If you’re a Lexi reader, you already know that reading my books and stories could get you any one of a dozen different experiences to accompany the always hot sex.
You might be romantically moved by a book like Anticipation.
You might be brought to tears by Divorced.
People tell me The Future of Sex — which I co-write with Sean Platt and Johnny B. Truant in the world of their sci-fi serial The Beam — is some of the most thoughtful, intelligent work they’ve seen … in or outside erotica.
More than anything, I constantly hear how funny readers find some of my writing.
Sift through my catalog, and you can see how strong the humorous undercurrent had become over the past few years. Not everything has humor in it (the ABC series and The Future of Sex are mostly serious outside Cheated), but much of it does. That abundance of humor has caught me half by surprise — it’s as if I’ve peppered it into my work without even realizing what I was doing.
I’m the sort of girl who’s always making off-color jokes anyway, enough that my friends sometimes tell me to be more serious.
But I don’t want to be serious all the time. Most of the time, I really want to laugh.
As I consider the abundance of chuckles that have snuck into my work, I have to ask:
Why exactly is sex so damn funny?
Laughter is a Release
When I’m fucking a guy, I sometimes start laughing from nowhere.
I don’t know if this is unique to me, but fortunately the guys I sleep with know how off-the-wall nuts I can be. I constantly giggle, and sometimes the random WTF things I say (which sometimes make it into my stories; “What if we screwed so hard against the fridge that we knocked it over?” showed up in The Autumn Diaries) can be downright disorienting to the uninitiated.
So when I start to cum and then start to laugh, my men are secure enough to know I’m not laughing at their cocks. Their cocks are making me laugh, but not because they’re small (I like all sizes. Tongues matter more).
I’m laughing because I’m having fun, letting go, and not trapping my true feelings inside. Because I’m temporarily out of control, surrendering to the moment.
I’ve been bent over, and a guy will be thrusting into my pussy when we start making that farting, queefing sound. It’s happened when one of us is close, so we’ll power through because the itch is only almost scratched.
He’s grunting. I’m panting. My pussy is farting. We laugh through our orgasms, and he’ll push in this final time, unloading his cum to the accompaniment of an especially loud and wet ripper.
Why should it matter if we laugh? We’re both into it, and happy.
Why would you not sometimes laugh while fucking?
I’ve cried a little while fucking too. Emotions swell when your body tips past its usual safe edges. When we’re that vulnerable — letting someone inside us, emotionally for the guy and literally for me — walls crumble.
It’s all good: necessary catharsis. We need to laugh, because we’re told so often to be serious.
“Life is serious business!” most of our parents and other authority figures say. “You’d better wipe that smile off your face and pay it the respect it deserves, or you’ll never amount to anything!”
WELL, FUCK THAT.
When my pussy makes noise, that’s funny.
When my vibrator is low on batteries, struggling like a champ while I’m trying to get off through its death throes, that’s funny.
And when I write Autumn Cole or the outrageous Heather from Adult Video (who decided to make amateur porn for tips and was the target of an intervention because she was “too slutty”), I won’t pretend that what they do and say isn’t pee-in-your-pants, side-splittingly hilarious.
Sometimes, we get horny and want to cum. It’s a need we’re often ordered to deny, because it’s somehow wrong, despite it being baked into our physiology and responsible for the continuation of our species.
When you need to get off, I say, go ahead and get off.
Sometimes, we need to laugh, whether it’s appropriate or not. To vent frustration and pent-up emotion … like an orgasm.
No wonder laughter and sex are like peanut butter and chocolate.
Laughter is Irreverent
I remember reading Tucker Max’s work (his oh-so-wrong stories that I find unspeakably hilarious even through the misogyny) and feeling that he’d given me permission to combine humor and sex like pepper and salt.
My first thought was to write a Tucker-style story, but from a woman’s perspective. That was the spark that birthed I Fucked Tucker Max. When I wrote the scene where Autumn jerks her pot dealer in his car and jizz flies from the window and onto the sleeve of a passing old man, I felt this giddy sense of having gotten away with something.
