PATRICK WHITEHURST AND HIS ART

Isn’t this great? It is a real treat, that this week Patrick White comes to my blog with his exquisite paintings. Patrick’s art embraces life, with all of its joy, and its pain too. He’s a communicator; his art is sometimes precarious, I can feel myself falling. At other times Patrick lifts me up, so high that I feel dizzy. Here is what Patrick has to say about his art, and following that, you can see his paintings.

“I paint both in acrylic and in oils. Lately I have focused more on acrylics due to the quickness of the media, but intend to return to oils soon! What I find fascinating in the art I enjoy is seeing an image that tells a story. Raised on comic books, I appreciate art that explodes and smacks you in the face, but also paintings that make you feel like your seeing something dark and fantastic, something no one has seen before, or quite like how you see it. To me, that is the best kind of art. I appreciate landscape painters for their talent and for the beauty in the images, but I love the art that can not be seen in the real world. The art steeped in the soul of the artist, in passion and sorrow, intrigues me.
I mostly work on canvas, but have worked on paper and even card board and wood. Mostly I prefer the traditional canvas style. More recently I have decided to attempt a blend of my doodles with traditional painting. This has resulted in my Boris series, among other paintings. Boris has appeared in eleven paintings of mine to date. He can also be found on the blog boris paintings.blogspot.com With Boris I have strived to create a character that appeals to those with a darker sense of the world, those who have embraced depression rather than hide its existence. The paintings come with letters written by Boris as an accessory to the art.
I've also begun a series of four paintings that bridge the erotic writing of PM White with my paintings and will be producing sensual paintings with erotic words painted onto the canvas.”

Patrick Whitehurst can be found on Facebook. Visit the PM White website

COFFEE POT WOMAN

The woman reclines, she’s oblivious to the viewer. She’s not on display; she is comfortable with her nudity. But is she only comfortable because she thinks that she is alone? The viewer is a voyeur and if the viewer is titillated by the image, he/she deserves to be discomforted. We are intruding on a private moment. The woman’s left hand is between her thighs. Is she fondling herself? Masturbating? We do not know.

LIZARDY


It’s a precious moment; sharing a moment in time with a wild creature. The image frozen. It is a privilege. Like a photo, but nothing like a photo. It is a peaceful image; the lizard is wild, but not feral. We have nothing to fear from this creature; we can only admire his exquisite beauty.

PRODUCERS THINK


This painting is surreal, it is like a fragment from a dream. Already the dream is fading, as dreams always do. We struggle to remember. Yes, there was woodland in the dream. We shudder as we recall the ominous shadow. The feeling of something creeping up behind you. Something, perhaps awful is about to happen. THINK the Graffiti tells us. We try, but the thought eludes us.

SITTING AND BLAMING

An alarming old man. Resentment is etched in the lines on his face but despair too. What is he holding up -- painted in soft blue and pale yellow? A memory? Is that why he grinds his teeth? Sharp edges, a wooden chair. Do we know him? Do we want to? He is very old. What tales he could tell us? Would we then understand his despair?

TEXTING CLOUDS

Once I had a dream, that there were images in the sky. It was like looking up at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Only I could see them. I was telling everyone to look. They looked, but they didn’t see. So I feel a connection with this painting. A lone figure is intent on his cell phone. He doesn’t see the images in the sky. The shapes of the clouds. Is it a comment on life in the 21st century. I don’t know.

DARK AND LAUGHABLE

This is a hideous clown. The stuff of nightmares. He is scary. Is the artist showing us that sometimes we are right to be scared of humour. Do we take ourselves too seriously? But why is the face gruesome? Perhaps the clown could tell us stories too. Stories that would sound familiar; stories that repel and depress.

READER OF BOOKS

She is taking time to relax, it is another moment in time. Maybe she is trying to hard to relax. Her feet are bare, but she is all sharp angles. While she reads, there are several books discarded. Is the woman as chilled as she would like us to think.


And my readings, my thoughts on Patrick’s paintings are not definitive. There is no right answer. No wrong answer either.

There’s a lot of nonsense talked about art; a lot of waffle. You don’t have to have a deep knowledge of art history to understand something on an emotional level and really, for me, it does come down to an emotional response. Do I like it? Why? Why is it so moving? Why is it so pleasing to my eye? Do I hate it? Why does it darken my mood? Why does it discomfort me? And there’s another thing, just because a piece of art gives me the chills, it doesn’t mean I don’t like it. We can all shout out “This is beautiful!” Or “This is rubbish!” The important question to ask is: “Why?” And sometimes the answer is quite simply; “I don’t know.”

