I was talking to a stripper friend of a friend a few weeks ago. I asked her what she thought about erotica. You know, as a professional.

“What do you mean?”

“You know. Your opinion of it.”

She chuckled, but didn’t respond. It didn’t seem like she had an answer.

“I can tell you this: no guy who comes to the club is into it.”

“You can tell.”

“You gotta figure that any guy who’s at a strip club—dropping cash and just watching me strip off clothing—he’s not into slow and sensual. He wants fast and dirty.”

“That’s most people, in the end.”

“Yeah, I guess. But erotica’s about the mind. It’s a different kind of fantasy than what I do.” She finished her drink and looked dejected. Probably tired, given the hour. After work for her.

She asked, “Have you ever tried to write any of that?”

“Nah,” I said. “Anything I try and make erotic just turns into a tragedy. Too much of the before and after. “

“What if that’s what gets someone off?”

“Yea, well. That might keep the panties moist, but it’s not what gets them off.”

She asked for me to share a story with her sometime. I told her we could trade.