When we think of a sexually voracious person, we usually think of a woman, a slut, who wants everyone she meets to fuck her nonstop. Male sexual voraciousness is simply a given, and not even worth noting. (In fact, when men aren't sexually voracious—like the husband in Jennifer Lehr's memoir Ill-Equipped for a Life of Sex, who didn't want to fuck her very often—we assume something is clearly wrong with them.) The slut can never get enough; she's consumed by her sexual desire until that is all she is. But what happens when my sexual desire takes the form of wanting to be the fucker rather than the fuckee? It puts me in a slightly awkward position, one that is not always easy to articulate. What does it mean to get off on the idea, image, or reality of being the sexual doer? All too often people perceive that position as the lesser one, with the doer only being used to satisfy someone else's pleasure. How many people, thinking of Monica Lewinsky, wondered what exactly she got out of her presidential affair? That question presupposes a real naïveté about the erotic satisfaction to be had from giving a blowjob, not to mention doing so under your boss's desk, when your boss happens to be the most charismatic president since JFK. Of course it's hot, and it's enough to get me tingling just thinking about it.

People often ask me how I became an erotica writer, and my best answer is that I fell into it. I began writing about sex as I starting having more of it, freeing myself to explore every erotic whim I could imagine. Writing enhances these experiences, makes them richer and fuller, and taps into thoughts and feelings I haven't consciously considered. I get to relive and learn about my desires as my stories unfold, and share mind-blowing tales, such as my first lap dance, a chance seduction on an Israeli dancefloor, and a too-crazy-to-be-fiction encounter watching porn with a pair of male cousins.

I learn a lot about my desires by writing them down, which may be why my erotica stories have been largely autobiographical. They're a way for me to record as well as process my sex life, and it was only while reading a new story in Amanda Stern's "Happy Ending" series recently that I came across a line that clarified much of my newfound sexual appetite. Before, I always fantasized about someone doing something to me—fucking me, spanking me, bossing me around. But in this story, what I wrote about was "stroking and seeking until I hit pussy pay dirt, the place that makes her moan and arch and beg and scream and makes me want to stay there forever." Of course, "pussy pay dirt" got a big laugh from the crowd, and indeed it is an amusing phrase. But it's also one that rings true for me.

In one sense, fucking is about power; to be able to make partners come, to bring them out of their head and often out of their body is an incredible rush, one I thrill to get caught up in. With my ex, I found that the more I did to her, the less I wanted done to me, but not because I wasn't sexually attracted to her. My attraction took the form of fantasizing about what I could do with and to her. But it was never simply about doing things to her—it was about things we did together, about a synergy, a partnership, a give-and-take that satisfied both of us. Or so I thought, until I found out otherwise.

Lately, my fantasies are a lot tamer, but no less profound. I imagine offering my crush a cupcake, but only if I get to feed it to him, watch him lick the frosting off and eat the treat out of my hand, and then push the last few crumbs into his mouth, his tongue connecting with my fingers. And then him doing the same to me.

If I've learned anything from being privy to people's innermost fantasies, which they eagerly unveil at almost any bar or party once I tell them I write about sex, it's that people's desires are endlessly varied. There is no single thing that gets men or women revved up, and it's the uniqueness of each person that makes sex endlessly intriguing.

Every time I think I know myself sexually, think I have my fantasies all figured out, my desires clearly contained, I manage to prove myself wrong. Right after I wrote about my passion for lovers larger than myself, I fell for someone incredibly small. Which may be part of why, with her, I wanted to be the doer, to protect and please her all at the same time. Even though I say I don't really date Jewish guys, I find that I can't get a particular one out of my mind. Sexual desire and attraction aren't fixed, and I think that's a good thing. Not only does it make life more interesting, it allows us to expand our very idea of what sex is.

Many of the things I did with my ex I was doing for the first time. The ways that I wanted her were startling and new to me; I had fucked many girls, and enjoyed it, but not felt that pleasure all the way through me, not gotten immediately aroused when my fingers came in contact with their pussies. Sometimes I'd say that I felt like a guy in that regard. I don't have the precise language available to me, aside from "pussy pay dirt," to describe that exquisite sexual high that really is like no other, that comes from knowing another woman's body well enough to spark her orgasm.

Is there a lesson here? Perhaps only that wanting someone can take many forms, and they aren't always what you expect. Or that I am just a different kind of slut.

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