Dear Diary: Erotic Artists Are Vulnerable

Dear Diary,

Just you and me, Diary—no prying eyes, no echoes from the edges. It’s a very quiet morning.

Now I want to talk about the tightrope we walk as erotic artists and how vulnerable we are.

I strongly believe we erotic artists are even more vulnerable than most people think. Why? Because we pour our desires onto the page—curves that sigh, shadows and fantasies—and suddenly, we're naked in ways words can't cover. That makes us prey of those who see the creator as an object: eyes that linger too long. People who just can’t admire you from a distance. They have to tarnish you with their hunger. They attempt to reach out for our fire without a nod of consent.

I have been an erotic artist for over 20 years. To me, erotic art was just another way to express creativity. I used to think that way, and I thought everyone else agreed. I believed that my reactions were only a personal thing that nobody should know. Nobody’s business. And I believe that others’ reactions are also THEIR business and not mine. But alas… apparently it won’t work that way.

I've felt it, Diary, that chill of being reduced to lines they twist for their own heat, consent a forgotten word. It makes you question every stroke: Is this mine, or just someone else’s pleasure? The world that ignores you in daylight devours you in the night, turning your playfulness into peril. The worst thing is that you end up hating yourself and the world.

But it’s not just those who can’t keep their sick desires to themselves. You also have to face those who fear our desires and consider them as filth. I had my fair share of both sides.

Sadly I had to face a lot of narrow minded people who think you are evil for drawing NSFW stuff. They say “you are horny all time”, “you are a slut”, “You are a pervert” and even to the extremes of calling me sick. Even recently I had to break any contact with a so-called friend because she also made me feel bad for having desires and drawing them into paper. She blamed me for her bad memories as she called my characters degrading names.

It took me a long while to process and accept what happened to me. But then I understood that owning my vulnerability flips the script. It isn't a crack; it's the door I choose to crack open. I draw now on my terms—playful twists that make me laugh, bodies entwining because they damn well please me, not some shadow's whim. No more prey; I'm the one who sets the lure, who says "enter if you respect the rope." It's scary as hell, Diary, feeling that exposure like skin under a spotlight, but in reclaiming it, I breathe easier. Erotic art isn't surrender; it's my goddamn anthem, wings spread wide against the wind.

More truths soon, perhaps lighter.

El Jaquio