Writing and Reading Erotica

This week there was an article on BBC Radio Four’s “Woman’s Hour” about female writers of erotic or pornographic (depending upon your personal views) novels.

The programme referred back to an interview in the 1990s with Erica Jong – author of “Fear of Flying” and “Any Woman’s Blues”.

She explained how she thought some women had seen female sexual liberation as a panacea when, in her opinion, true liberty came from enjoying your own company and developing a strong sense of self-esteem. She talked in length about how some women involved themselves in sexually free relationships, thinking that this was going to give them the release from mundane middle ageism, only to find that such a desire for mind-blowing sex became a bondage  - not a freedom.

I would concur!

Actually, it’s not quite as simple as that, but for me there’s definitely some truth in the need to like yourself, enjoy your own company and make sure that it’s this, not an attachment to another human being, that truly liberates and makes you feel free.

Having said that, there is also a huge amount of freedom from being sexually liberated; the empowerment and enlightenment felt from this can’t be underestimated.

The topic then concentrated on writing and in particular the issue of women writing erotica.

The two guests on the programme, Louise Doughty and Nichi Hodgson  - both of whom write erotica – had a very stimulating discussion about the merits of female writers of erotica, about the failings of “50 Shades” and how much of the issue regarding female sexual liberation was about economics. They suggested that the real fantasy of “50 Shades” wasn’t the sexual excitement but more to do with the fact that the lead character was obscenely rich!

That reminded me of a comment from Victoria Coren who once wrote that the main attraction in Christian Grey from “50 Shades of Grey” was that he allowed his partner to eat anything she wanted – and that was the real attraction.

Again, I would concur.

The economic issue is huge – one that is too huge and requires a post of its own, as does the whole issue of finding yourself and being comfortable with who you are.

For now, I want to concentrate on my personal experience of writing and reading both erotic and pornographic stories.

As both Louise and Nichi said, there’s a considerable amount of dross in this area. Some of the writing is over-laden with explicit adverbs and graphic scenes that end up feeling functionary rather than fantasy or arousing.

Essentially it all depends on your frame of mind. If you are in a moment when you want to be sexually aroused or stimulated, you can be so – even if the writing isn’t particularly good. I have strong memories of lying in bed, listening to erotic writing being read to me, and feeling completely overwhelmed by a desire to replicate what was being read.

Other times, when I’ve been alone and in need, yes need, of an orgasm, I’ve deliberately chosen some pretty crass writing to get me in the mood, ready for a dildo to help me on my way.

There have been other times it’s been the other way round when I’ve read something that has aroused me and I’ve reached out for assistance – either from the vibrator or the real thing – to bring me to an orgasm.

The point is if you are inclined to be aroused by reading, then it really doesn’t matter what you are reading as long as it brings forth the desired effect. Personally, I’m aroused by erotic rather than explicit graphic descriptions. This is probably because I love the feeling of closeness and oneness in sexual liaisons more than the actual act of having sex. It’s the feeling of togetherness in penetration more than the penetration itself that does it for me.

When reading, I like a sense of mystery, of creativity – of writing that allows you to bring in your personal experiences or imagine situations that complement what you are reading.  As one of the women on Woman’s hour said, the possible difference between porn and erotica is the artistry – how sex is used in writing. Is it used to power the story on (in her opinion, erotica) or is it merely there for its own sake (porn)?

But where I really get turned on is when I am writing.

And it’s this that links directly to what Erica Jong was saying about finding yourself and being happy with who you are as a person.

For when I’m writing about sex, about female sexuality and sexual emancipation for women – that is when I feel I am being really me. That is what I miss about being me when I’m not writing.

For many years, I lay in a wilderness of sexual antipathy. It wasn’t until I met someone who enabled me to feel sexually liberated that I started to write about it. When that happened, I really do feel as though I found my voice and thus found my self-esteem, my value and my worth.

The writing that I did may not have been the most eloquent. I too was probably highly guilty of the overt and over-use of the adverb. My literary illustrations of thrusting cocks oozing with wonder juice and vaginas cascading with enthusiastic gushes were probably highly corny but that didn’t matter. What mattered was how I felt when I was writing. What also mattered is how my readers might feel when they were reading it, and if they were turned on, then my own arousal was increased.

And that is how it’s been with me. I write because it empowers me. I write because it makes me feel alive – and those two statements are true of all my writing, not just what I write in the world of sexuality. However, because sex is so personal and so vital, the writing that I have done on this blog has felt, possibly selfishly and self-indulgently, to be more about me than anything else.

