Just because I write erotic stories, and some may say not very good erotic stories, I have a stalker. Yeah, I know it is hard to believe but it is true. Now, alas, (I always wanted to use that word) my real life is an erotic horror story. Now, I must live my life in erotic horror and constant fear always looking over my shoulder.

"What was that? Did you hear that? I heard a noise and it sounded like breaking glass. Oh, geez, I just broke my glass in my hand. I'm tense. I'm stressed out. I need to relax."

Maybe, I should hire a bodyguard. Only, where do you find a beautiful blue-eyed blonde or a green-eyed redhead or a brown-eyed, dark-haired, sultry vixen who is about 5'8 with a perfect body to guard my naked body while I shower?

"Oh, bodyguard, can you hand me the soap, I, uhm, accidentally dropped it, again?"

Now, I live in fear and must take care retracing my steps thinking and wondering if today, is the day, that I will receive a nasty comment? Is today the day that I will receive the hateful feedback? Is today the day that I will receive that angry e-mail? It is horrible being me, sometimes, writing my stories alone with only the sincere hope, deepest wish, and unselfish desire that some one person will read them, vote for them, and comment complimentarily on them (sniff, sniff). Yet, I persevere and continue to write...for you. (Did I lay that on too thick?)

"Alas." (God, I love that word.)

Now, I am at the ready. Now, I am on edge. Now, I stand my guard by my computer watching my cursor blink, blink, and blink. Is that the blink that received the nasty comment or was it the blink before that allowed the angry feedback in or was it this blink that posted the hateful e-mail? Stop! I cannot stand staring at my blinking computer screen.

"Where is my gun? Did I lock the front door? Did I set the alarm? Leave one Pit Bull downstairs and the other Pit Bull standing guard by our bedroom door. Get away from the window! And whatever you do, do not look at the computer screen. It's the stalker, I just know it is."

It is horrible and not very erotic to be stalked. Actually, there are two stalkers stalking me. One is a man and the other a woman. Why do I know this? I know this and will tell you, later. Read on, please.

"Hmm, imagine the possibilities putting those two focused personalities together in a padded room, which, of course, I would love to do and throw away the key. Bye! Play nice. I'll be back to visit you every Christmas."

Hey, there are some celebrities who do not even have one stalker and I have two stalkers. What makes me so special? Is it my eyes? I do have nice eyes. Maybe, it is my witty repartee. If only I knew what repartee is?

I must have really pissed them off, huh? I wonder what it was I wrote that set them off. It would be funny if it was my Glen story. I love that little story. What if it was my Escalator Stripped My Mother-in-law Naked Story? Gee, maybe they thought it was a true story and felt bad for my naked mother-in-law. What part of Bostonfictionwriter do they not understand is fiction and not reality? I wonder if it was my cross-dresser story or my gay story, Odd Todd. Maybe, they think that I am not only a cross dresser but also a gay cross dresser. I wonder if it was my toys and masturbation story, Rhoda the Robot, My Living Doll. That was a cute and creative story, if I say so myself.

Now, you have me wondering. Whatever it is, I wonder what it was. I wonder which story it was. Maybe they do not like me and stalk me because my name appears in all capital letters. Now, that was a mistake. I wasn't paying attention when I signed up and besides, even when you have the cap lock on, some web sites will not accept capital letters and automatically restore them to lowercase. I am sorry if my name in capital letters bothers you but you really must get a life. Go outside. Walk to the light. Get away from the computer. Get a girlfriend or a boyfriend, whichever is the case.

Maybe, they just hate Boston. Maybe, they were banned in Boston. Maybe, they hate fiction. Maybe, they believe that Harry Potter is a true character and a true story. Wow! Maybe, they believe this is a literary board and not a pornography board. Double wow! Maybe, they think that I am a real person and not a delusion of my own creativity. I can assure you that I am not real, that I am make-believe and a figment of my imagination. So, leave me alone now and go away because I do not exist. Poof, let the stalking be over.

