Desire Read online

  In our selection I wanted the stories to be of a certain literary standard, while still earning the epithet of sexy, libidinous, titillating, erotic and, yes, even pornographic. Of course it’s true that, to some degree, this will depend on the reader’s perspective. But first and foremost, the stories in this book had to be entertaining in a way that was broadly appropriate for the genre.

  Our final choice reflects as wide a range as the category will allow. For some ‘sexy’ might mean a bit of harmless slap and tickle. For the more deviant and gimp-mask-oriented, it could imply a good deal more ‘slap’: the sort the Marquis de Sade or Pauline Réage felt so compelled to write about. This anthology, however varied its contents and from whatever century or country its stories hail, has a common goal and, quite frequently, a common destination: namely, to fire up the reader’s erotic imagination and – without frightening the horses too much – to set them on the enjoyable path of both mental and physical arousal.

  It’s reasonable to argue that the creation of the Obscene Publications Act, passed just over a hundred and fifty years ago, has had a lingering effect upon the way we write sex today. One fateful day in 1857, those of their lordships still awake in the Upper Chamber were listening with half an ear to one of their company droning on about the sale of dangerous poisons. To the amazement of some, and amusement of others, they saw the elderly Chief Justice Lord Campbell leap (uncharacteristically) to his feet in order to deliver an impassioned speech:

  ‘There are far greater dangers to society,’ fulminated the Scottish church minister’s son, ‘than those caused by the misuse of poisons. I have learned with horror and alarm that a sale of poison more deadly than prussic acid, strychnine or arsenic – the sale of obscene publications and indecent books – is openly going on.’

  The septuagenarian Campbell was referring to London’s infamous Holywell Street, where every sort of pornographic picture, book, guide or manual was on sale. His emotional outburst was particularly surprising to his noble colleagues, since he was better known as ‘a learned and industrious gentleman who made up for his lack of sparkle by his glum determination’. Among the murmurs of approval there were equally cries of derision from their lordships, but eventually, despite a rough ride in the Commons, this ageing advocate had the last laugh: his moral outrage was transmogrified into an Act of Parliament that blighted Britain’s libido in ways that are still being counted today.

  Thus, for the next hundred years, Eros slept. Thanks to Campbell’s obsession with porn, a law was created that told us what we could and couldn’t publish and what sort of literature the British public were permitted to read; a moralclimate was engendered that impeded our access to great authors (as evidenced by the imprisonment of the respected publisher Henry Vizetelly for his translation of Émile Zola’s La Terre in 1889); and the creation and publishing of any explicit literature was driven deep underground. This erotic winter lasted until, finally, an ordinary jury’s common sense prevailed at the infamous LadyChatterley trial in 1960.

  Since then things have changed, to the extent that nowadays the idea of an author being jailed for writing or publishing something salacious is outrageous – at least in this country. In the wider world, at the time of writing, an unpleasant echo of those proscriptive times rings out: the author Ahmed Naji has recently been sentenced to two years’ imprisonment by an Egyptian court for violating public modesty after a chapter from his novel, The Use of Life, appeared in the state-run literary review Akhbar al-Adab.

  *

  The connection between the Erotic Review and erotic literature is a close one: early in our existence we published a limited edition facsimile set of Aubrey Beardsley’s illustrations to Lysistrata. Upon reading Aristophanes’ play, first performed circa 411 BC, it came as a surprise to us how very early sex started to feature in literature. And not just as some coy or veiled reference; sexual frustration is one of the play’s central themes: gigantic, painfully unassuaged erections play a prominent part in its stage directions. Sex was as important then as it is now, and it’s hard not to speculate whether the Athenian audience found the play not only side-splittingly funny, but shocking and erotic, too.

  Although the Athenians regarded sex as completely natural, there remained some inhibitions – though these were social, rather than moral. Aristophanes knew well enough that, when dealing with sexual content, he needed to call upon humour as a useful collaborator in ridding his audience of any hang-ups they might possess; consequently this particular collusion has been popular for a very long time indeed. Lucius Apuleius uses it in his brilliant, farcical The Golden Ass, which he wrote more than five hundred years later in the Roman provinceof what is now Morocco. There is a direct link between Aristophanes and contemporary writers, such as Nicholson Baker, with his rude and extremely funny House of Holes, Christopher Peachment’s ‘The Man Also Rises’ and Luke Jennings’ ‘Small Talk’. Sandwiched between them are Chaucer’s bawdy ‘Miller’s Tale’, the endless raunchy innuendos of Shakespeare’s sonnets and plays, Rochester’s libertine Sodom and Cleland’s archly lustful Fanny Hill.

  *

  And what of our collection of short stories that form Desire? Where are we now? Has the democratisation and ubiquity of porn via the Internet, the relentless sexualisation of the media, the new gender and identity politics and the blurring of conventional male and female boundaries started a gender fragmentation process?