GREAT EXPECTATIONS: BBC CHRISTMAS 2010

This is the trailer for the latest adaptation of “Great Expectations” by the BBC. If you are in the UK, and you missed it, it should still be on the BBC iplayer. In the UK, the DVD will be available from 30th January 2012 at Amazon UK. I don’t know when it will be available in the US -- but I am sure it will be at some point.


I think that “Great Expectations” is one of Charles Dickens’ finest novels, and the BBC1 adaptation, shown on three consecutive nights over the Christmas holiday, did Dickens proud. Gillian Anderson, as the ethereal, strange, completely bonkers Miss Havisham, and Ray Winstone, as the menacing Able Magwitch, were nothing short of superb.

“It is traditional to surround yourself with familiar faces at Christmas and the BBC’s festive offering was like an old friend. In keeping with the celebrations of Charles Dickens’ forthcoming bicentenary, “Great Expectations” has to be the jewel in the BBC’s crown.”
From Anne Billson; The Telegraph

For those who don’t know Dickens’ story, here is a sort of synopsis.

Pip, is a young orphan, being brought up by his horrible sister, and her husband, Joe. Joe is a blacksmith; gentle and kind. Pip walks through a graveyard, and out onto the marshes of the River Thames estuary. It is Hackney Marshes, before 20th century drainage, and development. Pip is accosted by an escaped convict, Able Magwitch, who demands that Pip steal a file from the blacksmith’s forge, so that he can rid himself of his shackles. Magwitch tells Pip that if he tells, Magwitch will seek Pip out and kill him. Pip returns with the file and some food for the convict. But Magwitch is recaptured and taken back to the prison ship, bound for Australia.

Miss Havisham is a recluse, living at Satis House. She was jilted on her wedding day, and ever since has remained at the house, still wearing her wedding dress, with the wedding banquet set out on display, waiting for the wedding that never took place. Miss Havisham has an adopted daughter, Estelle. She wants a boy to come and play with her daughter. Pip is that boy. As a child, he falls hopelessly in love with Estella; it is a love that he carries with him into adulthood. This is what Miss Havisham desires; she wants to wreak vengeance on the male sex, because she has been betrayed.

Pip is now an adult, and apprenticed to be a blacksmith at his Uncle Joe’s forge. It is announced that a mysterious figure has stepped forward to be a benefactor to Pip; Pip is to be made a gentleman. He has great expectations.

And that is as far as I am prepared to go with Dickens’ tale. The adaptation tells it better than me. The events up to this point precipitate the rest of the narrative. If you read the book you will not be disappointed; Dickens really does know how to tell a tale and Brian Kirk’s direction of the adaptation is inspired.

“Immediately, in the opening scenes, you can see why this story is a perennial favourite. The glowering sky and gloomy wetlands, are a director’s dream, and Brian Kirk rises to the challenge here, with the sort of desaturated steel-grey look seen in many a recent Hollywood action movie. Ray Winstone as Magwitch emerges from the marsh, like Martin Sheen rising from the Nung river in “Apocalypse Now”, accompanied by the sort of chords that Bernard Hermann gave us in Psycho”.
Anne Billson. The Telegraph.

“A small boy runs frightened, from a lonely churchyard, across a flat, marshy landscape. He starts to cross a little wooden bridge over a muddy creek. Suddenly a big hand appears from underneath the bridge, it grabs the boy's legs, and brings him down. The boy shouts out.”
Sam Wollaston, The Guardian.

The episode plays upon our most primal fear; the hideous troll under the bridge, a troll suddenly made nightmarishly real. It seems absolutely true to the childish fears that pervade the opening pages of the book; the evil monster, which every child knows, lurks beneath the bed -- just waiting.

"Come 'ere, shut up," growls the escaped convict, to whom the big hand belongs. "You scream again and I'll cut your throat, d'you understand?" 

