Unofficial Arousal

Dear Pearl Clutchers,

Please put your pitchforks down for just a minute. I’m not trying to change the world. I’m just trying to survive in it.

What follows is a dramatized account of The People vs. Common Sense, a courtroom trial held somewhere between morality, monetization, and madness. No one remembers who filed the charges. Possibly Karen.

The judge? Hotter than justice should allow.

The Honorable Steele looked like he’d been ripped from the cover of GQ’s Authority Kink edition. Mid-forties, tanned, blue-eyed, with that bored, dangerous energy. His judicial robes clung a little too well in the wrong lighting and barely concealed the fact that he probably did push-ups between hearings. When he leaned forward, his shirt collar dipped just enough to show a triangle of chest that made three separate reporters forget their court notes. His salt-and-pepper hair looked like it was styled by expensive negligence. When he spoke, his voice had that slow, dangerous rhythm that made you feel like you were being seduced and sentenced at the same time. Every time he lifted the gavel, someone in the gallery quietly gasped. No one was sure if it was fear, lust, or both.

The Prosecution

The prosecution? A Bible-belted brigade of panic.

Ms. Virtue Vexington spoke entirely in passive-aggressive questions, like, “Are you saying smut is more valuable than sanctity?” Her beige blouse was buttoned up so aggressively it looked like it was trying to escape her body. Her hair was pulled into a bun so tight it was possibly held together with prayer and judgment. She had the constant energy of someone who thought her own orgasms were a form of betrayal.

Reverend Tuckem wore the literal Bible belt, leather scraps held together by guilt and irony, and sweated so profusely you’d think someone had whispered the word “moist.” His polyester suit squeaked when he moved, as if even his clothing was morally uncomfortable.

And then there was Karen. Just Karen. She crocheted a purity ring during opening statements, sipped unsweetened almond milk through a metal straw, and muttered “won’t someone think of the children” while live-tweeting the trial from her burner account @ModestyMattersMom3.

Together, they looked like the final boss battle of a moral panic video game. If anxiety had a uniform, they were wearing it.

The crime? Making people horny on purpose. Or worse, by accident.

Let the record show: I didn’t start this fire. I just lit the candles, turned on some music, and wrote about a gazebo.

Common Sense

Here’s how Common Sense nearly got sentenced.

The courtroom sat in an international jurisdiction, somewhere between logic and liability, floating in the algorithmic void. Common Sense was seated at the defense table in ripped jeans, a “Verified Human” t-shirt, and the general demeanor of someone who’s been through this shit too many times. He sipped a Red Bull and muttered things like, “This again?” and “I’m just trying to let adults jerk off in peace.”

At the defense table sat Former Patreon, chewing an edible and doodling in a sketchbook, and OnlyFans, reclining with perfect posture and handing out business cards with embedded QR codes shaped like peach emojis. An empty chair waited silently for the surprise witness.

Ms. Virtue Vexington stood up, pearl necklace practically humming with tension.

“Your Honor, we are here today because Common Sense has been weaponized by creators who refuse to respect boundaries.”

Judge Steele sighed, leaned forward, and purred, “You mean adults reading stories with their own free will?”

“Objection,” Virtue snapped. “That’s an overstatement.”

Common Sense muttered, “It’s literally what happened.”

The judge lifted one perfect eyebrow, his chiseled face slightly amused. “Sustained. Barely.”

Reverend Tuckem stood with great theatrical effort, gripping his Bible belt like it might smite someone.

“We live in a time of moral decay. People are writing and sharing sinful content and getting paid for it. Sometimes even by the same platforms that say they don’t allow it. How can we protect society from arousal?”

A gasp rippled through the courtroom gallery. One juror visibly crossed their stockinged legs, red high heels nearly illuminating the area around her.

Karen, without looking up from her tweet, said softly, “I once clicked a story by Fox Emerson thinking it was going to be a memoir. There were feelings. And fluids.”

Judge Steele cleared his throat, clearly annoyed and slightly aroused.

“This court would now like to call the surprise witness for the defense.”

The bailiff, who was also suspiciously hot, stepped forward and announced, “Calling to the stand… Fox Emerson.”

The Surprise Witness

The courtroom doors burst open. A wind machine kicked in. A smoke machine blew smoke up his ass. Fox Emerson entered in slow motion, trench coat flaring dramatically, cowboy boots echoing across the polished floor. The gallery collectively forgot how to breathe. Someone in the back whispered, “He’s even hotter in real life.” Karen dropped her knitting.

Virtue clutched her pearls harder.

Fox Emerson sat down, barely acknowledging anyone in the courtroom.

“Mr. Emerson,” Ms. Vexington began, voice shaking, “do you deny that your writing has caused unsolicited arousal in innocent readers, some of whom were simply trying to enjoy emotional character development?”

Fox Emerson removed his sunglasses.

“I didn’t ask her to read Chapter Eight during her commute.”

Reverend Tuckem, red-faced and sweating through his belt of shame, cried out, “Are you trying to undermine Western civilization with sensual prose and the occasional spit-roast?”

Fox replied flatly, “I’m just trying to pay rent, Tuckem. And yes.”

Judge Steele removed his glasses slowly, deliberately.

“I read The Gardener. That gazebo scene? If that’s criminal, lock me up. But do it slowly. Preferably with a rope harness.”

Patreon, now visibly stoned, raised a hand. “Also, they’re adults. With wallets. Let them use both.”

OnlyFans blew a kiss. “If they don’t like it, they can scroll. Or read a recipe. We don’t go knocking on their Pinterest boards telling them how to bake.”

Common Sense stood up and addressed the jury.

“This isn’t about smut. It’s about autonomy. It’s about letting people feel something other than shame, or joy or even a hand on their inner thigh. If someone wants to pay to read about two sweaty guys banging against a tool shed, that’s between them and their lube budget.”

Karen leapt up from her chair, shrieking, “What about the children?”

Judge Steele slammed the gavel.

“This is an eighteen-plus courtroom, Karen. Sit down and rehydrate.”

The jury deliberated for four and a half minutes, most of which were spent arguing over whether they were more turned on by the writing or the judge’s voice.

They returned with the final verdict.

“We, the jury, find in favor of Common Sense. On all counts. Let the people jerk it in peace.”

Applause. Confetti. OnlyFans flashed the courtroom and sold premium snaps to the press. Judge Steele winked at Fox Emerson… and then casually asked for his phone number. “For the records,” he said. Karen threw up in her purse.

Postscript from Fox Emerson

Pearl Clutchers, let me say it again. I’m not trying to change the world, I’m trying to survive it. I’m not interested in pushing boundaries, I’m interested in writing what’s already inside of people. Whether that’s desire, shame, memory, or lust.

If you’re an adult and you want to read about sex, love, or something horny at the edge of both, you should be allowed to. If you’re a platform, your job isn’t to play God. Your job is to verify age and get out of the way.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a gazebo to clean.

And yes, there are fluids.

Like Gay Erotica? Check out Fox’s Substack.