused on the standing man's face, zeroing in
on a look of either agony or ecstasy. It was definitely ecstasy, obvious the
moment he tensed in orgasm.

He slumped back against the tile wall and would have fallen, but his companion
eased him down gently, stroking his face. He turned the weakened man around and
positioned him on all fours, sliding a bar of soap between his wet asscheeks.
The camera zoomed in, and you could see the anus flare open. The wet cockhead
was fitted to the soapy opening and pushed slowly inside, then pulled out. In,
then out, faster and harder, slapping sounds coming through the speakers until
a second explosion occurred and both bodies twisted and arched under the spray
of the shower.

The file got scrambled at that point, breaking up into weird geometrical
shapes. I watched a bit longer, but the problem didn't go away. The visual fuzz
was giving me a headache and I needed to masturbate, so I went to bed on that
note.

^^^^^^^^

Over the weekend I toyed with and tossed out any number of story setups - a guy
trapped in a stable tack room, a college student being consoled by his secretly
gay roommate after breaking up with his girlfriend, even a setup where a guy
was hitting on a woman in a bar only to find out later in the dark that she was
a man. But that was more of a TV/TS story and I was trying to write a straight
M/M plot.

Out of curiosity I went to a local adult book store and video arcade, and used
up a number of dollar bills checking out what they had in the gay department.
The videos varied from quick suck and fuck loops to moderately complex plots,
and they were all clear and crisp without the fuzziness of the files I'd gotten
in the email. None of them, however, had that visceral impact.

When I got back I looked at the emailed videos again. Despite the flicker and
jitter of the camera work, they had an awesome sense of presence and reality. I
still didn't have a story idea that was working, so I opened up the mail
message with the web links. The first one was all about men in rubber, gas
masks, forced handjobs and the like - just what I'd expected. I sampled the
other sites, not finding anything specifically helpful but getting a better
appreciation of the field.

I went back to the pictures. There was something I was missing, some
indescribable difference between "hot" and "erotic." I could look at a picture
or a video and feel the pulse inside, even though I would never look at a guy
and think "he's hot." Then again, I didn't really need to be able to respond to
a visual that way myself - I only needed to convey excitement through my words.
I studied the pictures again, trying to feel the heat behind the flat screen. I
almost had... something.

By the end of the weekend I'd tossed a half dozen ideas into the trash basket
and was getting seriously frustrated. It couldn't be this difficult; there were
thousands of guys posting gay porn fantasies all over the internet. Granted,
most of them didn't pretend to have a plot, those that did were either two
characters who just had to be in the same scene to be banging each other or
some variation on coerced sex.

That was when I realized what my problem was - I was trying to force my
characters into one of those molds, and that just wasn't how I worked. I needed
to let my characters find each other. With that, a weight seemed to fall off my
shoulders and I sketched out a half dozen different opening paragraphs. Things
felt a lot better - I was back in my writing groove. I checked the videos one
last time, just to keep my mind in the right space, and headed to bed.

^^^^^^^^

Monday at lunch it hit me: The narrator was being felt up by the man who was
fitting him for a suit. The idea wasn't original - I'd probably read a hundred
lesbian first time stories with that kind of setting - but it was different
with two men. I could just about feel the fitter's hands, sliding up the
insides of my legs, measuring my crotch. I don't usually let a story idea run
away with me like that, but I was practically bouncing in my chair for the rest
of the day. Once I got home, my creative juices were in full swing - I didn't
even bother with dinner, just went to my computer and opened up a fresh story
template. This was going to be a good one. My fingers practically flew across
the keyboard as the story took shape:

^^^^^^^^

"Working Title: Fitting In"

The good news about the takeover was Jeff's elevation to vice-president of the
western branch. The bad news, in his opinion, was having to give up casual
clothes in favor of the monkey suits favored by the Europeans. At least they
covered the expense of his new wardrobe.

"The fitter will see you now, Mister Harrison." Jeff put down the magazine and
followed the menswear assistant into the back of the tailoring area. The young
man waiting there with an impatient attitude was blandly sleek in the manner of
magazine covers. He gave Jeff the shortest of looks and fluttered his fingers
dismissively. "I am Emile. I will be measuring and preparing you for your
proper clothing. Now remove those."

