By: Jamie Thompson
Updated: September 14, 2020
Originally Published: January 16, 2018
My journey into the world of erotica began long before I truly understood its allure. As a teenager, I stumbled upon my mother’s stash of romance novels tucked away in the basement. I still can’t fathom why she thought it was okay for me to have access to them. Nevertheless, I dove in and quickly discovered that these stories were filled with explicit encounters, complete with colorful descriptions of “throbbing manhood.” Even then, I recognized that the hundreds of pages were merely a vehicle for steamy escapades.
In college, the term “erotica” became the norm, and it was suddenly acceptable to indulge in these enticing reads. The definition of good erotica was strict, but some works made the cut. Anne Rice’s Beauty trilogy challenged our literary pretenses, introducing many of us to the world of BDSM. D.H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover was also a favorite, despite the absence of graphic scenes—it was all about the tantalizing build-up. But for us, Anaïs Nin reigned supreme. Her exploration of polyamorous relationships and various sexual themes was eye-opening, especially for those of us raised on Fabio’s romantic exploits and awkward teenage fumblings.
Fast forward a decade: I was married and had put my Anaïs Nin books aside, confident I had my husband for all sorts of intimate fun. But life took a turn, and soon my sex drive took a nosedive. The arrival of kids didn’t help—let’s face it, they can be little cockblockers, a clever evolutionary strategy to ensure resources aren’t divided among too many siblings. On top of that, I started taking SSRIs for depression, notorious for dampening libido, and my desire was fading fast.
Once upon a time, we were intimate regularly, but then it dwindled to once every few weeks. Something had to give. That’s when I remembered erotica, but I hesitated to revisit the books of my youth. A quick online search led me to explore erotic fan fiction, which I had previously ignored. To my surprise, I found an entire world of salacious storytelling waiting for me.
My interests leaned towards the nerdy side—I found myself immersed in tales of Mulder and Scully from The X-Files, and romantic escapades involving Agent Cooper and Harry Truman in Twin Peaks. Fringe fan fiction caught my eye too, showcasing polyamorous relationships in a way I never knew I would enjoy. And I even stumbled upon some wild Hamilton fan fiction that pushed the boundaries of creativity.
What I uncovered reignited my passion in a big way. So, naturally, I did what any married person would do when feeling frisky—I turned to my husband. Our intimate life blossomed once again, and it was even better than before. I found myself inspired by the stories I’d read, leading to new ideas and lowered inhibitions. My husband, upon discovering the secret behind my revived libido, teased me gently but welcomed the change with open arms. After all, it revitalized our sex life.
I didn’t need to take on new personas or insist he call me Scully or Hamilton; that just wasn’t our style. We’d probably end up laughing too much to keep the mood alive. Instead, the erotica served as a tool to enhance my arousal and connection with him. Just like Peter Pan suggests thinking happy thoughts to fly, I realized that conjuring up pleasurable fantasies helped me navigate the challenges of life, from medication side effects to parenting chaos. Thanks to the creativity of anonymous writers online, I regained my sex drive, and my marriage has never been better.
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In summary, my experience with erotica not only reignited my sexual desire but also strengthened my relationship with my husband. The stories I encountered provided fresh ideas, rekindling the intimacy we both craved. With the whimsical allure of fiction, I found a way to soar above life’s challenges and rediscover the joy of connection.