Gay Erotica: Because Therapy Wasn’t Enough

Why We Read It, Write It, and Need It

I used to think therapy would fix me. Then I read a story about two men in a locker room, and suddenly my inner child wasn’t crying anymore; he was moaning. Turns out all the journaling in the world couldn’t do what one well-written blowjob scene could. I write gay erotica, because therapy wasn’t enough.

People keep confusing gay erotica with porn. It’s not porn. Porn tells you what’s happening. Erotica tells you why you needed it to happen in the first place. It’s more like psychology wearing lube. Confession disguised as climax and the only literary genre brave enough to admit that sometimes the most honest thing two men can do together is stop pretending they’re not terrified of intimacy.

Gay Erotica on the Internet

Because gay sex is not immoral, it’s not disgusting, it’s not fucking degrading. It’s natural and it’s been happening since the dawn of time.

Once upon a time, you had to find gay stories photocopied and passed around like radioactive secrets. They smelled like toner and rebellion. Then came Gay Demon and Literotica, our digital confessional booths, where men from all over the planet uploaded their fantasies and quietly healed through HTML. Over the years, I built a following on these platforms and still write there occasionally, mostly due to nostalgia.

These days, the internet is drowning in AI-generated sludge that reads like a horny Roomba wrote it. You can spot it a mile away. No sweat, or scent or feeling. Just empty thrusts and weird synonyms for penis. It’s the uncanny valley of arousal.

Real gay erotica bleeds. You can feel the words, imagine the characters, smell the sex and sometimes walk away wishing it had been you. It doesn’t hide heartbreak behind orgasm; it lets the two spill together like a bad 2 a.m. cocktail. We write it because speaking that truth out loud might kill us, but fiction lets us survive it. We read it because we want to be seen without needing to pose. Every story is therapy with better lighting and worse decisions.

Every time someone tells me gay erotica isn’t real literature, I remember Hemingway never wrote about rimming, so who really lost here?

The Pearl Clutchers and Censorship

Neuroscientists could call it mirror-neuron empathy. I call it hot emotional CPR. When you read someone’s story of desire, your brain doesn’t just imagine it; it rehearses it. You feel less alone. You start to forgive the parts of yourself that still blush and remember that wanting isn’t a crime, it’s a pulse.

Meanwhile, tech companies clutch their pearls. Platforms ban, demonetise, or hide anything that smells like sex unless it’s heteronormative and algorithm-friendly. They’ll let billionaires sell you dopamine addictions but not desire that actually heals. Gay erotica has been shadow-banned, blacklisted, and blurred out more than most dictatorships. Yet it keeps crawling back, lipstick-smeared and unapologetic. Because every time they delete it, another queer writer somewhere says, fine, I’ll post it myself.

And that’s the real story here. Gay erotica isn’t just fantasy. It’s archive, documentation and proof that we existed and that we wanted, even when the world called that deviant. When we write, we’re building our own mythology. The Greeks had Zeus turning into a swan to get laid. We’ve got a construction worker named Andy who just wants someone to stay the night.

So yes, I write gay erotica, because therapy was polite, but this is honest. Because no cognitive-behavioural worksheet ever captured the feeling of being kissed by someone who sees the real you and still wants more. Because if art imitates life, then mine deserves a content warning.

Read it, laugh, blush and maybe learn something. And if it turns you on, that’s not a side effect. That’s the point.