The washing machine that refused to come no matter what I did

How an Erotic Artist like me Ends Up Wrestling a Washing Machine at Midnight

Nude by the washing machine - erotic image by Samarel and Ai

Twelve forty-five AM.

That sliver of time when the night is no longer young, but morning hasn’t dared to break yet.

A time made for whispered sins, half-closed eyes, and slow, decadent creation.

A time meant for artists like me — the kind who don’t just write eroticism but live it, breathe it, and paint it across the senses.

Tonight, though, my sensual world has been hijacked by the least seductive mistress imaginable:
A washing machine.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
My day was a careful choreography — moments of family devotion balanced with private flights of artistic escape.

Groceries fetched. Children chauffeured. Meals prepared. All the while, under the surface, my mind was sketching — scenes, curves, tastes, touches — the next vision to spill onto canvas or page.

Art is never truly still inside me.
It hums. It pulses. It spins.

Much like, I hoped, the washing machine would.

I treated it with care.
Whites separated from colors — because even an erotic artist knows some rules aren’t meant to be broken.
A careful offering of fine white powder, a ritual of domesticity.
A loving twist of the dial to Program 2.
A firm, confident press of the start button.
I trusted her to perform.

Instead, she betrayed me.

Hours of delicate swirling. Sensuous movements, promising so much.
But in the end — no spin. No finish. No glorious, climactic squeeze.

C a t a s t r o p h e !

And maybe it sounds absurd to be so undone by an appliance, but if you live by the senses — if you create by touch, sound, rhythm, and surrender — 
Then a machine that refuses to come through feels like a personal offense.

I gave her everything. Time. Trust. Patience.
Two hours of foreplay that would leave most mortals begging for release.
And still — the bitch wouldn’t come.

So there I was: an erotic artist and part-time domestic warrior, standing at the crossroads of frustration and inspiration.

Because if life refuses to satisfy you, you create your own satisfaction.

The transition was seamless.

One moment, I was glaring at a soggy pile of laundry; the next, I was letting my fingers find the keyboard, where other worlds waited.
Worlds where no longing goes unanswered.
Worlds where every touch leads, inevitably, gloriously, to completion.
Worlds I build, one slow brushstroke, one wicked word at a time.

By day, I wear my family man’s hat proudly: steady, reliable, a maker of breakfasts and fixer of broken toys.

But beneath the polite small talk at school drop-offs, behind the warm hand-holding at dinner, the true engine of my life whirs: the artist, the sensualist, the man who sees every bare moment — every exposed curve of existence — as an invitation to feel more deeply.

My art isn’t separate from my life.
It is my life.

And so, tonight, I spun a different load. I wrung out frustrations into sentences.
I built moments where no spin cycle was denied.
Where flesh and spirit collide, and nothing is left untouched, unfinished, or unseen.

Tomorrow, I’ll return to reality. To breakfast plates and emails.

But tonight belongs to me — 
to the erotic artist whose real machine runs hotter, wilder, and deeper than anything mechanical. And unlike my washing machine, I always make sure to finish what I start.

---

(Artist’s Note:)
In life — and especially in art — you can’t wait for the world to spin you.
You have to spin yourself dizzy.
You have to reach for the climax even when the machine stalls, even when the laundry piles up, even when the world demands you be “just practical.”
You have to live by the senses, or you’re not really living at all.

I always smile like an idiot when standing by my art in an exhibition