A very short excerpt:
Autumn shoved not one but two fingers up Brady’s ass, pressing them hard into his prostate. Long ropes of white cum shot out of his dick and into the air. None of his flying ropes hit her tits because Autumn had angled his cock toward the window just far enough so she could plausibly pretend she’d missed the target on accident.
But at the last minute, she realized the window was open. Brady, who was always excited and whose ejaculations could clear a restaurant’s tabletop (Autumn knew from experience), shot a loop of jizz through the open window. It struck the sleeve of an old man with coke-bottle glasses who’d just gotten out of a car in the next parking slot. The old man, who was using a cane and seemed barely able to see three feet in front of himself, didn’t notice. Two ends of a spunk streamer adhered themselves to the man’s sleeve, and the white goo in between dangled and swung like a tiny trapeze.
“I just came on that old man,” said Brady, turning his head to look.
In its ridiculous way, that story might have changed my life. I was in awe, to think I could make a living writing stories that made me laugh, as much as they tingled my clit. I knew it would all be downhill — in terms of mirth, enjoyment, or general irreverence — from there.
The same things were true, both with writing about sex and writing humor. The more over-the-top I wrote my sex scenes (where appropriate), the hotter they were. And the more wrong I made my humorous scenes, the funnier they would be — for me, and those readers who are as delightfully irreverent as I am.
After I Fucked Tucker Max, I wrote the quasi-biographical (but not really) Autumn Diaries, which featured stories like the one about the guy with the creepy doll collection, the one with the hoarder, and the one with the guy who wanted all the stuff up his ass.
Then the Filthy Fairy Tales collection, with lines like: “After another half hour of indecision, they dragged Snow White to the cottage, propped her in a comfortable chair, and waited. You probably think you know what’s coming, but unlike most stupid fairy tales where something lame like love’s true kiss brings bitches back to life, this is a story about boners and jizz.”
I wrote Cheated, which is basically Kill Bill with pussy, and MANY laugh-out-loud moments.
I like to think of Adult Video as “Clerks in a porn shop.”
Adult Video is the story of three co-workers, tentative friends, and sometimes fuck buddies: Heather, Tiffany, and Seth … plus janitor and glory hole attendant Sancho, who Heather calls “Guacamole.”
Seth is the all-American kid who found himself stuck in a go-nowhere, do-nothing job patronized by oddballs and weirdoes.
Heather is the sluttiest, most foul-mouthed, most casually wanton character I’ve ever written (or encountered).
Tiffany is Heather’s best friend, dragged into the job by Heather, and constantly uncomfortable. Tiffany is as sweet and pleasant as Heather is crass. She figures everyone could use some help to feel more empowered and shame-free in their sex lives, and treats the customers at Happy Endings with respect and love … until Heather walks by, “testing” dildos under her skirt while complaining about some cunt customer who did something cunty because she was a total cunting cunt.
I laugh out loud every time I write a new episode of Adult Video. These are the times I can’t believe this is my job — that this is what I get to do for a living.
Writing Adult Video is like playing in an endless playground.
Scenarios unspool with no real effort, as if dying for birth:
The gang dealing with the recall of a defective sex toy, called the “fisting mitten.”
Heather mistaking the meaning of an “ATM” sign at the bank, and lining up for some ass-to-mouth action.
Seth encountering the hottest customer in the world, then being tormented (and kept from jerking his gherkin) by Heather and Tiffany through the episode’s remainder.
In the recent Adult Video XXX-Mas bonus episode, Heather mistakes The North Pole (an outrageous holiday decoration) for the world’s biggest dildo, and vows to conquer her Everest.
It’s so, so, so wrong.
Just like sex is supposed to be, right?
Laughter is Disruptive
I’m a rebel. It made things fun for my dad when I was growing up, with me sneaking out my window at night and generally doing the opposite of whatever he said. I’m so rebellious, it’s almost an affliction.
The surest way to get me to do something is to tell me I must do the opposite.
The desire to contradict authority — to disrupt norms — might be the main reason I write about sex, other than because it feels goddamn fantastic.