Jeff looked around, confused. "I thought you took measurements over the pants."
The fitter looked pointedly at Jeff's khaki slacks. "Perhaps at J.C. Penney -
here you are being measured for real clothing." The put-down was delivered with
a scathing tone, as if such material might contaminate the high-end suits of
the clothier. Jeff unbuckled his belt and slid his slacks down to his ankles.

"Dress left or dress right?" The question left Jeff completely baffled. The
younger man circled around him like a lion sniffing its prey. "Oh, never mind -
you wear briefs. You'll have to change that for the formal dress pants, of
course. Now get it all off and stand on the platform." Jeff flushed, but sat
down to take off his shoes and trousers, then wriggled out of his briefs as
well. He stepped onto the raised platform with his face flushed and his cock
dangling, reflected in all three mirrors.

[...]

The orgasm caught Jeff by surprise, his groin clutching painfully as he emptied
himself into Emile's mouth. "Now," Emile said after licking his lips, "we give
you a real fitting." He half-dragged, half-pulled Jeff over to lie atop the
tailor's table, then rubbed something slick between his cheeks. It tingled, but
Jeff didn't have time to appreciate that before Emile was inside him.

Jeff moaned at the intrusion, his cock still dribbling as the other man's shaft
drove deeply in and out. His head was cheek-down on the table, and the nearby
mirror showed a distorted reflection of their bodies bouncing against each
other. He wondered if this meant he was gay now, and then Emile grunted and the
first thick blast drove all thought out of Jeff's mind.

^^^^^^^^

I didn't like the working title. I changed it to "Attitude Adjustment" - I had
planned to use that for my story about a perverted chiropractor, but that idea
had gone nowhere and the title worked well enough for this one.

I did a word count, updated the story summary codes, and saved the file. Then I
uploaded it to my online repository, put a note on my blog, and kicked back
with a grin on my face. If I'd had a bucket list for writing, I'd have slashed
a big red "X" in the male/male category. Celebrations were in order, but first
a certain writer needed to know what his "analysis" was worth.

I opened up my email and there was a message waiting from him. He'd sold a
collection of his stories, and did I want to be his guest for lunch before he
left town? I liked the idea of springing my story on him at lunch, so I turned
on my instant messenger, caught him on line, and confirmed the restaurant and
time. It was a good restaurant, too - not one that I'd go to on my own wallet.

Lunch was great! He had lobster and Scotch; I had a tender filet and a rich
Tuscan cabernet. Between ordering and getting our food, I handed him my
printout. He chuckled a couple of times, lifted his eyebrow twice, and finally
set the papers down. "Not bad," was his comment. "I know a couple of short
story aggregators who would be interested in this." A couple more drinks, and
we wound up heading to his hotel room to get the names of his contacts. I sat
at his laptop to copy down the information while he went to relieve himself.

When he came out of the bathroom he was naked. In the moment between my
thinking "what the hell is going on here?" and "wow is he hung," he crossed the
room and wrapped me in a bear hug, covering my mouth with Scotch-flavored lips
and rolling his crotch against mine. I struggled in his strong arms, but that
only made my surprising erection harder. His hands gripped my ass and pulled me
against him, and while I was weakly fighting, my body was still responding.

It was different, up close and personal.

Somehow my pants were unbuckled and his hand was around my cock, stroking,
rubbing my erection against his. I strained to hold myself back but he could
tell. The next thing I knew I was bent over the back of the hotel chair and he
was doing obscene things with his tongue inside my ass. I whimpered. I cried. I
came.

My body went limp, but he manhandled me into a sitting position and slapped
that thick cock against my face a couple of times. When he pushed it against my
lips, I opened my mouth but then turned my face trying to lick the taste away.
"I'm not gay, you know."

"This wouldn't be nearly as much fun if you were. Now shut up and suck."

/END/

Endnote: Workshopped at the Fish Tank (http://www.desdmona.com).