Once upon a time, in a faraway place called Texas, a long-time aspiring writer and English grad despaired at last of creating the great American novel. Or any other kind of novel. See, although she was really, really good at placing commas, her underplotted, overboiled Russian-tragedy-esque post-modern desconstructed bits of verbiage just weren't working out the way she'd hoped. Big surprise.
So, desperate for inspiration, she consulted a mystic in a deep cavern by the sea (er, her husband downstairs, doing the dishes).
"You gotta write about what you love," the wise man said, slathering on some warm liquid soap and swirling it all over with a sponge. Way his hands were working caught her attention and held it. She licked her lips. Something dawned her on her right then, and it stuck in her mind like sand in a bikini.
Something she loved? Well, that was easy. Our girl loved the hot sex.
So she scuttled into the bedroom (where else?), flicked open her computer, drowned her ears in slinky music, and wrote the most scorching smut she could imagine. And she could imagine plenty.
Finally, too red-faced to read it herself, she e-mailed it to the wise man. After that, he did the dishes quite frequently.
And thus was a smutstress born.