Graymouse
Really Experienced
- Joined
- Oct 12, 2000
- Posts
- 129
All right, here's the thing: being that I am currently a grad student working in a nueroscience lab, and given the fact that I have to look busy all the time, I often find myself reading up on weird neurological conditions and sometimes thinking to myself, "Damn . . . I bet that would make for an interesting piece of erotica." Only I can't tell if I'm right or not; conceivably the things I'm thinking of might be interesting only to other geeks like myself who are forced to think about nothing but science all day. So I'm thinking that, before I bother to work too hard on this, I'll just run it by some normal people and see what the consensus is . . .
I had this idea to do a story with a principle character who has synesthesia. Synesthesia is a neurological phenomenon whereby people get their sensory signals crossed, so to speak; they might smell sounds or hear touch or taste words, for example. Many synesthetes also attribute distinct colors, textures, sexes, ages, and/or personalities to the letters of the alphabet, numbers, furniture, doorframes, appliances, etc. It's a really weird condition. At any rate, sex being such a sensual experience, I thought this would be an original approach--it's been said there are only so many ways to describe the act of copulating, but I can't really recall ever reading about the sound of someone's nipples or the color of a blowjob. Does this sound remotely interesting to anyone?
I wrote the following opening paragraph, which is very rough and will likely be changed repeatedly, but I'm wondering if this is the sort of thing that would motivate anyone to read on. Is it too cheesy? I have this nagging suspicion that it's hugely cheesy. Is it prohibitively confusing? I don't want to explain all at once for fear of sounding like a textbook.
"This bedroom door—I know it's a door and not actually alive; I'm not stupid even if I am crazy. But I feel that energy in it all the same, like a personality, almost. It reminds me of a mother. Not my mother, but somebody's. Compassionate. Nurturing. I rest my head against the wood, feeling that warmth soak in like salve into a wound, and close my ears to Corrine's moaning and the wrench of taxed bedsprings on the other side. She would laugh if she saw me, wallowing so deeply in my own neurological brand of insanity. I don't care. She can't see me, not now, because she's too busy fucking some guy in the bedroom that used to be ours. I straighten finally, dirty fingernails trailing over smooth wood grain. The touch sets off a faint humming and little explosions of silver light six inches in front of my face of which I'm primarily unaware. Turning away, I move down the hall and grab my jacket off the hook on the wall. I have to get away from this."
I had this idea to do a story with a principle character who has synesthesia. Synesthesia is a neurological phenomenon whereby people get their sensory signals crossed, so to speak; they might smell sounds or hear touch or taste words, for example. Many synesthetes also attribute distinct colors, textures, sexes, ages, and/or personalities to the letters of the alphabet, numbers, furniture, doorframes, appliances, etc. It's a really weird condition. At any rate, sex being such a sensual experience, I thought this would be an original approach--it's been said there are only so many ways to describe the act of copulating, but I can't really recall ever reading about the sound of someone's nipples or the color of a blowjob. Does this sound remotely interesting to anyone?
I wrote the following opening paragraph, which is very rough and will likely be changed repeatedly, but I'm wondering if this is the sort of thing that would motivate anyone to read on. Is it too cheesy? I have this nagging suspicion that it's hugely cheesy. Is it prohibitively confusing? I don't want to explain all at once for fear of sounding like a textbook.
"This bedroom door—I know it's a door and not actually alive; I'm not stupid even if I am crazy. But I feel that energy in it all the same, like a personality, almost. It reminds me of a mother. Not my mother, but somebody's. Compassionate. Nurturing. I rest my head against the wood, feeling that warmth soak in like salve into a wound, and close my ears to Corrine's moaning and the wrench of taxed bedsprings on the other side. She would laugh if she saw me, wallowing so deeply in my own neurological brand of insanity. I don't care. She can't see me, not now, because she's too busy fucking some guy in the bedroom that used to be ours. I straighten finally, dirty fingernails trailing over smooth wood grain. The touch sets off a faint humming and little explosions of silver light six inches in front of my face of which I'm primarily unaware. Turning away, I move down the hall and grab my jacket off the hook on the wall. I have to get away from this."
