idiopathicsmile:

me: huh, in all the tons and tons of writing i’ve done, i’ve never once attempted any smut; maybe i should give it a shot sometime, like what’s the worst thing that can possibly happen?

my brain, without missing a goddamn beat: you will get four sentences in, attempt to type the word “cock” in a sexual context, and become so completely overwhelmed by your own embarrassment that you will pass out, hitting your head against the floor loudly enough that your downstairs neighbors will call 911.

you will come to in the back of an ambulance, confused and a little concussed and momentarily unsure why none of the ambulance workers will meet your eyes until you realize, with dawning horror, that when they broke down your door to rescue you, they must’ve caught a glimpse of your laptop screen and it’s all over now, everyone knows that you are a failed pornographer, there is nothing left for you to do but dive out of this ambulance, barrel roll to safety, grab your passport and flee the country.

you pack a bag. you take a greyhound bus, and then another bus. it’s raining by the time you make it to the canadian border. the customs line is long, and it is suspiciously full of other people like you, mostly women in their mid to late twenties who despite their fervent belief in sex positivity and freedom of expression are still in some ways filled with shame at the prospect of any personal expression of any remotely sexual inclinations, but also filled with a complicated shame about that shame.

too late, you remember that you know almost nothing about canada. oh shit, are their power outlets different there? will you need to get a new phone? at the very least, you’re definitely gonna have to learn the celsius scale. fuck. is it five ninths the fahrenheit temperature minus 32? you never loved algebra. fuck fuck fuck.

the girl ahead of you in line meets your eyes, gives you a sad, sympathetic smile.

“fleeing the country, huh?” she asks you. “me too,” she says, and something in her face tells you that she will understand.

“it’s just,” you swallow. “smut is so DIFFICULT.”

“uh,” she says. “i—actually i’m on the run because i murdered a guy, but. yeah, i guess writing porn does present some challenges.”

you and the murderess shrug at each other. you can’t bring yourself to ask who she killed or why. what does it matter at this point, one outlaw to another? you have left your friends and your family behind. she is your people now. there is no going back.