The reality is that being sexually active makes me more willing and able to write about and talk about sex but in times of celibacy, my voice is still there and I damn well ought to use it.

The irony is about freedom though. Writing about sex frees me. It makes me feel liberated. It makes me feel ME. In order for me to be truly me, I probably need and want sex as it’s because of my experiences of sex that I’ve felt a need to convey a message to others who are either without sex or enduring lackluster, tedious and uninspiring sex. Sex and, more importantly, the feelings associated with having sex with someone that you really adore being with, enable me to be me.

Now returning to Erica Jong, does that make me dependent on another for my freedom and for my happiness? Or is it just a reality that it takes two to tango?

I know I felt at my most liberated when I was writing frequently about sex and for me, the stimulation to write came from being stimulated sexually by another person. Therefore, is there that possibility that I am actually reliant on another soul for my sexual liberty, and if that is the case, how can it be true liberty?

The other reality is this. It’s the economy stoopid!

Those who are economically independent do have the freedom to be sexually liberal and liberated. Without that economic freedom, can you ever really and truthfully be free to be the sexual person that you know you are?

For me, I will try my hardest to get back to writing about the important aspects of sex and female sexuality.

I started this blog many years ago. There’s still an ostrich-like approach to sex and particularly towards female sexuality. There’s still no absolute agreement about female ejaculation. There’s still feminists who think that female sexual liberation means that you can’t possibly enjoy watching pornography or who think that valuing your own body means that it should be hidden with your sexuality suppressed and not flaunted. (I’m being a little disingenuous and facetious here, of course).

But the simple message is that sexuality is about you, and because of the nature of the glorious beast, it’s about someone else too, but you can’t enjoy that someone else fully unless you are content with yourself – and that contentment comes from economic liberty as well as a confidence in your own self-worth.

To any reader of this post, please remember, these are my initial thoughts on a subject that I may well return to. I mean to cause no offence to anyone. I am merely clarifying my own thoughts in my own way, and what I write here today might be different to my thinking in a month or a year’s time.

Enjoy your sexuality today. I mean it. I’ll try and enjoy my own.

Pride in London, I'm heterosexual but.......

Yesterday was “Pride in London 2014” and I took to the streets to see what all the fuss was about. Friends and colleagues had attended these rallies for years and somehow, I had always been busy. This year I decided to go along and see for myself.

Positioning myself in Piccadilly, I was struck by the extent of the crowd. I was also struck by the diversity. Onlookers were not all gay; far from it. There were heterosexuals all over the place – families, couples, siblings, friends and me.

Me.

Am I heterosexual? Because I’ve been kissed and fucked by a woman, does that make me bisexual?

Recently, I contacted a charity for advice and support. They asked me if I would mind doing a quick survey. I agreed.

What is your gender? – Simple to answer. What is your age bracket? – Another easily defined response. What is your sexual orientation?

What is my sexual orientation?

I paused.

My response was that I was heterosexual but……. 

The person at the end of the phone waited for a more complete response. Was the “but” big enough to call me bisexual, we were both thinking although not saying? Eventually, I just left it at that; I was heterosexual.

But this answer was and is incomplete.

I like women. I love big, natural boobs. I like looking at cleavages accompanied by fulsome tits. I love the shapeliness of women. I love kissing, and whether the person I am kissing is a man or a woman is irrelevant if I am turned on. And I am turned on by women but I am far more turned on by men. I’m a person who would prefer a WILF (Willy I’d like to fuck) rather than a MILF.

If I was looking for someone (which in itself is a pathetic phrase because I don’t exactly go out looking)  to have a sexual relationship with, I would certainly prefer men. If I were to join a dating agency, it would be men I wanted. Yet I’d probably want to have sex with men that would revel in my enjoyment of women too. I’d want to spend time enjoying looking at other women – maybe on pornography sites, without necessarily wanting to fuck them. I’d want to share erotica with any sexual partner and I wouldn’t want him to be disturbed by my interest in other women.

I look at women in the street. They are beautiful. I look at them and see a beauty that isn’t always sexual. They are just beautiful. I find myself looking at women, possibly more frequently than men, but that doesn’t mean to say I want to fuck them. I want cock!

So am I heterosexual? Or am I bisexual? Or am I actually as gay as gay and deluding myself that I want willy?

In truth, my sexual orientation is “without label”. I’m a non-person as far as the survey goes. I’m a heterosexual woman who likes tits but I don’t necessarily want to have them in my mouth, and I don’t necessarily want to get down and offer some cunnilingus. I just like looking at women, and yes, I’ll readily wank myself off when doing so.

