When I was a kid, I used to write mysteries. Grim, grotesque mysteries where a lot of unpleasant things happened to generally good people. When I got older, I graduated to horror, where even more vile things happened to characters who didn't always deserve it. My mother and my grandmother would tell me that I wrote really well. Why didn't I write something nicer instead?
Fast-forward to now. If you're hanging out with me at some gathering or other, and I've been drinking, chances are good someone will eventually ask me to tell a true-life story. I've been through a lot of horrible sexual incidents, like the time a burn victim accidentally shit all over me, and that's what I usually talk about. It never fails to gross people out and make them laugh at the same time. There are even a few people I got to gag at these stories, just by letting a few choice words dribble out of my mouth.
Why don't I ever tell good sex stories? The same reason I write about vicious things in fiction: good is boring. You don't want to hear a story in which everything turns out OK in the end. For example: someone is telling you about a guy who tried some dangerous stunt or another. The guy in question succeeds. How boring is that? You want something to go wrong. It has to go wrong. Conflict is such an important part of story that it is ignored at the storyteller's peril.
I actually do have a few good sex stories, where nothing went wrong. Where everything ended with mutually satisfying orgasms and after-sex cuddles. I was even contemplating telling one of them here, but . . . I realized something else about the good true-life stories. Sometimes, they're so good that you want to keep them for yourself.
I was going to tell you the best good sex story I have, but I'm actually going to keep it for myself. It was wonderful, though. Plus, it involved outdoor sex, which is my favorite kind of sex.
Sometimes, when I go to sleep at night, I think about that incident, and it makes me smile. I wish she hadn't moved away, even though she was one of the people who suggested that I should write nicer things. She wanted me to write poetry about flowers and mountains and shit.
OK, maybe that relationship might not have worked out, anyway, but still. I wonder if she remembers me in the same fond way as I think of her.