“Winstone is a brilliant Magwitch – rough and gruff and terrifying, but with just a twinkle of kindness and humanity under the mud and the blood. The whole opening scene is perfect; misty and spooky, with the hulks – the prison ships from one of which Magwitch has escaped – at anchor in the distance.”
From Sam Wollaston; The Guardian

Covered in blood and slime, Magwitch, is at once the monster of nightmares; a huge misshapen baby gasping its first breath. In a single sequence, the director Brian Kirk gets to the heart of Dickens’s novel as a fable of rebirth and renewal.

The scene of Magwitch rising from the water is a playful acknowledgment of what underlies all attempts to adapt classic novels for the screen. A moving body breaks out of a flat surface; two-dimensional print gives way to the three dimensions of real life.

Pip brings the file to Magwitch, under dread of being torn to pieces, but he brings the pie only because he has seen that Magwitch is starving. It is this unforced act of kindness that sets everything in motion in the novel.

“Satis House is cold, dusty and cobwebbed, forgotten and forlorn. I see some people have been moaning that Gillian Anderson isn't old enough to be Miss Havisham, that she's a cougar rather than a crone, too ravishing for Havisham. She's not that ravishing, though. They've done a pretty good job of ageing and witchifying her. And, more importantly, she feels like Miss Havisham – not overdone like a pantomime witch but quietly sad, bitter and vengeful, cruelly manipulative, and more than a little bonkers.

Dickens scholars are always going to get upset by any adaptation. They are going to get upset by the end of this one too, as it will coincide neither with Dickens' original ending nor with his revised ending, but will steer a kind of compromise course between the two. That's part of a Dickens scholar's job though, to get upset and argue.”
Sam Wollaston; The Guardian.

The defining scene in any adaptation and in the book, is the death of Miss Havisham. In Dickens’s novel, her dress catches light when she sits too near the fire; she dies weeks later from shock. In the adaptation, however, she solemnly lowers her veil, makes a pyre of her ex-fiancé’s love letters, then steps into the blaze and burns herself to death.

“At 43, Gillian Anderson is the youngest actress to play Miss Havisham. It is a shock to meet this pale yet still beautiful wraith, mouth in need of lip salve and Baby Jane ringlets slowly unravelling, speaking in an insidious singsong, instead of the usual dotty dowager tones. This is a Miss Havisham who has never really grown up.”
From Anne Billson; The Telegraph

“Many people who’ve read the book might agree that Gillian Anderson is still a little young to play the spinster who never recovered from a jilting. Yet she plays the part well and has certainly found her niche in these productions over the last few years, from Bleak House to this January’s The Crimson Petal and the White, it seems the years she spent living in London as a child have had a profound affect on her. She captures the ethereal nature of Miss Havisham brilliantly and there are also hints of her menace in this opening episode. We watch, cringing, as she trains her adopted daughter Estella to resist the lures of men, but it soon becomes clear that her twisted soul has manifested itself in a far more sinister plan and she attempts to hurt men folk through her beautiful heir. As such, Pip’s heart is her plaything. And although the novel is told through the eyes of Pip, this is just as much Miss Havisham’s story as it is his.”
From Channel Hopping on the Box.

“'You've changed," I tell Gillian Anderson. In 1996, she was chosen as the world's sexiest woman by FHM magazine's readers; this Christmas she will be bald and on fire as Miss Havisham in the BBC's adaptation of Great Expectations. So what made her take this role? Anderson bristles: "That's not really a serious question, is it? The real question is, 'How the fuck did I end up as the world's sexiest woman in 1996?' – not why would I do Great Expectations. Any actor would want to do Great Expectations. I never set out to be the world's sexiest woman."

“Anderson plays Miss Havisham in a childlike, sing-songy voice. Where did that come from? "When I read a script I hear the voice. If I don't hear the voice, the script's not for me. When I work on something, I work on it in that pitch in my head, but don't actually say it out loud."

“But what woman in 2011 could identify with a character whose life stops because she's jilted by a gold digger on her wedding day? Maybe what they're talking about is their heart being broken 20 years ago and they're still pining. But there is something twistedly romantic about the idea that someone is so in love, that their heart is so broken, that they cannot love again, and they literally stop time.

"There is something titillating and tantalising about pain, whether it's physical pain or our own sorrow or somebody else's pain. If you think about tabloids, the glee they take in somebody else's ruin – there's all of that in Miss Havisham and there's a lot of that in our contemporary existence."
From The Saturday Interview. The Guardian.