Yet, I don't know but it is kind of cool to be singled out. It is flattering in a way to be given special stalking attention. I wonder what they look like. What does a stalker look like? Does anyone know? Do they wear raincoats and drool? Do they stalk at certain times of the day after they drive the kids to school or after work or during working hours?

I mean, we all know what a terrorist looks like; they are the ones with their eyes bulging out of their heads. Yet, our government spends billions of dollars looking to find terrorists when all they need to do is the arrest the guy with the transfixed stare that has his eyes bulging out of his head. Am I right? You've all seen the photos after they have been arrested. They all have eyes bulging out of their heads like those rubber dolls that you squeeze and their eyes pop out.

I wonder why stalkers would take the time from their busy life (Ha!) to stalk me. I wonder if they have a union, the Stalkers Union, local Stalker #69 or something like that. Why do they think what I write is so important that they must make that one nasty and hateful comment to point out to everyone that I made a typo or an error in syntax or grammar or spelling?

"Hey, if you are so perfect, instead of writing your nasty comments, write us a story showing us all how it is done so that we can learn from you, oh, stalking master."

Besides, I am a writer. I am not an editor. I am more creative than I am anal. Moreover, do you think it is easy to write so many freaking stories to remain competitive in the Survivor Contest? Do you think that I have the time to spend days and weeks wrestling with a line of dialogue? No, I have to let it fly and get on with the next story. That is how it is. I am not a machine that can spit out 330 perfect stories in a year. It is very hard to write that many stories and to make them of interest to the reader. I am doing the best that I can people. Give me a break!

(So, did you feel bad for me after reading that? Did I come off as a sympathetic character? I wrote that for the benefit of the stalkers hoping that they would feel sorry for me and stop stalking me and, maybe, stalk you, instead. I wonder if it worked. Suddenly, I don't hear any heavy breathing.)

Nonetheless, I am being stalked and I am afraid (not really, but I needed to write that in there so that they will post this in the Erotic Horror category and not dump it in with the Reviews and Essays like they do with so many of my other stories.) Yes, I am so afraid. The horror of being stalked for writing erotic stories is erotic, kind of, not really, well, not at all. Yet, look at my hands. I'm shaking. I can hardly type. It is so disconcerting to have someone write me with angry hate mail filled with threats and ill will towards me, my family heritage, and my mother.

"Hey, don't you be writing about my mother like that. You can write anything you want about me or my Dad, okay, maybe, even my dog, but my Mom is special. Oh, and my car is off limits, too. I love my car. Ow, Sweetie, why are you hitting me? Oh, and you cannot write anything bad about my girlfriend either. She is off limits, too. Just to recap, my Mom, my car, and my girlfriend. Ow! Okay, not necessarily in that order."

You wonder what you wrote to make him or her lash out at you in such a mean spirited way. You wonder what medication he or she takes and why they stopped taking it. You wonder why the inmates at the mental institution are allowed access to the Internet.

"Dear President Bush. I think that you are a very smart man. Also, I think that Vice President Cheney is a very honest man. Just because you look a little like Alfred E. Newman of Mad Magazine would resemble as an adult and Vice-President Cheney looks like the devil if the devil was to take human form is no reason for you two fellows to get down on yourself. Maybe, you should start another war somewhere; only blow yourselves up this time instead of our killing our innocent, young military people."

Okay, maybe the mental patient who wrote the above is not crazy after all or had a clear day of insightfulness. Still, I am being stalked.

Then, as the days and weeks go by with your stalker continuing to write you hateful e-mails, he or she gets sloppy, makes some mistakes, and gives you some clues to their identity.

At first, I did not know who my stalker was. I thought it was a bunch of people who just did not like my stories or did not like me, personally. Then, after a while, it was obvious that it was just one malcontented man and one very upset woman. That is so scary when someone contacts you and writes things that makes you realize that they know who you are but you do not know who they are. That is so chilling. Then, you wonder are they watching me? Do they know where I live? Are they following me?

