Writing Humour into Erotica

Writing Erotic Humor
By T. Myer

So what does it take to be a successful writer of erotic humor? The same kind of stuff that makes for a successful erotica writer, even the same stuff that makes for a successful writer, period:

Complete and total mastery of the English language.

Humor writing is very difficult. It’s much harder than non-humor (a catch-all category that covers everything from the quotidian to the tragic). Anyone out there can make someone cry at the tale of star-crossed lovers from different sides of a family feud. Anyone can make someone cringe at the brutality of war on the front lines.

But can you take those same subjects and make people laugh? Can you take the drudgery of everyday life and make it funny? Can you make sex funny? If you can, then you have a gift, one that should be cherished. At all times, but especially bad times, we want to laugh. Laughter cleanses and heals, makes us forget.

Let’s circle back around to the mastery of language bit. Without total mastery of the language, then you won’t be funny in print. Why? Well, you don’t have voice inflections to help you (think George Carlin and W.C. Fields). You won’t have facial expressions (Jim Carrey) or pratfalls (Chevy Chase) to bring off the effect. Just your words, sitting there on the page.

So what makes for funny stuff? Let me count the ways:

Unexpected turns. Dorothy Parker was queen of misdirection. Her aphorisms and sentences start off in one direction, and before you know it, she’s faked you out and gone in another. Psycholinguists call this trick “surprising Broca” because that’s what you’re doing: fooling that part of the brain (Broca’s area) that analyzes language. Here’s an example:

It’s a small apartment, I’ve barely enough room to lay my hat and a few friends.

Brevity is the soul of lingerie.

Rich details. The more details, the funnier it gets. Here I’ll turn to Joseph Heller, whose Catch-22 is a masterpiece of comedic action:

The day before Yossarian met the chaplain, a stove exploded in the mess hall and set fire to one side of the kitchen. An intense heat flashed through the area. Even in Yossarian’s ward, almost three hundred feet away, they could hear the roar of the blaze and the sharp cracks of flaming timber. Smoke sped past the orange-tinted windows. In about fifteen minutes the crash trucks from the airfield arrived to fight the fire. For a frantic half hour it was touch and go. Then the firemen began to get the upper hand. Suddenly there was the monotonous old drone of bombers returning from a mission, and the firemen had to roll up their hoses and speed back to the field in case one of the planes crashed and caught fire. The planes landed safely. As soon as the last one was down, the firemen wheeled their trucks around and raced back up the hill to resume their fight with the fire at the hospital. When they got there, the blaze was out. It had died of its own accord, expired completely without even an ember to be watered down, and there was nothing for the disappointed firemen to do but drink tepid coffee and hang around trying to screw the nurses.

So what’s the difference between the fine detail in this account (“orange-tinted windows”, “tepid coffee”, “three hundred feet away”, “sharp cracks of falling timber”) and the detail in the miserably failed attempt at a joke by Uncle Miltie at the Labor Day family barbecue?

Because Heller’s technique is solid. Notice how the long passage is actually a series of comedic sketches, each with a beginning, middle, and end. Each sketch rolls into the next: First we hear of the fire, and then along come the firemen, excited to have some action. They struggle with the fire, and just as they are about to win, the bombers return from their mission. Heller’s use of the word “monotonous” to describe the drone underpins the monotony of the firemen’s lives on the island of Pianosa–they must adhere to their routine of escorting bombers down the runway. As soon as that last bomber lands, though, they are racing back up the hill, all excited to fight a fire. By this time (and here’s the punchline) however, the fire has died of its own accord, seemingly of boredom. So the firemen go back to their boring lives of drinking tepid coffee and trying to score on the nurses.

Okay, what else besides structure makes something funny? The twin tools of comedy writing are exaggeration and understatement. Mark Twain is the master of exaggeration, and Life on the Mississippi is full of it:

In the space of one hundred and seventy-six years the Lower Mississippi has shortened itself two hundred and forty-two miles. That is an average of a trifle over one mile and a third per year. Therefore, any calm person, who is not blind or idiotic, can see that in the old Colitic Silurian Period, just a million years ago next November, the Lower Mississippi River was upward of one million three hundred thousand miles long, and stuck out over the Gulf of Mexico like a fishing rod.

