Royal erotica – Cashing in on William and Kate’s first night

More fictional sex between people whose motivations are less than pure.

*****

The wardrobe smelled of mushrooms. Kirsty fought the urge to retch, and wondered for the tenth time in ten minutes if she could let the door ajar to give her some respite. She tried to distract herself from the odour by checking her camcorder again. How long would they be? It was already past midnight.

She flipped open the viewscreen and checked the battery. Full. Sixty minutes left on the tape. It ought to be enough. Jeremy said he didn’t expect the whole thing to last more than five minutes.

“Let’s face it, they’ll be exhausted,” he had told her as he drove her along Pall Mall. “It’s the biggest day of their lives, even Wills, and he’s a prince. Just imagine how Kate will be feeling.” He leant on the horn and flicked two fingers up at a taxi driver. “She’s been working up to this moment for the last ten years. They’ll be knackered.” They stopped at the red lights in Trafalgar Square. “Just think of all the things that might go wrong.”

“Too drunk, too tired, too wasted,” Kirsty volunteered.

“And she might have the painters in,” Jeremy said. “But none of that matters. Even if nothing happens, if we have got the only video of the royal couple’s first night together, then we’ll be minted.”

Aching for Marvin – the cover!

Yes, I know, it’s only a cover, but I quite like it.

Here it is:

 

It’s different from my other covers – it’s got more colour for a start – and hopefully people can tell what sort of novella it’s going to be. I’d be delighted to hear any feedback of course.

So what really is the difference between porn and erotica?

I’m talking about writing, by the way, not those funny pictures of unlikely people doing unusual things to each other, with props.

No, I’m trying to figure out what elevates erotica from the status of pornography. I’m not the first to have done this. There is a prevailing view among erotica authors that what we do is not porn. I like to think so too. But when I try to put my finger on the thing that makes it that way, I can’t quite manage it. I’m hoping that by the time I get to the end of this post, I’ll have figured it out.

Do you want me to suck your lance, baby?

Over at Erotica for All, Tiffany Reisz has made a passionate plea for writers to take the euphemism out of fuck talk, or ‘erotica’ as we like to circumlocutarily denominate it.

As she says:

In my writing, I tend to err on the side of the standard–it’s a cock, it’s a penis, or it’s implied. When I write, “he pushed inside her,” readers are pretty sure I’m not talking about a man penetrating a women with a matchbox car, a tube of chapstick, or a cell phone. I’ve seen other writers use flowery euphemisms for the penis during sex scenes– “lance,” “sword,” “manhood.” Manhood is a particularly odd one for me. I’ve never had a penis in my womanhood so why would I have a manhood in my vagina. And the sword metaphors freak me out a little. Sword? Lance? Really?

And that’s the truth of it. The only synonym for cock that I can swallow is dick, and cock just has that percussive sound to it that makes my stomach tingle. Dick has its place, but for me it’s second best to cock. Weapon is too aggressive. I mean, even with rough sex it’s not a weapon. And lance… I mean, have those people ever seen a lance? Or, if they’ve seen a lance, have they ever seen a penis? Or a cock for that matter.

Idealised sex vs real sex in erotic fiction

I realise that in saying I wanted to create ‘real erotica’ and then posting a fantasy about a judge spanking Rihanna and David LaChapelle in his chambers that I might, perhaps, be leaving myself open to accusations of hypocrisy. So spank me. It was fun to write.

But, I suppose I should really clarify myself and explain that what I was railing against was the idealised sex one often finds in erotica novels and short stories. It’s the sort of sex which is impossible because it’s so perfect–the simultaneous orgasms, the groomed couple, the sculpted bodies, the choreographed gymnastics. For me, reading that sort of story is like looking at a marble sculpture of a nude. I can appreciate the fine form, the artistry and construction of the piece (if there is any, but that’s another matter), but there is nothing erotic about it.

Each to their own taste of course. Some people like reading idealised sex. Perhaps it’s because real sex is so unsatisfying that they hope that somewhere there exists a lover who will fulfil all their fantasies in a blink. Perhaps they don’t read erotica to be turned on, but for a more charged version of romantic fiction. Perhaps I’m missing something.

Whatever the motivation, it doesn’t work for me, and I’ll tell you why: because I read erotic writing to get turned on, and I get turned on more when I read things that I can imagine happening to me. I have to admit that the Rihanna story felt a little forced, fnarr fnarr, because I didn’t think anyone would read it and get wet or get a hard-on–it was done to get a laugh. Yes, it’s erotica of a sort but not the oh-my-god-I’ve-got-to-find-someone-to-fuck-right-now erotica.

It’s a balance, of course. We read to be transported; who wants to read a detailed description of boring sex between two ugly people? Words on a page must idealise sex in some form, but I think the world’s had enough simultaneous orgasms to last at least until the next ice age.

 

My latest thrill

My latest thrill is a delightful body of work by a thirty-something married woman who has an unconscionable number of affairs. I would disapprove, naturally, if I weren’t so envious.

Her blog is a great example of pants-dampening erotic writing that engages the reader. She writes about people I feel I know, even if I’m not sure exactly which of my friends they are.

You can find her at Serial Adulterer.

Fed up with bad erotica? Me too.

I’ll be frank: there is a lot of bad erotica out there. More throbbing than a stubbed toe, more globes than a newspaper stand, more tentpoles than the roster of a Hollywood studio and more panting than an episode of Lassie.

Why publishers believe women (and men) want to read overly idealised scenes which feature an impossible hero ‘ministering’ to the needs of a breathless virgin, I have no idea. It’s not just the ridiculous clichés like throbbing, globes, tentpoles and panting, but the fact that they signify authorial laziness, an unwillingness to write about things that people actually do.

 

Stuck zippers and waxing strips... some of the things I suddenly have an urge to write about

Sex should be written about honestly, with regard to its messiness, its unpredictability and its sheer fun. Sex goes wrong sometimes–something doesn’t work, or it doesn’t fit, or it’s in need of some repair. Surely, there must be an appetite for portrayals of erotic romances which feature people that we stand a chance of recognising, and in situations that we have actually been in. I want to read a story that excites me because I feel I know the people in it, because I can recognise them and sneak a look at them in bed. Or wherever they happen to be.

The fact is that people are sexy and what makes them sexy is not their perfectly rounded bottoms or their rippling pectoral muscles. They are sexy because of what they do for each other. I aspire to making real people sexy, and I hope you enjoy it.