  Certainly, since Lord Campbell’s day, there has been a paradigm shift in the way the sexes view sex: over the last few decades birth control, feminism, even a greater anatomical awareness, have forever changed the way we approach each other for sex and the way we enjoy it together. But down the centuries has any real transformation taken place? While the dance steps may change, the rhythm does not: the sexual act, in all its visceral, messy, sweaty, orgasmic glory, seems quite incapable of evolution.

  And here is the problem when writing about sex: there is something so basic and bestial about the way in which we copulate, and yet so uniquely human in the way we blend strong emotions with sexual desire, that occasionally prose can seem like an inadequate form of expression. It’s as if there simply aren’t enough words to describe the experience. And so it becomes blindingly clear that the context of fucking is far more important than the fucking itself.

  This doesn’t seem to stop authors regularly trying – and often failing – to ‘write sex’. The Literary Review gives a prize every year to the author guiltiest of poorly written, perfunctory or redundant passages of sexual description in their novel, but ‘the prize is not intended to cover pornographic or expressly erotic literature’. So apprehensive are authors of being crowned with this particular set of withered laurels, that its presenters may have ended up competing with Lord Campbell; it’s a different kind of censorship, but few writers care to take the risk of being nominated for the notorious Bad Sex in Fiction Award.

  And it’s not as if there weren’t enough problems already. Writing for the Erotic Review, Malachi O’Doherty has observed that, ‘Perhaps we feel that in writing about sex we disclose our personal knowledge of naked intimacy. We implicate ourselves. And we don’t want to do that. It is no secret that everyone masturbates, but it is a secret that you or I do... And since sex is private and is conducted inside pairings, mostly, where two people together have their private language of gestures and noises, and even subliminally of smells and reflexes, no writer describing a sexual grapple for a wide audience can trust to being understood in the same way by all readers.’

  Writing sex, writing an erotic or a pornographic (if you must distinguish) story may cause your work to be relegated to the literary status of ‘genre’. But it is a great genre, one that transcends all others for, unlike those that deal with office romances, faster-than-light space travel or the 87th Precinct, it concerns itself with that primal intimacy that is such a crucial component of the human condition.

  So here are one hundred reasons to celebrate stories whose authors, in
different ways, might regard sex thus. Authors such as Nnenna Marcia, John Gibb, or Geoff Nicholson, who are simply great storytellers; or those, like Nikki Gemmell, Michel Faber or Lucy Golden, who describe the act of sex with such elegant confidence. And there are those who we have come to regard as the classic authors of this genre: John Cleland, Georges Bataille, Anaïs Nin and Henry Miller.

  Desire salutes the bravery, the persistence and the sheer chutzpah of all those writers who have, for millennia, written sex. It applauds the risks of imprisonment, or worse, that they took and their refusal to bow to the cultural conventions of their time. Erotic heroes all, to a woman and a man!

  Jamie Maclean, Erotic Review

  October 2016

  www.ermagazine.com

  Awakening Desire

  From EVELINE

  Anonymous

  The author of the preface to the 1904 edition of Eveline makes a case for the adventurous and independent Eveline being some sort of sexual psychopath, or as he puts it, ‘inheriting an absence of moral perceptions so far as it relates to the sexual instinct’. A common attitude, perhaps, when stout Edwardian gentlemen, in complete denial of their own satyriasic condition, viewed any sort of female sexual independence with alarm. If they could not control an erotic situation, it was aberrant. Today’s women might view Eveline’s progress with a certain degree of admiration.

  I determined to run up to town. I went by an early train, alone. I entered the station some fifteen minutes before the train started. On the platform was a gentlemanly-looking man in a tweed suit. I thought I had seen his face before. I could not recall where. We passed each other. He looked pointedly at me. Certainly I knew his features. I never forget, if I take an interest in a man’s appearance. I liked the look of this tall, well-built fellow in tweeds. He appeared to be about thirty-five to forty years of age – hale and hearty. I gave him one of my glances as he passed me.

  “This way, miss. First class – no corridors on this train. You will be all right here. You’re all alone at present.”

  “Thank you, guard. Does the train go up without stopping?”

  “Stops at Lewes, miss. That’s all – then right up.”

  I saw my tall friend pass the carriage. Another glance. He stopped – hesitated – then opened the door and got in. He took a seat opposite me. The newspaper appeared to engross his attention until the whistle sounded. We were off.

  “Would you object to my lowering the window? These carriages are stuffy. The morning is so warm.”

  I made no objection, but smilingly gave consent. “How calm and beautiful the sea looks! It seems a pity to leave it.”

  “Indeed I think so – especially for London.”

  “You are going up to London? How odd! So am I!”

  I could not be mistaken. I had seen him somewhere before.

  “I shall miss the sea very much. We have no sea baths in Manchester. I love my morning dip.”