At the other extreme is understatement (and its cousin, omission), and you can’t beat the British at this game. Particularly, P. G. Wodehouse hardly ever raises his voice no matter how crazy Bertie Wooster’s misadventures get:

I sat up in bed with that rather unpleasant feeling you get sometimes that you’re going to die in about five minutes.

You live and die by punchlines. Notice how in that passage by Heller there’s not only a general punchline (the fire dies of its own accord) but a punchline within the punchline, which contrasts the excitement of firefighting with the humdrum nature of their off-duty time.

There are a couple of effective ways to execute on punchlines. One is to offer up a capstone or summary to what has come before. Jerome K. Jerome is a master at this sort of effect. In his Three Men in a Boat, the characters manage to get themselves hopelessly lost in a maze. At the end of the episode, they do get out, and the narrator remarks:

Harris said he thought it was a very fine maze, so far as he was a judge, and we agreed that we would try to get George to go into it, on our way back.

Another great way to deliver a punchline is via the old trick of misdirection. Again, here’s Joseph Heller:

The Texan turned out to be good-natured, generous and likable. In three days no one could stand him.

And of course, there’s the Bard (here from Much Ado About Nothing):

BENEDICK: I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes, and moreover, I will go with thee to thy uncle’s.

Once you deliver the coup-de-grace, get out! Have enough sense to go out on top.

Okay, so now you’ve got some idea of what it takes to bring the funny when you sit down and write. Now you have to ask yourself this question:

Why do I want to be funny?


How far will I push it?

The first questions is fairly complex, but it needs an answer. Are you being funny just to entertain, in a harmless Neil-Simon-script-starring-Jack-Lemmon way? Are you making a statement about society, a la Joseph Heller or Jonathan Swift? Are you making fun of an existing work or genre (think National Lampoon)? Or do you just want to be zany and unpredictable (Weird Al Yankovic, Jim Carrey)?

How far to push your humor is up to you and up to the editors (and readers!) of the places where you want to sell. Some publications are more conservative, some more subversive. There’s no sense in sending light humor full of literary puns to a magazine that wants raunchy, over-the-top slapstick.

Now then, comes the final question: can you be funny and erotic at the same time? Quite frankly, I don’t think there’s anything funnier than a naked adult. Even the well-built members of the species are funny–stretch marks, tattoos, interesting birthmarks, pimples on butts, inappropriate flatulance. Even more so, people’s behavior is very funny. Particularly, the things they think or say when overcome with lust–I’ve always thought that they’d be more effective if they weren’t played straight.

Erotica is too serious, in my opinion. It could use a good dose of humor (whether sprinkled with it or served up plain old funny), in my opinion. Nothing like laughter to put all of this complex sexuality stuff into proper perspective.

Writing Erotic Flash Fiction


It’s about writing flash fiction, geared to erotica but good points for anyone writing a story in 250 words.

Writing Erotic Flash Fiction
By T. Myer
You’ve seen these little powerhouses of narrative everywhere. Short little stories (1000 words is almost too long) that convey a powerful story while implying an entire novel’s worth of story, characterization, and conflict. The flash fiction (or short-short story) market is gaining in popularity, as editors can pack in more variety with each anthology or zine they publish.

But how do you crack this market? Anyone who has tried to write a piece of flash fiction (erotic or not) quickly realizes how difficult it is to build a good story in so little acreage. Here are some tips for getting off on the right foot.

1. Start strong. Flash fiction in many respects is like advertising copywriting. Without a strong headline and lead sentence, there’s no way anyone will pay attention to it. Same with flash fiction. Here are some suggestions to help you get started:

· Dialogue. An excellent beginning, especially if we are thrust into a conversation halfway through it, as though we’d just entered the room where two people are talking. This draws us in, makes us want to read on to figure out what’s happening.