Yesterday, at Pride in London, there were plenty of beautiful women – stunning women, who happily marched down the streets of the capital city, declaring that they were gay or bisexual. They were proud of their sexuality and they were demonstrating their pride with others.

That was, and is, admirable. And whilst I didn’t join in the march or parade, I wanted to be walking with them with my label-less sexuality there for all to see. I wanted to walk with a banner saying “I am heterosexual, but…..” without having to explain the “but” - because that is who I am.

In the same way, I have never wanted to be labelled in a relationship either. I’m perfectly happy to be in a relationship. I’m perfectly contented to be called someone’s “woman” without the connotations of what that might mean to others. What is important is what the relationship means to one another – the two (or more) people in a relationship. And yes, I want to be the most significant because that is what I deserve, after putting so much into a relationship. But I don’t really want to be called a partner or a lover or a wife or a friend with benefits. I just want to be me – a woman; a heterosexual woman, but……

Yesterday, I watched all these beautiful people (and some more beautiful than others) walking by – laughing, smiling, dancing, chanting, skipping, loving, being.

It was a celebration of gayness, yes of course. However, what struck me most was that it was a celebration of being a sexual human being.

There they were, demonstrating to the world, that they liked being gay but within that broad word there was an underlying statement that they liked sex. They liked being sexual. They celebrated their sexuality. Some even flaunted it.

Lucky, lucky buggers.

And here’s my Utopia. Once we live in a world where people are free from discrimination due to their labelled sexual orientation, then shouldn’t we see “Pride” as a rally of sexuality, where people like the “heterosexual but….” could join in the march too and tell the world that they are sexual beings, that they love sex and that they want everyone to know the importance and value of sex in their lives?

The vivacity, the honesty, the emphatic and constant smiles said it all yesterday – “I am an actively sexual being and proud of it”.

I wish I could have joined in with that label alone.

The Saga of Emotions

She lies, reading the book, engrossed in its content that would be tedious to most. She’s invigorated, engrossed, fascinated by the ideas that challenge her thinking. She consumes the words that feed her interest – hungrily devouring sentence after sentence as her passions flare.

She stands up, reading the book, carrying it throughout the house, turning the pages swiftly, eagerly anticipating the next page.

She pauses, stops, stares into the distance, holds the book by her side and thinks.

She stops thinking. She’s overwhelmed by thinking and the passions that have built up within her.

She returns to the book, acknowledging the stirring feeling that this reading has awoken inside her.

She slips her hand into her trousers, gently sliding her fingers towards the line of life that defines her womanhood.

With practiced precision, she presses the bud, caressing it intimately with swiftness and confidence – undetectable to the untrained eye.

Rigidity ensues. She stands perfectly still, staring into nothingness, holding the moment in its fullness.

No screams of delight. No writhing with sensation. No tears from the tantalising pleasure that has enveloped her.

Stillness.

And then a quirky trace of a smile, quite different from the structured smile that she’s learned to add at the end of the sentence – the one that she uses to introduces herself to the world.

And the moment is over.

She places the book aside. Her job is over. Her time is come.

For now.

……………………………………………….

She walks into a crowded room, a bar, two or three deep with people chatting, shouting, gathering together, drinking, buying drinks, laughing, talking.

She waits.

She looks across the room and sees him.

She catches his eye with a clear and constructive stare. No game-playing, no pseudo-nervous look away only to return her gaze on the one that’s caught her eye. Abrupt, determined, focused. 

Got him!

He walks towards her and offers to buy her a drink.

She refuses. She doesn’t want a drink.

He walks away, infuriated by his misinterpretation.

Confusion works its way across her face. Wasn’t she direct enough? How could her stare possibly be misconstrued? It was perfectly obvious what she wanted.

She walks across the room to where he has dejectedly returned.

Why did you walk away? She asks him.

You refused the drink I offered, was his reply.

I didn’t want a drink. I wanted sex.

No point in wasting time with introductions and small talk. That isn’t her style.

Do you want sex?

They leave the bar.

……………………………………..

Bodies sprawled across the bed. Nakedness in every way. Stark fucking. Feel the heat. Work away towards the orgasms. Cum. Cum. Flop.

Prolong the orgasm by grabbing the blanket into the crotch to warm its journey – allowing it to spread from the inner realm to the thighs and stomach, to the chest and the hands. But hold it away from total immersion. Don’t let it feel. Turn your back on your helper.

Sleep. Post-coital. The perfect state of slumber - lasting an eternity of fifteen minutes or so.

Job done.

Job returned to.

