Craig Sorensen is one of the most electrifying new writers in the erotica firmament. His publication credits are already dazzling and gathering force with stories most recently appearing in Rachel Kramer Bussel's The Mile High Club: Plane Sex Stories and Alison Tyler's Afternoon Delight. He is definitely a talent to monitor over at the meteorology center, and what do you know, he also has a second person narrative to share that's sure to sizzle! Here's Craig reporting from the eye of the storm:
The story "Photo Finish," from Alison Tyler's Frenzy: 60 Stories of Sudden Sex, was inspired by an actual late night thunderstorm. I got up and started writing while the story was fresh in my head. It was in second person in my mind, but I translated it into third person, and I realized it seemed less effective through this filter. I started over with the second person voice in my head and it flowed so naturally.
In a sense, it was an accidental success; I didn't think about why it should be in second person. Sometimes you'll hear a sculptor say they just carve the bits that don't belong from the rough stone and reveal what was already inside. This story felt kind of like that. The story was born out of the magic, tense moment of a thunderstorm, sensing the "electricity" when a warm wet front unites with a cold dry one. The lovers personify the fronts colliding. Now, on hindsight, I think second person is the natural extension of this embodiment.
What do you think?
And for the record, yes, I do love thunderstorms...
And now, a teasing tidbit from "Photo Finish":
You’re such a tough woman. Of course I pick on you for this one paralyzing fear. Your slim arms circle my neck like a vise and your breath fills my ear in the black hole silence following waves of cackling thunder. I feel your flannel clad hip graze my hard cock, and I worry that you’ll be angry at how your rare fear turns me on.
I feel you curl your nightgown up your legs. Like a strobe light in a disco, the lightning frames you peeling the nightgown away. Your dilated eyes captured burn in changing colors as you collapse to me like a koala to a eucalyptus. In a safe cocoon of early winter covers, I turn your body under me and I press my fingers between your legs. The thunder chases lightning closely now. Like rubbing a genie’s lamp, lingering on the tiny spout, I draw the moisture from you until it flows like a mountain hot spring. A long pause and I’m surprised when I feel the covers wash out like low tide.
“Please, please fuck me.” Your hoarse voice is less than a whisper. You never say ‘fuck.’ You never plead. I consider toying with you, but it’s not a time to play.