It’s always bothered the hell out of me that sex is shamed so intensely in most cultures, and that those who enjoy it are made to feel bad for having natural urges and desires. Women especially.
A man who likes to fuck is just a normal man (boys will be boys), but a woman who likes to fuck is a slut, a whore, a social degenerate. That, my friends, is why my most raucous characters embrace the word “slut.” They’re saying, “Oh yeah? You want to call me a slut? Well, let’s see if this slut can fuck that smug smile right off your hypocritical face.”
I write about sex because it’s what I’m not supposed to do. Which is total bullshit, because judging by my reviews and emails, I’m not the only one who enjoys thinking about it as much as I do — and grew up shamed for feeling that way.
Laughter is like that as well.
When are we not supposed to laugh?
Well, obviously, you shouldn’t laugh at a funeral. Even if someone at the lectern is reliving an amusing anecdote. You’re merely supposed to chuckle. Don’t have too much fun, because someone has died. And … you know … if you laugh, you might make them more dead. Or kill someone else. Or ruin everyone’s life.
You shouldn’t laugh in a business meeting. I’ve done that, back in my copywriting days. Some clients loved it — they said it was the spark that lit up my copy. Most clients did not. Meetings are serious. That’s why everyone stuffs themselves into uncomfortable clothes and uses long words with too many syllables — to make sure everyone understands how serious it all is, and how humanity will perish through mirth.
You shouldn’t laugh in class. Man did I get busted for that often.
You shouldn’t laugh in church.
You shouldn’t laugh during romantic moments.
You shouldn’t laugh at violence in movies or on TV (even if someone might have made the special effects too excessive in a ridiculous way) because laughter might indicate you’re some sort of a psycho.
You shouldn’t laugh when grandma’s around, because grandma’s from a generation when laughter didn’t exist. Apparently.
But look, goddammit: LIFE IS FUNNY MUCH OF THE TIME!
We are designed to experience joy and pleasure. We are capable of tremendous heights, yet we’re constantly told to cap ourselves.
Restrain, restrain, restrain.
But who the fuck is saying to restrain? Is it God? Some churches say yes, but regardless of whether I’ll listen to God, I sure as hell won’t do so via an intermediary who decided he was higher up on the pedestal than the giggly girl who likes to feel good.
Why does wanting to feel good make me less-than in the eyes of authority?
Can anyone tell me?
I refuse to let the world murder my smile.
I refuse to let someone tell me that my sexual pleasure is bad, that my joy is bad, that my mirth and laughter and jocularity is bad.
I refuse to be anyone other than me.
You say I shouldn’t laugh at taboo topics, and I’m rebellious enough to throw it in your face for spite.
We’re not supposed to talk about sex. It isn’t polite.
Apparently, laughing too much isn’t something we’re supposed to do, either.
So of course, I’ll do both as often as I can.
Shit Gets Real
You’re here for a reason. You wouldn’t have made it to this blog — and you sure as hell wouldn’t have read this far down — if you weren’t at least a little willing to be on Team Lexi.
Do you agree that we have a right to enjoy sex — and that nobody has the right to tell us we shouldn’t?
Do you agree that life is often amusing, or joyous, or fun, or funny, or hilarious?
Are you unwilling to settle for being one and only one kind of person? Do you believe it’s possible to be funny and respectful and serious and sexual and irreverent and loving and filled with delightful abandon?
Do you believe that we can be all of those things, because we are human beings — NOT CARDBOARD CUTOUTS?
Then please, stick around.
There aren’t enough of us willing to speak our minds. Too many crawl into a cave of shame and live there, buying bullshit wholesale, heaped upon us by those who pontificate as they climb into their positions of moral superiority.
I refuse to be shamed, to be told that my sexuality and laughter make me a pariah.
Life is supposed to be fun. Life is supposed to feel good.
There is no heroism in a stoic life. You are only denying yourself if you trap your joy inside, and perpetuating the power of those who tell us to “control ourselves.”
If you agree, with me, raise your virtual fist. SHOUT IT OUT.
Then share this post, and tell your friends.