David,

You know I consider you a friend who just happens to be my agent. You were the one who discovered me. You were the one who sent my work to all those publishing companies. The one who slaved night and day calling people. Calling people for me. You saw something in my writing that I didn’t even see myself. I owe all my success to you. My career, my family, my home. Please keep this in mind while you read this letter. It was written with a heavy heart.

It’s time for me to move on to a different genre. The years of writing erotica have taken its toll on me.

I know. I’ve been the best selling erotica author for the past decade. I’ve sold more copies of “Hey Honey! Did Anyone Order a Pizza?” than Fitzgerald sold of Gatsby. “Excuse Me Ma’am! Are You Going to Pay for That?” pushed over 15 million units.

But Diane has been up my ass lately. Billy is almost four now. Pretty soon we’ll be dropping him off at school. What am I supposed to tell him when his classmates’ parents ask me to sign a copy of “Hey Honey! Have You Seen The Remote?” What do I do when he asks me what it’s about? Say it’s about watching TV? It’s not. It’s about screwing. They’re all about screwing.

I have to change it up. Get back to the basics. Time to get away from the sex with whips and the balloons. Time to write a story with depth and meaning. Focus on love instead of lust. It’s time to get eloquent. More refined. I’m a family man now. I live in a gated community. It’s time I start writing like it.

RELATED:  Ocean's 65 and Over

Someone else will have to carry the torch for the genre, but it wont’t be me. I’ve decided to start over and I started writing some short stories. This one is a mystery. It’s in the early stages so take it for what it is right now. Keep in mind I’m just laying the foundation.

The Party

Danny and Randy go to a party. They walk in with all their clothes on. There are girls at the party. The girls at the party are not sweating. They dance with their clothes on and are properly spaced out across the dance floor.

One of girls is named Candy. Candy and Danny like each other but Randy likes Danny.

Randy kills Candy and gets away with it. (You don’t find that out until the end.)

Danny eventually finds Candy dead upstairs and calls the cops. The cops arrive at the house and identify themselves as real cops, not people who dress like cops so they could go inside parties and rip their clothes off. The real cops are willing and ready to take out their handcuffs, but only to arrest whoever killed Candy.

What do you think? I know it’s kind of rough, but like I said earlier, I’m just laying the foundation.

I will admit it’s hard to get back in the swing of things. It’s definitely a challenge not having the characters jump all over each other in the heat of the moment. Writing erotica was so much easier. When the conversation wasn’t going anywhere, I could always add in a line like, “Hey, what’s that on your shirt?” or, “Man, I can barely breath in these pants!” The more direct a character was the better chances he or she had of getting some. Simple as that.

RELATED:  Fat Pieces of Shit are Making Us Fatties Look Bad

And since I have stopped writing erotica, I will have to stop “participating” in the erotica workshops every other Saturday night on Locust Street; however, we will be having one last hurrah this Saturday. Don’t tell Diane. If you want to swing by, the password is “Tutankhamun.” It’s Egyptian themed so wear something festive.

Also make sure you park in the back or down the block. The fire marshal stopped by last time and kicked half the class out. I guess the room is only supposed to hold 150 people. I hope you can make it.

Kind regards,
Joe

Suggested next: