The first is obvious. He makes me squirm, and whimper, and want. He makes my panties wet like nothing else. Half his stories I want to immediately send to my sir -that's FatherMaster for those playing along at home- and the other half I want to hide away to keep such terror from happening to my poor tender bits. There are good writers and there are *good* writers.
(And hell, have you checked out Still Alive in Atlanta? Even his non-porn is pretty damn good! Be still, my chirping heart!)
The second is a little less obvious, but a lot more interesting. He makes me want to write. He makes me want to write, and want to create, and want to journal, and invent, and document, and blog, and all sorts of utterly wonderful things. I haven't had such an inspiration fix since I last listened to [Title of Show] straight through without pause. It is, in a word, amazing.
And sure, his stories are nice, his words are nice, the images he conjures in my dirty dirty mind are oh-so-nice. But that's not why I want to throw myself at his feet and pay him back for what he's done for me. The desperate thirst to create, the understanding of how this is writing, damnit, and the only way to be a writer is to fucking WRITE, the impetus to just sit my sorry ass down and get some dirty words onto a clean page...mmm, yes please! I would pay him back for all that in a heartbeat.
Because as much as I love geeks, and as much as I love perverts, there is a class of person who I always have loved much much more.
What can I say? Writers get me wet!