You know it, I know it, we all know it.

Not everything that excites liberates.
Not everything that sells is artistic expression.
Not everything that calls itself art deserves the name.

Explicit sex was once genuinely transgressive. In the 1960s and 1970s, describing female pleasure without restraint involved real risk: censorship, ostracism, lawsuits. Authors such as Henry Miller and Anaïs Nin paid dearly for that audacity.

Once the initial euphoria faded, corporations quickly monetized the sexual liberation—from hippie communes to porn empires.

By 2026, it became a lucrative farce. Authors (and opportunistic publishers) take explicit pornography—endless pages of detailed penetration, squirting, light domination, dirty talk—decorate it with faeries, dragons, or werewolves, label it “romantasy,” and sell it as elevated romantic fantasy. It is smut repackaged with a pretty cover, a shallow plot, and “spice levels” on BookTok. The algorithm loves it: unboxings, reviews counting orgasms instead of narrative, exploding sales.

Many of these books are cheap imitations of Victorian literature—or worse, recycled plagiarism produced by heavy AI use. The supposed author throws prompts into ChatGPT (“write an erotic scene in the style of the Brontë sisters with a dominant fairy”), poorly cleans up the output, publishes it, and pretends to have been “inspired by Wuthering Heights or Jane Eyre.” Readers fall for it: they mistake it for gothic depth when it is merely machine-generated text, without soul, originality, or the real torment of the Brontës. It is plagiarism disguised as homage—and the most cynical part is that it sells because a desensitized audience does not notice (or does not care).

Three fragile pillars of the porn-florid niche:

1. Aestheticization of addiction
   Compulsive consumption is repackaged as cultural sophistication: “It’s not addiction to easy stimuli; it’s exploring sexuality and power dynamics through literature.” This shields consumption from any self-criticism.

2. Displacement of responsibility
   Any criticism is framed as moralism or envy from other authors. The debate shifts away from aesthetic or psychological analysis and turns into a shallow war—exactly what niche publishers and authors want (noise, buzz), amplified by profiles that often are not even identifiable, defending the niche to the point of cultishness.

3. The economy of unhappiness
   The business model depends on repetition, not satisfaction. Some profit; the reader consumes more and lives less fully.

Worse: minors access it without barriers.

Explicit fan art, TikTok edits, sensual covers circulate among adolescents. Adults with colorless lives seek cheap thrills: instant dopamine, no effort, no risk, no need to imagine real tension or desire. Technology has advanced (e-books, AI generating blurbs and covers), but we have regressed—desensitized, imagination atrophied. We can no longer feel arousal unless it is served explicitly, spoon-fed, pre-chewed, and illustrated. Explicitness has become routine; shock has become boredom.

And about freedom:

Enough of cheering for someone else’s orgasm like a dangling banner. Adults choose their paths—abstinence, monogamy, polyamory, kink, or celibacy.
Leave other people’s bodies alone. Let go of other people’s lives.

And please, stop calling porn literature just because it has elves or a cheap imitation of Victorian writing. You are consuming text plagiarized through heavy AI use and telling yourself the “author” was inspired by the Brontë sisters.

I will not list bad or good examples—everyone chooses what to feed their mind and how to spend their time and money. I still prefer laughing at Mr. Bean, being frightened by Anne Rice’s vampires, and hoping young people rediscover joy through works like Harry Potter.

Meanwhile, I am here trying to find my place as a beginner author: some will hate it, others may love it, and most will not care. But one thing I hold to: do not exploit people’s weaknesses to sell.

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A short tale (sample)

Once upon a time there was a little cow named 123, who lived on a farm in the interior of a faraway city. She had no name, just a tag in her ear that identified her. But that never made her feel any less important.

Here comes the sun, she thought when she saw it through the crack in the stall. “Moo!”

In the vast sunny field, only the most expensive bulls grazed in the areas of always-fresh grass. Beautiful specimens, some even treated like studs. The cows, however, lived confined. They woke up, ate, and soon the hands came, cleaning and pushing them back—every day, on the dot.

123 grew like the others. Other animals lived on the farm. One day, the owner’s daughter got a Persian kitten, playful and curious…

How This Story Was Born

I was job hunting when I came across an absurd post from the owner of a marketing agency.

In short, he divided salespeople into carnivores and herbivores.

It started well, ended terribly:

“A salesperson must be a carnivore — aggressive, go for the kill.

The rest are just lazy, living off warm leads.”

And I thought: how do you disagree with your boss without getting fired?

The satire came boiling in the middle of the night — and saved me from losing my mind.

That’s how The Little Cow 123 was born: a short story about work, identity, and the strange act of meowing in a world that only wants you to moo.

I’ll be publishing it soon.

I, who lived in fear — and still believed
that the world was vast, and I so small —
knew: each beat of my chest was complete,
shaped by quiet days.

I escaped fangs and claws, I ate silence.
I dreamed so softly, afraid of noise.
And inside me… the footsteps of elephants pulsed.

I was never strong, nor noble, nor wise.
I was afraid.

O Death — you did not arrive like a silent serpent,
but with open wings: a raptor angel.
And there, in its nest, my slayer breaks me apart.
My entrails stain the tomb.

But do not think I will leave as any common mouse.
No.
I will release a cry — louder, stronger
than the final beat of my heart.
It is greater. It was always greater.
It just did not fit inside my small chest.

July 25, 2025

ʙʀᴢ

Canto Final de um Rato com Coração Maior

Elegia para um rato capturado por uma ave de rapina

Eu, que vivi com medo — e mesmo assim, crendo
que o mundo era enorme, e eu tão pequeno —
sabia: cada batida do meu peito era pleno,
feito dos dias serenos.

Fugi de presas e garras, comi silêncio.
Sonhei tão baixinho, com medo de alarde.
E dentro de mim… palpitavam patas de elefantes.

Nunca fui forte, nem nobre, nem sábio.
Tive medo.

Ó Morte — não vieste como serpente sorrateira,
mas com asas abertas: um anjo de rapina.
E ali, em seu ninho, esse meu algoz me desfaz.
Minhas vísceras mancham o túmulo.

Mas não pensem que partirei como um rato qualquer.
Não.
Soltarei um grunhido — mais alto, mais forte
que a última batida do meu coração.
Ele é maior. Sempre foi maior.
Só não cabia no meu pequeno peito.

25 de Julho, 2025