pansexual edition.
Not a pheromoned cakewalk to write an erotica
the pen holder must have strong self control,
must not give in to her own horn’d words.
She must at any chance not pleasure herself after every five alphabets,
she must not have a coital relationship with her own mind’s fantasia.
No masturbating. No masturdating.
She must not at any cost make
poesy with libido higher than her own lover,
and if geniused so,
if reality made sterile before her own inked seeds,
she must not let the reality get jealous of its competition,
nor let it know that it’s far out of the latter’s league.
An erotico’s job is Atlasian,
the weight of the readers' pleasures
hunching her conscience continuously.
So next time you read one,
make sure to not only give your incognito’d moments to her
but your heart too,
as she’s shredded her own for your
awful, barren daring of a flash’s surrender.
quintessential lady Muse —
