jayarrarr:

Men who write are sexy.

There, I said it. Saying it gives it power; gives them power. Men who write are sexy in the same way musicians are sexy. In the same way you see him playing that guitar and know that’s the same face he makes when he comes. In the same way falling in love with his music means you fall in love with him, even if he’s not conventionally attractive — he can’t be separated from this overwhelming thing he creates.

Musicians have groupies and perhaps it’s true that authors also do, but they’re quieter and more unassuming. Less obtrusive and more shadowed; less spotlight and more wall. The musician’s groupie might be in the front row, drunkenly throwing her bra onstage. The author’s groupie is in the back, sucking the wall through her shoulder blades and a cappuccino through full lips once bitten in pursuit of lesser things.

Men who write are sexy.

I’m not talking about the man who drops a few lines in as many minutes and hits “post” without a second thought — he may be sexy too, but he’s not the subject of this missive and he’ll have to sulk in the corner and deal with that.

I’m talking about the man who would labor on a 22-page short story. I’m talking about the man who would dare to write a full-length novel. The man who would dare to dream. Dreaming is sexy and dreaming is putting yourself out there, knowing you could fail, and not giving a fuck. Dreaming is real.

Men who write are sexy.

Men who write take no prisoners. They take life by the balls and squeeze every ounce of passion out of it, then toss the deflated husk to the ground and scream “Is that all you’ve got?”  And you imagine they write how they fuck. Just like you imagine that musician plays how he fucks. Your mind knows he treats the words the same way he’d treat you, and you lose yourself there.

It doesn’t matter how he looks; it only matters what he does.

And you want him to be doing you.

^All of this.

(via middleofthenightdaydreams)