"Yeah, it's like that scary movie where the girl locks all the doors and windows and then...the killer calls her from inside the house."

It is my fault. I have been careless. I have not thought about ways to protect myself. I just write. What possible harm could I do writing a story?

"Once upon a time there lived a writer who wrote one too many stories. The last story that he wrote was about him as the main character, only, he did not know that he was writing about himself in his own story. He just thought that it was a great story to write. Then, one day, by reading his story, the stalker figured out where he lived, broke into his house, stole his computer, and wrote in big, black indelible magic marker, no more stories. Stop writing freaking stories!"

I have been warned by some of my readership not to share so much personal information about myself, but I did not take the appropriate steps to conceal my identity. Identity? What identity. I am just a guy like so many of you out there. There is nothing special about me and no reason, absolutely, for anyone to waste their time stalking me.

"Yes, it is true, I won the Olympic gold medal in Boxing but I did not give the year. Surely, that is not enough information to track me down. Yes, it is true that I saved a baby, actually twins, in a burning building twice, but lots of people save babies every day in burning buildings. They are not called heroes. They are called firefighters. Yes, it is true that I won the Indianapolis 500 but, again, I did not give the year that I won the race and surely, that was not enough information to track me down, unless, of course, they matched my name of the Olympic gold medal winner with the name of the Indy 500 winner. Darn, that was the thing that probably did it."

Besides, my identity, like who wants to be Bostonfictionwriter? Some days, I don't want to be Bostonfictionwriter. I really want to be Cameron Diaz's mattress or her pillow or her shower nozzle. Fuck that. I really want to be Cameron Diaz's boyfriend. Damn, she is so sexy. If truth be told, even I say, one Bostonfictionwriter is enough, while my stalker may say that one Bostonfictionwriter is one too many. Perish the thought.

I have friends, (yes, I have friends) on Literotica, okay, they are cyber friends but I consider them friends, just the same, who tell me not to write some of the things that I do. In a way, they try to censor me. That is kind of an oxymoronic applying censorship on an erotic story board. Maybe, they are concerned for my welfare. Maybe, I embarrass them for what I write. Maybe, I make them uncomfortable with what I write. I do not know. It is obvious that it is one or all of those things because oft time, many of my stories do not receive the supportive votes from the number of friends that I have on this board and off this board.

"Oh, God, did you read what he wrote, now? What is wrong with him? Is he back to drinking, again? Did he take his medication today? What pissed him off, now?"

Sorry, but...I cannot change who I am. I am too old to change, now. And I cannot censor what I write. If Literotica wants to do that by not posting some of the stories that I write, then, so be it; that is out of my control. And there have been some stories that they have rejected and I have withdrawn. Certainly, I hope that this is not one of them. I like this story. I don't mean anything by this story. I think that it is funny, witty, creative, and shows how modest I am (lol).

We writers write what we must and write what we feel. Would you tell an artist that he or she cannot draw that? The artist paints what inspires him, just as does the writer or the singer or the dancer. We are all artists with some higher in degree than others but, nonetheless, we are all inventive, creative, imaginative, sensitive, and, I dare say, talented.

All of us have written a story or two that we are particularly proud of and enjoyed writing. I know that I have several, okay; I love all of my stories and am not partial to any of them.

Is he or she watching me? Does he or she know where I live? What if they try and do something? What if, like in Fatal Attraction when Glen Close put the rabbit in the pan of boiling water, he or she kills my dog? Okay, in hindsight, I wouldn't mind, so much, if my stalker looked the way Glen Close looked in Fatal Attraction. She was hot. Had I not seen Anne Archie cowering in the bathroom in those white bikini panties, I would even think that Glen Close was the sexier.

Truly, though, when you think about it, in some weird way it is flattering to have a stalker. It raises your level of self-importance to that of celebrity. See, I am important enough to have a stalker.

"Hi, I'm Freddie and the guy standing behind me in the bushes with the camera is my personal stalker. Hey, PS, come out and say hi. Nope, he always does that; he just runs away."