THE WHYS AND WHEREFORES OF WRITING SMUT: P.M.WHITE

I am thrilled that my wonderful writer friend, P.M.White has written this essay for my blog. P.M.White turns the matter over and over in his mind, of why he, and we all write smut. Read on!

Writers usually want to write. If not, then they like to read. If not either, they want drinks, which usually goes hand in hand with a desire to get laid. Besides the aforementioned partner, writers typically like a degree of solitude, even during the holidays.
It’s about two days after Christmas as I write this. I have no idea if I’ll be social for New Year’s. I went to one Christmas party, which is on par with the amount of revelry I experienced last year. Most of my time is spent writing, both in my day job and in my personal life. This means I like to sit in my own little world, stare at a computer screen and listen to old punk albums without saying much beyond incoherent mumbles that help further the creative process.
As I write this I’m wearing sweat pants that are a little too large for me, a white t-shirt that I slept in, and slip-on rubber shoes that I wear around the house. A space heater is usually aimed at my feet while I plunk my fingers on the keys. My hair, which I’m growing out in preparation for my mid-life crisis, has not felt a brush or comb since yesterday morning. I know there are plenty of writers who get ready before they write, but I’m not one of them. I do need coffee if it’s morning, but otherwise that's it. On occasion I need whiskey.
What I’m getting at is writers tend to be a very reclusive bunch. At my day job, I have to interview people and attend meetings before I can write. At night, or early in the morning like today, I write from a home office with only my old dog as company. So for a lot of my time, I am sequestered away with a keyboard. There’s a reason why writers spend so much time alone. Many of us are socially awkward. Or we’re made that way by our chosen profession. Either way, crowds can be scary. Even if they’re composed of friends.
Case in point is the Christmas party I attended with my girlfriend. A wonderful crowd attended the gathering – called a white elephant gift exchange/ game night/ potluck. Their were single folk, gay couples, straight couples and all in between. Everyone had a great time. My girlfriend ended up with a giant pink calculator that makes the user feel they've decreased in size by fifty percent. A number of the party-goers, including a sprinkling of the non-straight guys, lusted after that pink calculator. They also lusted after a painting I contributed to the shenanigans. It became one of the most fought-over gifts for the whole exchange.
White elephant parties, for those who don't know, means you can steal the present of someone after they have drawn their number and opened their gift. When your number comes up you can open a new gift or steal someone else's. My painting was stolen often.
Later someone suggested I was just as popular to a number of the gay men as my painting. Did they want to oil up my cock and watch it spurt? Did they want to put theirs in my mouth? Possibly, but it wasn't the thought of homo-erotic sex that makes me feel awkward socially. I write erotica. I think about sex all the time and either want to have it or I want to write it. So far I have never done both at the same time, but being hit on isn't a big deal.
As it always does, writing erotica became a conversation piece at the party for those that learned of my profession. Many thought this meant, surprise surprise, that I went down on men all the time, women as well, and probably had no problem blowing a guy while pounding a woman. While I neither confirmed nor denied my preferences, I did say it meant only that I enjoy sex and writing about it. For me, the awkwardness comes in speaking aloud, in not having any control of the next sentence that comes out of someone's mouth, of wanting to be friendly, but feeling a rock in the pit of my stomach. I often wonder if awkwardness of this sort had something to do with why Bukowski behaved like such an ass. Most writers enjoy writing because they're hermits. They don't want to be bothered by the real world. It doesn't fit with the world of their words, the world they want to be in.
As I write this, I realize that I have now shared more of myself by typing than I shared to those at the party. In words, the awkwardness all but vanishes. There, I'm ready for homo-erotic adventures and bi-sexual orgies galore, but in the real world I'm ready only for another cup of coffee. Maybe with a little Irish crème in it.

PM White is the author of ‘Horror Manor Part 1: Eyeball Man’ available through Sizzler Editions and on Amazon. His short stories have appeared in ‘Best S/M 3,’ ‘Sex in San Francisco’ and most recently in the ‘Pirate Booty’ anthology. He can be found on Facebook and here.

HAPPY CHRISTMAS!!!!