· Description. More than other prose forms, flash fiction attracts a lot of poetic diction. Many flash fiction pieces can sustain lyrical prose because of its brevity. An effective beginning for an erotic piece is to describe in depth one of the character’s physical characteristics. This will lead you to other discoveries.

· Metaphor. Again, flash fiction can sustain higher levels of metaphor, analogy, and allegory than other prose forms because they’re so short. Readers will forgive–even enjoy–the tangents you take. Beware, though: if you have something allegorical to say, don’t dawdle. Economy of words is everything.

2. Forget plot. Let your characters and situations take their natural course. Especially if the piece you are writing has to be 100 or 200 words. Don’t cranialize the experience, get it out on paper. The best way to approach this kind of writing is to get the hell out of the way of the first draft. You’ll have plenty of time later to edit and shape. With just two or three characters, a situation, and 300 words, you’ll have no trouble at all getting the words out.

3. Imply as much as you can. Every word, every action, every sentence should imply way more than it actually says or expresses. If your two characters are divorced, try not to say this outright. Show us, show us, show us. Their words and actions around each other will tell us not only if they are divorced, but whether it was amicable, painful, etc.

4. Think tone. Flash fiction pieces are about tone, not just form. They are more like poems than prose in this way. Although flash fiction pieces can take many forms (letter, diary entry, vignette, slice of life, anecdote, joke) it’s their tone that sets them apart as a literary form.

What is tone? I can take the easy way out and say “You’ll know it when you see it,” but I won’t. Tone is what underlies any of your writing. An emotion or edge. Maybe the entire tone of the story is hurried and paranoid, but the characters themselves are placid. This sets up a nice conflict. Or maybe the tone is comic, although the matter is tragic.

Tone is painted with diction, rhythm, and syntax. Most prose writers find these fields hard to master. Take a poetry class or write some poetry that doesn’t rhyme. Paint a picture with word choices, word phrases, word arrangements. A delicious conflict arises when one character tra-la-la’s while another feels like a dead anvil sitting in the middle of the page.

5. Conflict and contrast. I’ve said it a number of times, but it bears saying again. Always throw yourself into the path of conflict. The conflict can be physical, emotional, spiritual, internal, external, whatever. Same goes with contrast–the bolder, the better.

6. Twist the hook at the end. You open with a hook to reel in the reader. By the end, you need to twist that hook in the reader’s mouth. Because the form is so brief, the twist will be no more than a paragraph, and is usually just a sentence or phrase.

The hook at the end is what will make your flash fiction totally unforgettable. It can literally seal the memory of it in the vaults of your reader’s mind. But don’t overdo it. Sometimes a quarter turn of the hook is enough.

7. Forget everything I told you. Someone will come around and break all these rules, and that’s fine. This form is ripe for harvesting unusual fruit. Just write and see what happens. I think you’ll find the form very gratifying.

Editing Advice Now that you’ve got a first draft down, more than likely you have too many words, either for your own liking or for the editor’s. Here’s how you can knock down the word count.

1. Murder all adverbs. Keep the emphasis on the nouns and verbs. Instead of saying “he ran quickly” say, “he sprinted.” You just saved 1 word.

2. Likewise with redundancies. Instead of saying things like “she moaned with pleasure” say “she moaned.” We’ll figure out from the context that it was pleasurable. Double kudos to you if the piece becomes a little more ambiguous (maybe she moans from pain? despair? fright?) because of the edit.

3. If a word doesn’t add to tone, conflict, or the upcoming hook-twisting, then flush it. There’s no room for excess baggage in this genre. Every word must lead to the conclusion, even in a roundabout way.

Further Reading:

Several online erotica sites publish flash fiction, including Amoret (http://www.amoretonline.com), Mind Caviar (http://www.mindcaviar.com), and Clean Sheets (http://www.cleansheets.com).