I first discovered erotica when I first discovered ebooks. I loved erotica for the same reason I love reading in general: I love the escape and the ability to live through the fictional lives of others. At that time I was a young mother with a stressful job and financial issues. Reading was great, but erotica was exciting and new and, not to mention kind of dirty and forbidden.
Then Fifty Shades of Grey happened and erotica became a bit more mainstream. It wasn’t hard to find a book with BDSM elements or with an Alpha Billionaire and a naive young protege. Taboo wasn’t taboo anymore; it was everywhere. People were actually asking me about erotica (albeit in hushed tones) at church. Erotica was easy to get and I was reading it as often as I was reading mainstream romance novels.
And then I wasn’t and I’m not.
Why? Because it all started to read the same. No longer was erotica the sexy, bright, red thong of my reading wardrobe, it became the beige granny panties. Just a boring same old-same old in which an Alpha billionaire/MC president/rockstar/DEA Agent/MMA fighter/sex club owner/shifter of some kind meets a naive ingenue/single mom/investigative journalist/uptight sex therapist/curvy entrepreneur and teaches her about the darker side/emotional healing power/feminist truth of pleasure. Over and over and over again. For me, erotica became the Groundhog Day of reading.