LADY GODIVA

Once upon a time there was a beautiful and pious lady. Her skin was as white as snow, her golden hair hung down to her delicate ankles. Every night her maids would brush her hair until it gleamed. The beautiful lady was married to a spiteful, cruel and angry man. He was the lord of all the land and he was truly horrible. He persecuted God’s Holy Church and his judgements and laws were so harsh, that the poor people of the land scarcely had enough to eat. Each year, the spiteful, cruel and angry lord increased the taxes and the poor people were in fear that their families would starve to death. Their children were so thin and frail that they couldn’t run about and play. Their bellies swelled, they were so hungry. The mother’s milk dried up in their breasts, so that they could no longer feed their babies. All across the land you could hear the sounds of weeping mothers, children and babies. The men didn’t know what to do. They too, were weak with hunger: almost too weak to work the land and grow corn to make bread. The tools that they use to work the land were all broken anyway, and they had no money to buy new spades, shovels, ploughs and scythes. But they tried, they did their best.

The beautiful and pious lady wept too. It broke her heart to see the people starving. At last she went to her spiteful, cruel and angry husband and asked him to lower the taxes so that the poor people could buy bread and grow corn. He refused his beautiful wife’s pleas. Still she begged him again and again. The spiteful, cruel and angry lord didn’t care about the poor people: he thought that the poor people were extremely dirty, astoundingly ugly, awfully lazy and sickeningly smelly. He always carried with him a little posy of fragrant rosemary, mint, marigold and lavender. He would hold it to his nose whenever he had to pass the stinking poor people. Everyone knew that they were carriers of disease, it was a well known fact, and they really did smell horrible. Once he threw up when he passed too close to a poor person. The stench overwhelmed his delicate nostrils. It was dreadfully embarrassing; the dirty, poor and ugly children laughed at him and threw sticks and mud. He blamed his beautiful wife, with the golden, shining hair and skin as white as snow. And his wife, the beautiful lady with the skin as white as snow and shining golden hair, continued to pester him. She went on and on and on. She wouldn’t leave him alone. At last, but only because he was absolutely and utterly totally tired, fed up, bored and thoroughly pissed off with his wife’s incessant nagging and whining, the spiteful, cruel and angry (SPA) lord said that he had a solution. He said that he would lower the taxes on the poor people, if she would remove her clothes and ride on a horse through the streets, completely naked.

Because she was such a pious woman, demure and modest, the SPA lord didn’t think that his wife would agree to do it. But his beautiful wife took him at his word. The SPA lord, whose name was Leofric, was, quite frankly, in a bit of a panic. What would happen to his reputation if all of the common people saw his wife naked? She was very beautiful. She had large, firm, plump breasts, a full rounded belly and wonderfully smooth, white thighs. If all of the common people saw her naked, he would be a laughing stock. So he issued a decree that all of the people should board up their windows and nail them shut, so that no one would see his wife’s naked body.

So the beautiful lady, whose name was Godiva rode naked on a beautiful white horse through the streets of Coventry, her smooth white as snow skin, covered only by her long, golden, shining hair. The streets were silent, she was unseen by the people, except for just one person, a tailor, ever after known as “Peeping Tom”, who bored a hole in his shutter, so that he might see Godiva when she passed and he could see her smooth, plump, naked body.

And behold, God in Heaven and all of his extremely Holy Entourage, wept at the plight of the poor people and they loved Godiva for her piety and her sacrifice. But God was angry that Tom had looked, when he’d been ordered not to. And God spake, issuing a decree that Tom should be punished. So God sent one of his trainee Avenging Angels to Tom. The trainee Avenging Angel wasn’t very good, in fact the Holy Entourage thought he was a bit of a jerk, but God had a soft spot for him. The Avenging Angel could have turned himself into a cloud of golden dust and spoken to Tom in a fearsome voice, but he had forgotten how to effect the transformation, so he simply kicked the door in, scaring poor Tom half to death. For his sinful temerity of looking at the naked Godiva, even if she was completely covered by her long, golden, shining hair -- the Angel struck Tom blind. Lord Leofric was so completely stunned by the Lady Godiva’s sacrifice, that he immediately ceased his persecution of the Church and abolished the taxes on the poor people. There was great rejoicing throughout the land and a statue of Lady Godiva, naked on her horse stands in Broadgate, in the city of Coventry in England, to this very day. And of course, Lady Godiva and Lord Leofric lived happily ever after.

Well, well! As far as erotica is concerned, the old tale gives us templates for the Dominant and the submissive. The submissive, Godiva, is also an exhibitionist. I know it is open to question, but I wonder if “Peeping Tom” is the earliest record we have of a voyeur? If anyone knows, please let me know!

