Silenteye, thank you so much, but I do believe "If you can read it, you can write it." It may be an arduous process, to produce what others produce effortlessly, but it should still be doable. I recommend the book "Outliers" by Malcolm Gladwell. You put in a certain amount of sheer work, and once you get over that hump, hopefully any further work starts gelling for you. With any luck, it's like whatever job you have.
Take a look in the rather abortive Bigguns webzine that Sadistyk tried starting out on the menu page, and after that, check out my "Paranoia" in Chili Palmer's stories (which has been taken up by Duuude That's Huuuge.) Heck, check out some of my work in 2002 and 2003. I may have had an imagination going, but I have to cringe at my writing. Only after years of hammering away at this stuff am I finally beginning to feel good about plotting, pacing and (dare I even suggest this within the context of smut?) characterization.
By the way, I think imagination can get easier over time. Don't use all your ideas at once, let some of them stew and marinade and percolate. Heck, I actually get the occasional accusation of having a limited imagination because I like being self-referential, gamely trying to make yet another reference to something like PHRIG, a Polymeric Helium-Retaining Incremental Gel for breast implants -- but I figure, if you happen to like an idea of yours, let these "all new all the time" readers suffer a little, because, hey, you're having fun and, more importantly, your idea may finally find its proper home. Grind out ideas, hunt for ideas, even steal ideas but give them a slightly better paint job. In my old age, though, I at least like to fess up to who and what I stole from. Far down the pike, I hope to get Tim Grant into a place largely inspired by the work of njaybird over at Literotica.
Also, like I've said, I will soon be DruulMuseum. If Iraq taught us anything, it's that a museum can be raided.
V to Djoser below: amen, brother. It's the loneliness of the long distance runner. Only about one quarter of all my stories actually sold in the Nineties, and that was because I was damn lucky to have Dian Hanson, editor of Juggs, ex-girlfriend of Bob Crumb and compiler of a coffee table book about breasts, take a liking to me, and that only for a few years. I know one truly excellent writer of science fiction stories, and less than a quarter of her work ever got published.