A body sprawled over the screen. Severed. Guts cleanly cut. Two bodies. Three women – two victims, one voyeur.

Focus. Look for signs. Concentrate.

……………………………………………

He wakes, disturbed from sleep by the encroaching light from the laptop. Perhaps she’s looking at porn. Perhaps she’s ready for more cock, his cock – eager and hopeful.

Aghast, frightened, he sees the women – all three of them, knowing none.

Work – she explains. Police. Länskrim Malmö

……………………………………..

Poor Saga.

Fortunate Saga.

……………………………………..

Poor Saga.

She doesn’t feel. She’s oblivious to the thoughts of others. She’s unconcerned with their needs.

She can function. She can interact. She can have sex.

She can’t have Satori.

She can’t feel the orgasm to the extent that it should be felt, when it flows mindlessly and mindfully through your body – to your heart, your soul, where it connects you with the one person who knows your mind, your body, who you are.

She can’t feel the warmth of the escalating desire that connects two bodies together. She can’t understand that moment when the physical act of penetration isn’t just functional but is a magnetism that naturally happens of its own volition, drawing the bodies into one, for a moment of perfect synergy. Nothing can prevent it. The whole force of unity – indescribable beauty.

She can’t look into the eyes of another, knowing that every unspoken word is streaming from the mind into the silent consciousness of making love.

She doesn’t hold that emotion of love.

…………………………………………

Lucky Saga. Fortunate Saga.

Her heart won’t be shattered. Her sexual loss won’t be felt because her sexuality isn’t intertwined with her soul.

Fortunate Saga won’t be touched, threatened, overwhelmed with destructive emotions. She won’t feel jealously, envy, hatred, boredom, anger, disgust because she doesn’t connect in order to be consumed by such evils.

She won’t feel bereft, disrespected, lost because she can’t and won’t allow herself to be embroiled by the negative effects of loving another human being. She can’t because she doesn’t know how to.

The emotions that inflict their presence in some of our minds can’t affect this woman because she doesn’t have those emotions. Is she dehumanised by their absence? Is she dysfunctional because she can’t emote? Or is she protected from a world that causes distress to the rest of us?

Saga is learning. She functions perfectly well but is genuinely inquisitive about how people connect with one another. Should her main concern be the wellbeing of her colleagues when she’s going into battle? Should she allow herself to be vulnerable for the sake of others? Should she give something of herself in order that she can know what it is to feel? Should she think of others beyond the knowledge of functional sex - when she goes into a bar hungry for sex?

…………………………………………….

Saga is fortunate because she is undeterred by the feelings or thoughts of others. She can strip off in her office without understanding the possible effects on the male anatomies that encircle her. And even if she does notice their emerging hard-ons, she simply accepts this as a physical reaction without even contemplating where their thoughts wander as they take a trip to the toilet.

Saga is fortunate because she doesn’t understand what could cause someone to be so destructive through passion – because she’s never experienced it. She understands passion. She has a passion for her work but she can’t multiply this passion. She can’t take that passion into other areas of her life. She can’t use that passion to be creative or to feel and she can’t reward creativity and feeling with more passion, different passion.

She knows her limitations. She understands that she can’t manage people, she can’t interact properly with people – hence the false smile that doesn’t spread to her eyes, hence her ability to have raucous sex without even thinking that the other person might be developing a connection with her.

Saga is fortunate because she’s never experienced destructive emotions for herself. She sees it in others – in the victims and perpetrators of crime, but she’s never experienced the feelings inside herself that could lead to emotional responses.

This is fascinating because it isn’t about her choosing not to have destructive emotions or training herself to be non-attached. She has no choice because she has no experience, and this is where she differs from others. Her coldness is somehow negated by her lack of experience. She is human but she hasn’t experienced the afflictions of that humanity. Those who choose to be disconnected are doing precisely that – choosing. Saga has no choice.

She’s never experienced destructive emotions in her life because she’s never experienced all that life has to offer.

Does that make her fortunate or does it make her poor?

In some ways, I want to reach out to her, lie her down, make her connect with herself beyond the functional wank. I want her to look into someone’s eyes and feel the magnetism growing. I want her to feel when someone is sad or angry or overwhelmingly happy and instinctively know that she has to respond to that. I want her to allow herself to be wrapped in another person’s body – prolonging that wonderful orgasm with a sensation of wholeness that every person ought to experience at least once in their lives.

But if I open that world to her, I open up the destruction too – and the potential of upsetting her inexperienced equilibrium.

Dehumanise. Humanise. Dehumanise..........the cycle continues.