And the old tale is still told today. The Godiva Procession, a commemoration of the legendary ride instituted on May 31, 1678, as part of Coventry fair, was celebrated at intervals until 1826. From 1848 to 1887, it was revived and continues into the twenty-first century as part of the Godiva Festival.

The wooden effigy of Peeping Tom which, from 1812 until World War II, looked out on the world from a hotel at the northwest corner of Hertford Street, Coventry, can now be found in Cathedral Lanes Shopping Centre. Nearby, in the 1950s rebuilt Broadgate, an animated Peeping Tom watches over Lady Godiva as she makes her hourly ride around the Godiva Clock.

Is the old, old tale true? Well it seems a matter of debate amongst historians. There certainly was a Lord Leofric, who was married to Lady Godiva. Contrary to the legend, both Godiva and Leofric were generous benefactors to the Church and to the poor.

“Lady Godiva was the wife of Leofric (968–1057), Earl of Mercia. Her name occurs in charters and the Doomsday survey, though the spelling varies. The Old English name Godgifu or Godgyfu meant "gift of God"; Godiva was the Latinised version. Since the name was a popular one, there are contemporaries of the same name.


If she is the same Godgifu who appears in the chronicles of Ely, Liber Eliensis (end of twelfth century), she was a widow when Leofric married her. Both Leofric and Godiva were generous benefactors to religious houses. In 1043 Leofric founded and endowed a Benedictine monastery at Coventry. Writing in the twelfth century, Roger of Wendover credits Godiva as the persuasive force behind this act. In the 1050s, her name is coupled with that of her husband on a grant of land to the monastery of Saint Mary, Worcester and the endowment of the minster at Stow Saint Mary, Lincolnshire. She and her husband are commemorated as benefactors of other monasteries at Leominster, Chester, Much Wenlock and Evesham.


After Leofric's death in 1057, his widow lived on until sometime beyond the Norman Conquest of 1066. She is mentioned in the Doomsday survey as one of the few Anglo-Saxons and the only woman to remain a major landholder shortly after the conquest. By the time of this great survey in 1086, Godiva had died, but her former lands are listed, although now held by others. Thus, Godiva apparently died between 1066 and 1086.


The place where Godiva was buried has been a matter of debate. According to the Evesham Chronicle, she was buried at the Church of the Blessed Trinity at Evesham, which is no longer standing. But, according to the authoritative account in the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, "There is no reason to doubt that she was buried with her husband at Coventry, despite the assertion of the Evesham chronicle that she lay in Holy Trinity, Evesham."
William Dugdale (1656) states that a window with representations of Leofric and Godiva was placed in Trinity Church, in Coventry, about the time of Richard II.”

From the New World Encyclopaedia.


“Archaeologists in Coventry have unearthed part of a 14th century stained glass window bearing the face of a beautiful woman. It is thought to be that of Lady Godiva, famous for riding naked through the streets of the city.

The face on the newly-found glass shards is beautiful and crowned by wavy, golden hair. It was part of the east window of the former cathedral where, traditionally, the images of benefactors are depicted.”

From BBC news/in depth. 24th Aug 2001

Well, yes it does make me want to scream! Loudly! You see, it’s the third time this has happened to me -- males -- straight males, confusing me with the characters in my tales.

Have any other women writers come across this?

I write erotica. Sometimes what I write is downright, absolutely pornographic. I write to entertain, sometimes I write quite deliberately to arouse -- I write to explore what a fun thing sex can be. The games that we play; the games that we want to play, but dare not.

I hope that sometimes people laugh! Laughter is sexy!

If consolation is needed, then I hope that I console -- it’s a sad mind that thinks that you are the only person in the world, who has had strange fantasies -- sometimes what the world would see as perverted fantasies. I write for the guy who wants to be a mommy’s boy -- for the male or female who wants to be Dominated, humiliated, who suffers for the sake of the one that he or she idolises. Those who give up their right to orgasm, because their Master, or Mistress forbids it. They eat, sleep, wear clothes, defecate, urinate when they are permitted. I want to tell them that they are not weird. They don’t have to act on their dark fantasies, but they are entitled to have them.

Sometimes I write heavy stuff.

