Of course, I know better than to complain about reviews of my work. But sometimes, they do make me wonder. And one critical angle in particular makes me wonder.

I recently posted my story “The Girl on the Bicycle” on an erotica website. And while there were a number of positive responses, quite a few readers pointed out that it wasn’t “realistic”. Of course, I can’t argue with that. It certainly isn’t – nor was it ever intended to be.

I realize that there is a branch of literature that deals earnestly with issues of real life human sexuality. But that’s not where I’m at. I write erotica, pornography, literary porn – whatever you choose to call it. My stories explore sexual fantasies and are primarily intended to arouse the reader.

And in that kind of territory, I see no need for realism. In fact, the sheer implausibilty of a situation can add to the excitement – breaking taboos, disregarding social norms. These stories take place in something like an alternate reality – where there are no boundaries – and no rules other than those of pure lust and instant satisfaction of carnal urges.

In the “magical realism” genre – from Kafka via Borges to Murakami – fantastical events are described matter-of-factly. Which has the effect of making them almost believable – which, paradoxically, also heightens the effect of the fantastic.

I think there is a similar genre of “erotic realism” – one that makes preposterous sexual enconters and activities come to life in a tangible way – almost, but not quite, suspending disbelief.

And in this kind of work, realism is not an issue.

Illustration: “L’Entrée de la ville ” (1940) by Paul Delvaux.