Paul J. Hanlon

erotica. author. This site is 18+ and NSFW. Please leave if you are underage. My short stories, flash erotic fiction, etc. can be found in the Library. Feedback is always welcomed, so feel free to use the ask box. Or, you can email me: [email protected].

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(via Like Clintons, but without the shit grey bears (Noisy Decent Graphics))

[pauljhanlon-blog]

[hoodoothatvoodoo-deactivated201]

Illustration by Georges Leonnec

For La Vie Parisienne

1920s

[hoodoothatvoodoo-deactivated201]

Illustration by Georges Leonnec

For La Vie Parisienne

December 1926

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[decadentlullaby]

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Christmas, for him, was always thus: lighted trees and tight spaces; long strands weaved deftly, from trunk to stem and back; a soft tug and resistance, he'd follow the trail across the carpet to a snarl his fingers could sort.

-- Paul J. Hanlon,

because you asked

[theparisreview]

“Language is a thing that seduced me. Language is a thing that perverted me.”

Blaise Cendrars (via theparisreview)

[joandefers-deactivated20160722]

I have a little novella up on Amazon.

With any luck, it’s hot. More than likely, it’s just awkward.

But, you know… it’s my awkward.

[pauljhanlon-blog]

A uniquely personal awkward can be hot. I'm looking forward to it.

[isidoraworks]

Oscar Wilde said that if you know what you want to be, then you inevitably become it - that is your punishment, but if you never know, then you can be anything. There is a truth to that. We are not nouns, we are verbs. I am not a thing - an actor, a writer - I am a person who does things - I write, I act - and I never know what I am going to do next. I think you can be imprisoned if you think of yourself as a noun.

— Stephen Fry  (via thatkindofwoman)

[justhesex]

[rolledtrousers]

One-Way Voyeurism

I’m selfish. Or at least, I feel that way sometimes. The more that I attend, slipping through the arteries of London in the evening, as the tube lines start to shudder to a halt and you have to rely on the arthritic spasms of the night buses to hurl you into one house party or another, the more I feel like I’m holding something back from everyone in attendance. 

You see people enjoying themselves openly, coming to climax and driven to beautiful despair at the hands of friends, lovers, partners, strangers. They throw themselves onto the stage, and relish the attention. I relish the giving of it, but I will never be that performer. At least, not me right now, in how I think of things.

It’s too intimate for me to bare myself so brazenly, even if I wouldn’t be the focus of the attention. I can’t be the ringmaster outside of my own bedroom, can’t perform, present, introduce and direct. It’s a problem of vulnerability, and the willingness to show it. To put it more succinctly  there’s a part of me that’s a coward. 

Occasionally, glimpses show through. The odd piece of erotica secreted up a skirt, underneath panties and uncomfortable in all the right ways. Marker pen scrawled obscenely across your stomach, or across your left arse cheek. The intimate flaunting itself in public, happily hidden from the world. 

Perhaps one day I’ll be happy to open that door and bare myself to others in the way I so enjoy watching others bare themselves. But for the moment, I’ll keep things behind closed doors.

[apoideae]

[intothesebonds]

Poetry- but what is poetry anyway? More than one rickety answer has tumbled since that question first was raised. But I just keep on not knowing, and I cling to that like a redemptive handrail.

— Wisława Szymborska Translated by S. Baranczak & C. Cavanagh

[tattooedtaint]

[yourbadgrrl]

Bad Daddy! lol

[pauljhanlon-blog]

  Hopes he has enough rope? Daddy--like a good boy scout--should always be prepared. Consider how much rope you would ever need, then double it. Add a little extra for good measure. The trunk of your car should be a tool box for any contingency.

[suicideblonde]

[maryannrabbit-deactivated202008]

I don’t know who did it, Daddy

[pauljhanlon-blog]

Just like the Philadelphia mass turbulence of 1947.

[manchannel]

For last year’s words belong to last year’s language And next year’s words await another voice. And to make an end is to make a beginning.

T.S. Eliot (via manchannel)

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