I always said that I would rather have fame to fortune. I cannot imagine what it must be like for celebrities who cannot go anywhere without being recognized. Don't you feel bad for them? Is all that fame and fortune worth having no privacy and no private life? Talk about erotic horror, being a celebrity and trying to live a normal life is erotic horror. We the fans cannot get enough.

"Look, there's Michael Jackson. Let's kick his ass. Look, there's Pee Wee Herman. Let's kick his ass. Look, there's Beyonce. Let's grab her ass. Look, there's Lindsay Lohan. What an ass."

Only, I know who my stalker is. She is my ex-girlfriend, Elizabeth. Unfortunately, I cannot use her real name. I don't want to be sued.

Actually, as I have written above, I have a couple stalkers. It is expected having written so many stories now in just seven months that I would have made some people unhappy with what I wrote. I cannot please everyone all of the time and am lucky to please some of the people some of the time.

Yet, to those who have taken exception to some of the things that I have written, I apologize that you misunderstood my meaning or found the story ill conceived or insulting or whatever, who knows, and who cares. Actually, I really do not care. It is what it is. I put it out there and I stand behind what I wrote.

I could not write the thing if I did not believe it. After all, those are my opinions, good, bad or indifferent like it or not. You do not have to read it. Pass it by and read something else, something that you enjoy. Now, why would you read my story if it was so awful? Oh, I see, just so that you can show everyone how smart you are by making a nasty comment.

One guy has bashed me unmercifully, leaving more than 100 comments on my stories, dropping all of my scores to eliminate all of my red H's. I had 24 red H's and he was able to get them down to 3 red H's. With all the stories that I have, it must have taken him hours to do that. Then, Literotica's software restored most of them.

Yet, now, he is back under a different name doing it, again. God bless his sweet heart. He is, after all, my number one fan. Just like in that movie Misery where Kathy Bates holds James Caan prisoner until he writes and rewrites the scene the way that she likes it.

Only, in my case, the weird thing about this guy is, and I did not make the connection immediately, that he is in love with me. He e-mails me these long, love letters. I wish I had saved some of them they are kind of tragically funny. I thought it was two different guys but it is the same guy who writes the nasty comments on my stories and then writes me the love letters.

It makes sense now that by deleting his love letters and not responding to them, he feels rebuffed, which is why he takes the Mr. Hyde route and does a reverse one eighty on my ass. Speaking about asses, I would never bend over in front of this guy.

"Listen Pal, your feelings and love for me is misplaced. I am not gay. Well, okay, maybe I could be gay if you were Bill Gates and you promised to give me a billion dollars to be your bitch for a night."

Certainly, I feel bad for the guy. He must be lonely. What it is that he thinks he reads in my writing is beyond me. It makes my skin crawl to think that a guy is in love with me. "Yuck!"

Hey, there is nothing wrong with being gay. I have lots of gay friends and relatives. Only, I am not gay. I am not interested. I do not want to go for a long drive with you and park somewhere so that we can make out. Please find someone else, someone who is gay.

Okay, so that takes care of one stalker. My other stalker is scarier. She will appear from out of nowhere and write a long winded comment to one of my stories or she will e-mail me using Literotica's feedback so that I cannot tell that it is her. Right, like I don't know that it is her writing me. "Duh!"

She writes about how I am insensitive and do not know what it is to love someone, really love someone. She will ramble on writing about how I had a beautiful thing but threw it all away.

Yes, Liz, it was beautiful if you enjoy being called names. I do not enjoy being called names. Names hurt when the one you love knows which names to call you that will hurt you the most. Names hurt when you make a nonsensical argument a personal attack by calling the one you supposedly love names.

Then, there was the lying. She was a compulsive liar. She lied to cover her lies. I know she was seeing other men, too, men that she met on the Internet and then she would lie about that, too.

Love is about trust, Lizzie. Love is never having to say you're sorry...for lying. Didn't Al Gore say that to Tipper? Or was that Ryan O'Neil who said that to Ali McGraw? I get those two couples confused.

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