And I hope that women read my tales too. I write for them; to empower -- sexually.

One guy who wrote to me, declared himself a submissive. He wanted to be tied up, be beaten until he was “bruised and bloody”. He couldn’t possibly tell his wife, she would think he was a pervert.

So how can he tell me, a stranger, things that he would never divulge to the person he is closest to in all the world?

Sad, bad.

Do male writer’s of erotica get this? I wonder what their response would be? A gay friend, who writes gay male erotica, tells me that he’s had mails where his readers confess that they have masturbated after reading his stories. My friend’s response is: “well well”.

One New Year’s Eve, I had a cold so I decided not to join in the celebrations. I stayed in, warm and cosy. I was watching the new year arrive on television. Big Ben struck on the hour of midnight. The phone rang. A guy telling me to open my mouth, he was waiting to shove his penis in. It’s hardly poetry, is it? I was shocked and hung up. I was nervous and felt upset. Then I got to thinking, how would a man react to a dirty phone call? So I asked them -- gay and straight. Both said that they would laugh and probably be excited. So I wrote my story, “Retribution”. It’s about just that. A straight man receiving a dirty phone call from a woman. It’s in M.Christian’s anthology, “Best S&M Erotica vol.3


I mentioned all of this to an acquaintance; his response was -- “Well, given the genre you write in, don’t you think that this sort of thing is bound to happen?”

Maybe I’m naïve, but I didn’t. The males who have contacted me come over as intelligent guys; men with refined, intellectually developed, sophisticated minds. So why, after a few emails, do they ask me ask me inappropriate questions? Very personal questions. Have I ever…? Very creepy questions.

These questions take me by surprise rather than shock me. A bit like the dirty phone call on New Year’s Eve. Questions that unsettle me rather than distress me. I feel a little bit insulted too -- but most of all, I feel very irritated.

I could name names -- I could, perhaps I should. But I’m not going to -- that would make me spiteful, and I’m not spiteful.

But I am not Ulena, or Jasmine, or Sally, or whoever the hell the FEM/dom is in my tales. They are figments of my imagination; they are not me. I create these characters, just to see if I can do it. I put them and their submissive partners in depraved situations, just to see if I can do it. Human beings have always whispered tales of the forbidden; the taboo. Those tales are a part of every culture in the world, expressing stuff we dare not speak of.

Perhaps, one day I’ll move away from erotica/pornography -- maybe I’ll write something “worthy”. Heavens, there are plenty of issues to be going along with. Racism, homophobia, xenophobia, how we treat the elderly, child abuse, animal cruelty -- the list goes on and on. Perhaps I’ll write about the cult of celebrity -- the desire that half the world has, it seems, to be famous.

Maybe I won’t -- there are more than enough writers churning out “worthy” books.

I’ve deleted my Facebook profile -- no great loss there. I was getting inappropriate comments on my “wall”.

It’s fiction for God’s sake; it’s a story.

It seems that if I want to write in the erotica genre, then I have to hide -- But I will continue to write my tales of sexual release, sensual release -- and yes, even spiritual release.

I think that my ultimate aim, as a writer of erotica, is to express erotica with words, as beautifully as Dita von Teese does in her burlesque dance. Dita dances to entertain -- She dances to arouse men -- and women too. She’s also empowering women -- to be beautiful, to take control of their sexuality. She’s telling a story, a fiction -- her dance is no more real than any of my, or any other writer’s erotic/pornographic tales.



In her dressing room, Dita von Teese takes of her wig and heavy makeup. She kicks off the killer heels -- she probably slips, very elegantly of course, into a pair of old jeans and a tee shirt. She exits through the stage door -- her adoring fans don’t even recognise her. She tip toes away gracefully into the night.

THE HARSH REALITIES OF WRITING SMUT: M.CHRISTIAN

Before I say anything here's a hearty and heart-felt THANKS to Billierosie for her love and support --- and for her wanting to share this little piece I wrote about the reality of being a smut writer. Little, alas, has changed from when I wrote this -- and when it was published in “How to write and sell Erotica:” sex and sex writing is still something that seems to bring out a lot of strange things for far too many people and, until we evolve as a species, everyone who wants to say anything about eroticism needs to have a very firm grasp of what that means.


