If, like me, you spend a significant portion of your leisure time writing homosexual-themed erotic literature, you may have noticed certain recurring problems which make it difficult to write a decent story. Below are the five worst offenders, accompanied by examples taken from famous works of erotic fiction.

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Do I say "him", or do I say "Reginald"? Most writers are sparing with people's names. If they can, they use "he" or "she" instead; this removes some of the stiffness and formality from the prose. When you're describing sex between a man and a woman, it's fairly easy to figure out who is who without using proper names, since the man is typically "he", and the woman is more often than not "she". Consider the following excerpt from The Book Of Straightforward Fucking:

He inserted his sexual organ into her vaginal cavity and moved it back and forth repeatedly. Judging by her enthusiastic response, this gave her a pleasant sensation, so he increased the rate of his motion. "Fuck me", she shouted. He paused, a look of confusion upon his face. "I was under the impression", he said, "that I already was".

In this passage, there is no need to use proper names for the sake of clarity; "he" and "she" work perfectly well. However, in the clammy grotto of erotic fagfiction, such distinctions are a lot less clear; without proper names, it can often seem as if there is only one character in the story: a desperately lonely man who is capable of superhuman acts of contortion.

For the last ten minutes, his eyes had been resting on his crotch.

There was an expectant silence in the room, lightly punctuated by the faint clatter of carriage wheels from the cobbled street below. He finished the last of his Earl Grey, and placed the bone china cup gently back onto the saucer. The regency clock chimed three. "Shoot, I sure would love some gay dicking right about now", he cried, and without further ado, he took out his stiff member and stuck it in his ass. Damn, that sure did feel good. "Heckfire, boah!" he yelled, staring at his reflection in the Louis Quinze mirror. "You're buckin' like a riled-up steer!"

In between whoops and hollers, he had time to ponder: what would the dudes back at the ranch think, if they could see him now.

- Cowboys In Belgravia (Algernon McSimpkins, 1922)

Manshaggery has been looked down upon by pretty much every nation in history. It's an unfortunate fact, especially for the poor bastard writer who has to come up with new and interesting storylines for his erotic novels. Although tragic tales are very evocative, they can get pretty depressing after a while. Every goddamn time, the lovers' tryst is ruined by the cruelty and ignorance of their intolerant society. Jeeeez.

I don't know about you, but just occasionally, I'd like to write a stirring story about how two men explored their rebellious sexual passions in a land where no one gave a shit.

English does not possess an inexhaustible supply of synonyms. Erotic fiction places unique strain upon the writer, as he struggles to think of yet more original ways of describing the sexual utensils at the heart of his story. This is bad enough when you've got two totally distinct sets, but when you remove women from the equation, the demands on the writer escalate to ridiculous levels.

There are two choices here: either abandon synonyms entirely, or throw restraint to the wind and stir a bunch of ever-more outlandish euphemisms into your steaming fagpot, hoping that your odorous prose will not cause the reader to simultaneously hoot with incredulity and vomit in disgust.

"Gosh, Ian", said Jeff, "that's an awfully impressive dick you have there". Ian glanced at his dick. It certainly was a nice dick. He could not deny that fact. "Why thank you, Jeff. Tell me; are you fond of dicks, in general?"

"I have been known to enjoy the odd soupçon of dick, Ian, yes", Jeff replied. "But your dick in particular seems to strike my fancy. As dicks go, it is a shining example of unadaulterated dickery. Therefore, if it is not too much trouble, perhaps you might want to fuck me slightly."

Ian considered this. "With my dick?" he asked eventually.

"Why yes", Jeff replied. "With that particular dick, currently residing in your crotch area, which to my mind resembles nothing less than an extremely large and well-proportioned dick."

"Oooooooh, Dicks", Jeff added. "Dicks, dicks, dicks, dicks, dicks."

- Fags With Manners (J.P. Bumstanley, 1952)

Hmm. As you can see, the reader quickly becomes fatigued at having to fend off a constant bludgeoning barrage of dicks. Let's try the other choice.

The door opened, and Le Vicomte De Nancy-Bois stepped into the room. William had fought against him on many battlefields; now, finally, they were to spar on the greatest battlefield of all. William regarded the Vicomte's naked form, and mused upon its perfection. Those young, smooth thighs; that bold yet somehow sensitive moustache; and, most perfect of all, the velvet shank of passion between his legs, which stood firm and attentive, like a loyal hound at his master's side. It was a towering testament to the godliness of man; a new Babel, which, unlike its predecessor, might finally touch heaven. The heaven of William's sphincter.

He longed to drink from that creamy flagon; to traverse that most noble of escarpments; to tickle that purple trout, and have it leap into his hand in a cascade of milky droplets, gasping with breathless joy. "Thrash me!" William cried. "I am on fire, Monsieur Le Vicomte! Thrash me with your mighty beater, lest the flames of lust ravage my body and leave me burned and desolate!"

As William lay supine, his eyes closed, feeling the Vicomte's Silken Cobra writhe and slap against his face, he mused that the war could not be wholly evil, for it had brought them together. Just then, a shell came through the window and blew them both up THE END

- A Clash Of Swords (Percival Melton-Mowbray, 1816)

So, we have irritatingly repetitive or nauseatingly florid. You decide.

