I write notes on my phone a lot. Every few months I take those notes and either trash them or move them to text documents in my Writing folder of my Dropbox.

Sometimes there are weird gems that I am not sure what to do with. Sometimes they are the start of stories. Sometimes they find there way into stories I’ve already started. Something they just hang around. Here are some.

The tale of the wounded bird collector.


Lucy had perfected the bored look years ago. Ideally, she needed a martini in her hand. She dressed like it was 1962 and had fire engine red lips and a body that could make a man sell his soul or even his house.


She promised not to smoke if I just came over. When I got there, she stank of mouthwash and she didn’t know what to do with her hands.


There was nothing to do but fall into her arms, trapped in her honeyed gravity well.


You could tell the state of Amanda’s life from the state of her lips. That morning they were chapped and bitten and in general all fucked up. It was going to be a long morning.


They met in line to tour the Vatican. She was with her parents for that last vacation before you are too old to go on vacation with your parents anymore. Barely twenty. Could there be a more inappropriate place to pick someone up?


He touched the ring on her bellybutton. “Was this your first little rebellion?” he mocked.

Her mouth turned into a frown and as she pouted she wished he would smack her already.


I gave in. I gave all of myself. I surrendered to the Power Point presentation.


Naked, he looked very different than the man in the suit she had gone home with. His chest was broad and strong and as she moved closer she wondered if this was what it would be like to put your hand through a cage a pet a lion.


Sometimes he would place his hand on her forehead, as if checking her for a fever, and the comfort it brought frightened her. How did he have the power to turn off her thoughts and stop the shaking and the fear? How did his hand become such a powerful sedative?

"That’s right," Adam said, holding on tightly to the scruff of Henry’s neck while he slowly jerked the shorter man’s cock.

"You just keep watching her touching herself. You keep your eyes on her and then it doesn’t make it gay that I’m jerking you off," Adam teased with a cruel laugh.

"I’ll let you know when I think of an excuse that will keep you straight while you suck my dick."

- From one of the stories I will be reading with The Dirty Boys on September 7th.

Smut as Art

nomakesknots asked: Mr. Stratton, of all such arts in which to delicately unfold and write upon why does smut appeal the most?

Maybe we all gravitate to the language we learn first.

As a kid wandering around the burgeoning internet, I found erotica pretty early on. It took less time to download a story than a picture. They were scanned smut novels, fan fictions, wild tales where people wrote about the most outrageous things they could think of just to stand out.

At the same time I spent most of my school days in the public library. I wondered if there might be dirty stories on the shelves, like the ones on the computer.

So I found Anaïs Nin who has been a lifelong guild. And the Beauty series and De Sade and the Story of O. And then Nabakov, who shook my world up. Henry Miller, then the beats. Later I ended up inheriting a box of discarded pulp novels from the 70s with every manner of fucked up kink.

So with those things as my guides, it always seemed natural for me to write smut. Plus from early on it has been a way to meet like minded people and seduce them, which is really the greatest goal of art in my opinion.

I really do consider what I write here and in my books to be art. Sometimes they are silly or serious or very direct and graphic, but these little tales actually mean a lot to me and I’m trying to say some important things with them.

I write smut because it is the art form that can stir the body and the emotions at once if done right.