Eric Ross: Blog

Somewhere between dusk and dream, a forgotten amusement park hums beneath the ivy. Its carousel spins for no one. Its tunnel murmurs to the moon. And if you step close enough, you might hear it breathe.

I’ve just released the prologue and first chapter of my new story, Lunara’s Veil—a surreal, erotic descent into a world where desire is ritual and surrender is sacred.

It begins with a man named Avery—a photographer, a seeker, a boy with shame pressed deep into his bones. He stumbles across an abandoned carnival whispered about in half-remembered myths. There’s mist. Fireflies. A woman who may not be a woman. A shrine that takes more than it gives—and gives more than you thought you wanted.

What follows is part myth, part fever dream, and part reckoning with the parts of ourselves we’re taught to bury. If you’ve read my other work, you know I like to blur the line between the sacred and the profane. This one leans hard into that blur—ritual sex, queer longing, lunar devotion, and the quiet terror of being truly seen.

And yes, it’s explicit. But it’s also a love letter to the body as a place of transformation.

New chapters coming soon.

-Eric

P.S. Apologies for the multiple reposts. It has taken me a little time to understand the SOL formatting system, and to make the layout of the words on the screen match the vision I had for them.

If you’ve ever driven Highway 2 through Washington State—on your way to Leavenworth, Stevens Pass, or wherever life’s taking you—you may have seen it.

A tiny white chapel, barely big enough for eight souls, stands quietly by the road just west of Sultan. The sign out front says: “Pause. Rest. Worship.” There’s nothing flashy about it. No minister. No posted hours. Just a promise of shelter, whether you’re weary, lost, or just craving a moment of stillness.

I’ve passed that chapel more times than I can count. Sometimes at dawn. Sometimes in the rain. And every time, I’ve thought the same thing: That little place deserves a story.

Well—here it is.

Pause. Rest. Worship. is about a couple named Ella and Bobbie, headed west to a new life in Seattle. They’ve just spent a night in Leavenworth (and in each other), and the westward drive down Highway 2 gets hotter by the mile. Fantasies bubble up. Teasing gets bolder. And when they pass that little chapel, Ella pulls off the road—because her girl is feelin’ mighty spiritual.

What happens next? Tongues. Hallelujahs. And one very thick holy spirit.

This story is playful, dirty, and a little tender. And if you’ve ever wondered what kind of worship two horny hillbillies might get up to in a chapel with no congregation—well, now you know.

Hope y’all enjoy the ride.

—Eric

P.S. I shared the story with my wife last night. She'll never be able to pass that chapel again without wondering what goes on inside...

Well, the final chapter is live.

This one isn’t about climax. It’s about what lingers.

Elara and Jorah return to the mill—but it’s not the same place, and neither are they. The village has changed. The fire has spread. And the sex? It’s slow. Tender. Raw in all the right ways.

She touches the places she was told to hide. He worships her with his mouth. They rewrite everything.

“We’ll be remembered,” he says.
“We already are,” she answers.

This story was sparked by a line from Jethro Tull's Thick as a Brick. I was listening and thinking about irony, conformity, and that undercurrent of yearning for something real. I didn’t have a plan—just an image of a woman standing in the firelight, naked and unashamed.

It started sharp and satirical. But Elara had other plans.
She wanted to burn and bloom at the same time.

Thanks for reading.

—Eric

There is no tag on StoriesOnline for Absurdist Erotica. Nor for Surrealist Erotica. Nor for “What if a symphony ejaculated into your soul and left you sticky on stage.” So when I posted Symphony No. 69 in Erotic Minor, I had to improvise.

Technically, it’s Fiction. Fantasy. Humor. Paranormal. Much Sex.
But those labels don’t quite prepare you for a story where a violinist is literally ravished by a piece of music—where timpani groan, notes seduce, and trousers suffer. This is not a romance. It’s not stroke. It’s… something else.

Absurdist Erotica, if I’m being honest, is where my brain goes when I let it off the leash. It’s what happens when you take lust seriously and not seriously at the same time. It’s where metaphor runs wild, orgasms break physics, and a piccolo can faint from overstimulation.

There was a time in my youth—when I split my affection between bass, french horn, piano, and cello—when I seriously considered a career in music. I played recitals. I learned the rules. I tried to play them beautifully. And maybe that’s why it gives me such wicked pleasure now to bend those rules over a music stand and spank them with a bow.

In this story, Julian—a refined virtuoso—finds himself overtaken by Maestro Vivaldi’s magnum opus: Symphony No. 69 in Erotic Minor. And by overtaken, I mean mentally, emotionally, musically, and yes, very wetly.

It’s indecent. It’s ridiculous. It’s shamelessly over the top.

And it is some of the most fun I’ve had writing all year.

If you’re new to my work, start here with a towel and a sense of humor. If you’re a returning reader, well… you already know I never met a metaphor I couldn’t corrupt.

If I’d stuck with music, maybe I’d be first chair somewhere respectable.

But honestly?

I think I prefer making the oboes blush.

—Eric

The torches arrive. The elders shout. Elara stands naked and doesn’t flinch.

No sex this time—just defiance, bare and bright. She names what they tried to shame. And for the first time, someone answers back.

“She is not ashamed.”
“And neither am I.”

Chapter 4: The Gathering

—Eric