Arses. Oh dear. Whereas female bottoms are fairly well-behaved efforts, men's are malevolent crevices, overgrown with evil, matted tangles of hair. A man's cheeks are all too often just saggy sacks of dough: sad pillows smothering the face of romance. And the ringpiece. Oh shuddering Jesus, the ringpiece. It is no mean feat trying to write delicately stirring fiction about that Chasm Of Despondency. This goes for heterosexual erotica too. You may love the idea of a sweaty man, ladies, but have you considered for one minute what his ass is actually like after a hard day's work?

Sergei leaped from his horse with a grin. Dmitri stood waiting. "You have travelled far, comrade", he said. "You must be tired." The two embraced, and Dmitri brushed what snow he could from Sergei's sodden shoulders. "I have ridden for three days", said Sergei, "across the no-man's land, where Hitler's tanks lie useless in the mud. Twice I was nearly shot from my horse, but I was lucky." Dmitri looked into Sergei's eyes and squeezed his shoulder. "No. I am the lucky one."

Sergei was sweating, despite the cold. Dmitri could imagine the smell of him, under his greatcoat; he longed to breathe the intoxicating musk of his armpits. The sweat must be running down his shoulders and the small of his back, pooling between his great hairy cheeks. Oh, that wonderful crack. "Tell me about your crack, Sergei."

Sergei held him closer. "I have not washed for a week. I have been riding non-stop, except for the times when I had to take a shit."

Dmitri felt himself growing hard with desire. "Did you... did you have any toilet roll?"

"No, comrade. There is no toilet roll in no-man's land. I had to make do with whatever... came to hand." Dmitri smiled and touched Sergei's cheek. "Tovarisch, there is no toilet roll here either. My ass now smells like a Muscovy sewer on midsummer's day."

Their embrace deepened. Later that night, they made love in a barn, accompanied by the soft thump of cows losing consciousness, and the tiny "yakk yakk" of thousands of vomiting insects.

- Red Hearts, Brown Stains (Alexei Szhrvnvtgrtkrnovev, 1944)

Let's face it, the best thing about being an Uphill Gardener is that you're not bound by traditional social conventions. For example, it is perfectly acceptable for today's modern homosexual to engage in a vicious threesome while receiving financial advice - often, indeed, while cocking the advisor.

This is wonderfully liberating, but such openness of affection does tend to ruin the tone of a sober tract of literotica when every character has shagged every other character, often at the same time.

The climactic and deeply moving death scene, for instance, loses a modicum of its gravitas when the protagonist leans forwards and whispers gently into the dying man's ear "I'm afraid I've just jizzed on your thighs", only to hear a last croak of "that's ok, I've just... jizzed... on... yours..."

Just consider our final literary example. See if you can spot the moment when the story loses its way.

"It's not you - it's me", Donald said, looking down at the kitchen floor. Frank expelled the air from his nostrils. Though he was saddened, he was not surprised. All throughout the summer just gone, Donald had been growing ever more distant. Activities they used to enjoy had become stale: the long walks by the river had ceased to be soft havens of comfortable silence, and had become trials of endurance; talk of the future had grown vague and wistful. Perhaps it was time, after all, yet Frank could not help feeling as if an opportunity had been wasted.

"Couldn't we give it one more chance?" Frank asked. But Donald shook his head slowly. "I'm sorry, Frank. I just feel as if I'm running out of time, and I need to do something more with my life than this. It's time to make a change."

Frank got up and paced the room. The hamsters in his backside were growing fractious, but he ignored them for now. "Well, what about the house?" he asked. "Please sit down", replied Donald. "You're making this difficult." Frank returned to his seat, and Donald resumed masturbating on his face. "Well", Donald replied, exploding messily all over Frank's nose, "I think the best thing would be to sell it."

"I suppose so", replied Frank, jamming a finger in Donald's asshole and jerking it around spastically. "It would be too expensive for me on my own. Tell me, where will you go?" Donald slapped Frank's penis listlessly with the back of his hand. "Probably back to Wolverhampton", he replied. "And you?"

Frank's eyes welled up with tears. "I don't know, Donald."

There was a sad silence. Frank spoke, his voice trembling. "Before you go... please would you kiss me one last time?" Donald looked at the floor again. "I'm sorry, Frank. I don't think I should. It would just make us both unhappy."

"Yes, I suppose you're right", Frank said sadly, then ejected a torrent of squealing hamsters all over Donald's chest. "Well, take care", he said. "Let me know how you get on."

"You too, old friend", replied Donald, writhing with rodents, Frank's finger still wedged firmly in his spasming anus.

"You too."

- Donald On My Mind (Nick Arsenal, 1996)

So, what did all these examples teach us? Well, aside from the fact that Donald is a total bitch, they taught us that it's far easier just to go out and fuck a guy than it is to write about it. In fact, you'd be astonished at how easy it is, especially if you're attracted to the kind of guy who is doing nothing this Thursday except being lonely and naked, and whose phone number is 07554 663542.

When not penning his latest Fagnum Opus, Camerhil plays in a band called Colours Run. His phone number is 07554 663542.