professionalizing the erotic and the sadistic

Trading erotic fiction with people with whom you are not flirting is a tad peculiar, a bit of a dry, professional take on something rarely dry and professional, like an Excel spreadsheet of orgasm frequency and intensity, which gets worked into a Powerpoint presentation comparing this quarter's climactic performance with last quarter's and ending with a bullet-pointed list of suggestion improvements in technique, angle, and ambiance, and encouraging shareholders to hold to their shares in anticipation of enhanced future orgasms, next quarter.

I was asked to submit something to an erotic fiction anthology, and I also recently received as a gift a collection of erotic fiction written in part by the giver of the gift, and it prompted me to think about the strangeness of erotica as a profession; I am reminded of the time my ex-boyfriend, the cowboy, went back to his old apartment building to help his ex-neighbor, the dominatrix, with the wiring in her apartment. She was short on cash and wanted to compensate him, so she offered him a flogging.

Such a service does have a high cash value, but it is not a miscible good; it cannot readily be exchanged for other goods and services. The bank does not have an exchange rate set for floggings, or ball-kickings, or forced feminizations (and really, one's boyfriend oughtn't either).