Writing about Sex Rape and Drugs

Writing about Sex Rape and Drugs

Imagine that YOU are my next book

I’m a perverted, disgusting, filthy-minded man who writes about topics which nearly always feature sex rape and drugs. But not just normal, missionary-style sex, oh no…I’m getting into rough sex, sex with lies that trick you into having drugs against your will. The sex I’ve written about is degrading – occasionally centring on rape – and demeaning – with an occasional horrific and dangerous situation. And I’ll continue writing it because lots of readers are as corrupt as I am. My debauchery knows no bounds, it continues into gay sex, lesbian sex, straight sex, perhaps even soon, interracial sex. According to one reviewer, my writing is cathartic. I don’t care, I like sex. I’m sleeping with so many people right now, I’m a dangerous walking disease.

Absolutely none of this is true of course – well, it depends on who you ask. Some of my readers think I’m disgusting, then pester me for a sequel as they lick their lips. Others want to know why my themes are always…gritty. Then others still, will read the book and be moved by the experience and consider it a work of art. The fact that someone’s moved by my writing is cathartic.

Writing about sex rape and drugs

It’s dangerous, writing about sex rape and drugs. You don’t know who’s reading your work, what they can find out about you and how your writing has affected them. Perhaps I’ve portrayed someone close to them and they need to vindicate, or maybe I’ve hit a nerve…way too close to home. I’m the target – not just the author. Bang. My writing could potentially bring about Armageddon. Perhaps my words are assaulting, or my victim’s bloodcurdling screams for help are too real and resonate a chord within them. Jesus. Maybe…just maybe, they read a story and realized that it was about someone they know. And now…they want vengeance.

It’s bloody work, being an author. You throw your words out there into a mine field and wonder if you’ll land on catastrophe or brilliance. That rare moment where you connect with readers who admire the shit you managed to coherently piece together into a whole book, is blissful. I could wank over that rare moment it’s so uplifting.

The rest of the time you’re an ignored degenerate, a pitiful wanna-be, another would-be hopeful – desperate for a moment’s attention from passers-by, a menial bumbling fool who has no damn right to publish anything, let alone books which centre on sex, rape and drugs. Regardless whether they’re based on someone’s true story that smashed doors down just to be heard. It’s frightening when you realize the ratio of insidious readers versus the passive, casual mothers, fathers, priests or God-fearing women of the church of – insert your favourite church name here that read my ‘work’.

Either way, I don’t care. I’m devoted to the cause of getting YOUR story out there, regardless of the repercussions and the feedback. I’ll keep doing it, because as much as you might think there’s no market for this degenerative filth, there is. Look over your shoulder, someone’s licking their lips wondering when my next humiliation with a title comes out.

Monique – has Parkinson’s Disease and Lung Cancer. We talked about her book many times and not once did Monique ever have regrets that we wrote her story. Her life of sex, rape and drugs desperately needed to be told.

Q‘s life needed to be told. So did Toby‘s.

And now…Lucy‘s. Though that one’s a little bit nicer. Much, much nicer. There, I atoned for my sins.

Well, maybe just a little.

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