"The shock of September 11 is subsiding. Each day adds distance. Distance diminishes fear. Cautiously our lives are returning to normal. But "normal" will never be the same again. We have seen the enemy and the enemy is among us .... the publishers, producers, peddlers and purveyors of pornography."


It didn't take me long to find that quote, just a few minutes of searching. It came from an LDS Web site, Meridian Magazine, but I could have picked fifty others. Maybe it's because of the election, or because of a few horror stories that have recently come my way, but I think it's time to have a chat about what it can mean to ... well, do what we do.


We write pornography. Say it with me: por-nog-ra-phy. Not 'erotica' -- a word too many writers use to distance themselves, or even elevate themselves, from the down and dirty stuff on most adult bookstore shelves -- but smut, filth ... and so forth.


I've mentioned before how it's dangerous to draw a line in the sand, putting fellow writers on the side of 'smut' and others in 'erotica.' The Supreme Court couldn't decide where to scrawl that mark -- what chance do we have?


What good are our petty semantics when too many people would love to see us out of business, thrown in jail, or much, much worse? They don't see a bit of difference between what I write and what you write. We can sit and argue all we like over who's innocent and who's guilty until our last meals arrive, but we'll still hang together.


I think it's time to face some serious facts about what we do. 'Swinging from a rope' hyperbole aside, we face some serious risks for putting pen to paper or file to disk. I know far too many people who have been fired, stalked, threatened, had their writing used against them in divorces and child custody cases, and much worse.


People hate us. Not everyone, certainly, but even in oases like San Francisco people who write about sex can suffer tremendous difficulties. Even the most -- supposedly -- tolerant companies have a hard time with an employee who writes smut. A liberal court will still look down on a defendant who's published stories in Naughty Nurses. The religious fanatic will most certainly throw the first, second, third stone -- or as many as it takes -- at a filth peddler.


This is what we have to accept. Sure, things are better than they have been before and, if we're lucky, they will slowly progress despite the fundamentalism of the current government, but we all have to open our eyes to the ugly truths that can accompany a decision to write pornography.


What can we do? Well, aside from joining the ACLU (www.aclu.org) there isn't a lot to we can directly do to protect ourselves if the law, or Bible-wielding fanatics, break down our doors, but there are a few relatively simple techniques we can employ to be safe. Take these as you will, and keep in mind that I'm not an expert in the law, but most importantly, try to accept that what you are doing is dangerous.


Assess your risks. If you have kids, if you have a sensitive job, if you own a house, if you have touchy parents, if you live in a conservative city or state, you should be extra careful about your identity and what you are writing. Even if you think you have nothing to lose, you do -- your freedom. Many cities and states have very loose pornography laws, and all it would take is a cop, a sheriff, or a district attorney to decide you needed to be behind bars to put you there.


Hide. Yes, I think we should all be proud of what we do, what we create, but use some common sense about how easily you can be identified or found. If you have anything to lose, use a pseudonym, a post office box, never post your picture, and so forth. Women, especially, should be extra careful. I know far too many female writers who have been stalked or Internet-attacked because of what they do.


Keep your yap shut. Don't tell your bank, your boss, your accountant, your plumber, or anyone at all, what you do -- unless you know them very well. When someone asks, I say I'm a writer. If I know them better, I say I write all kinds of things -- including smut. If I know them very, very, very well then maybe I'll show them my newest book. People, it shouldn't have to be said, are very weird. Just because you like someone doesn't mean you should divulge that you just sold a story to Truckstop Transsexuals. 


Remember that line we drew between 'pornography' and 'erotica'? Well, here's another. You might be straight, you might be bi, but in the eyes of those who despise pornography you are just as damned and perverted as a filthy sodomite. It makes me furious to meet a homophobic pornographer. Every strike against gay rights is another blow to your civil liberties and is a step closer to you being censored, out of a job, out of your house, or in jail. You can argue this all you want, but I've yet to see a hysterical homophobe who isn't anti-smut. For you to be anti-gay isn't just an idiotic prejudice, it's giving the forces of puritanical righteousness even more ammunition for their war -- on all of us.


I could go on, but I think I've given you enough to chew on. I believe that writing about sex is something that no one should be ashamed of, but I also think that we all need to recognize and accept that there are many out there who do not share those feelings. Write what you want, say what you believe, but do it with your eyes open. Understand the risks, accept the risks and be smart about what you do -- so you can keep working and growing as a writer for many years to come.