  It struck me like a flash. I remembered him now.

  “You must have enjoyed it very much, coming from an inland city.”

  “Well, yes, you see I had a good time. They looked after me well. Always had my machine ready.”

  “I have no doubt of that.”

  “No. 33. A new one – capital people – very fine machine.”

  I suppose I smiled a little. He laughed in reply as if he read my thought. Then he folded up his paper. I arranged my small reticule. It unfortunately dropped from my hand. He picked it up and presented it to me. His foot touched mine. We conversed. He told me he lived near Manchester. He had been to Eastbourne for rest. His business had been too much for him, but he was all right now. His gaze was constantly upon me. I kept thinking of his appearance all naked on the platform of the bathing machine as old David Jones rowed me past. We stopped at Lewes. My companion put his head out of the window. He prevented the entry of an old lady by abusing the newspaper boy for his want of activity. The train started again.

  “I think Eastbourne is one of the best bathing places on the coast. You know where the gentlemen’s machines are?”

  “I think I know where they keep them.”

  “Well, I was going to say – but – well – what a funny girl you are! Why are you laughing?”

  “Because a funny idea struck me. I was thinking of a friend.”

  His foot was pushed a little closer – very perceptible was the touch. He never ceased gloating on my person. My gloves evidently had an especial attraction for him. Meanwhile, I looked him well over. He was certainly a fine man. He roused my emotions. I permitted his foot to remain in contact with my boot. I even moved it past his, so that my ankle touched his. His face worked nervously. Poor man, no wonder! He gave me a searching look. Our glances met. He pressed my leg between his own. His fingers were trembling with that undefined longing for contact with the object of desire I so well understood. I smiled.

  “You seem very fond of the ladies.”

  I said it boldly, with a familiar meaning he could not fail to understand. I glanced at his leather bag in the rack above.

  “I cannot deny the soft impeachment. I am. Especially when they are young and beautiful.”

  “Oh, you men! You are dreadfully wicked. What would Mrs Turner say to that?”

  I laughed. He stared with evident alarm. It was a bold stroke. I risked it. Either way I lost nothing.

  “How do you know I am married?” My shaft had gone home. He had actually missed the first evident fact. He picked it up, however, quickly, before I could reply. “It appears you know me? You know my name?”

  “Well, yes. You see I am not blind.”

  I pointed to the label on the bag above his head. It was his turn to laugh.

  “Ah! You have me there! What a terribly observant young lady you must be!”

  He seized my hand before I could regain my attitude. He pressed it in both his own.

  “You will not like me any the less – will you? I thought we were going to be so friendly.”

  “On the contrary – they say married men are the best.”

  Up to this point, my effrontery had led him on. He must have felt he was on safe ground. My last remark was hardly even equivocal. He evidently took it as it was intended. I was equally excited. The man and the opportunity tempted me on. I wanted him. I was delighted with his embarrassment – with his fast increasing assurance. I made no attempt to withdraw my hand. He crossed over. He occupied the seat beside me. My gloved hand remained in his.

  “I am so glad you think so. You do not know how charming I think you. Married men ought to be good judges, you know.”

  “I suppose so. I rather prefer them.”

  I looked in his face and laughed as I uttered the words. He brought his very close. He passed his left arm round my waist. I made no resistance. The carriage gave a sympathetic jerk as it rushed along. Our faces touched. His lips were in contact with mine. It was quite accidental, of course, the line is so badly laid. We kissed.

  “Oh, you are nice! How pretty you are!”

  He pressed his hot lips again to mine. I thought of the sight I had seen on the bathing machine. My blood boiled. I half closed my eyes. I let him keep his mouth upon mine. He pressed me to him. He drew my light form to his stout and well-built frame as in a vice.

  I put my right foot up on the opposite seat. He glared at the pretty tight little kid boot. He was evidently much agitated.

  “Ah! What a lovely foot!”

  He touched it with his hand. His fingers ran over the soft pale cream-coloured leather. I wore a pair of papa’s prime favourites. He did not stop there. The trembling hand passed on to my stocking, advancing by stealthy degrees. It was then he tried to push forward the tip of his tongue.

  “How beautiful you are and how gentle and kind!”

  His arm enfolded me still closer, my bosom pressed his shoulder. His hand pressed further and further up my stocking. I closed my knees resolutely. I gave a hurried glance around.

  “Are we quite safe he
re, do you think?”

  “Quite safe, and, as you see, quite alone.”

  Our lips met again. This time I kissed him boldly. The tip of his active tongue inserted itself between my moist lips.

  “Ah! How lovely you are! How gloriously pretty!”

  “Hush! They might hear us in the next carriage. I am frightened.”

  “You are deliciously sweet. I long for you dreadfully.”

  Mr Turner’s hand continued its efforts towards my knees. I relaxed my pressure a little. He reached my garters above them. In doing so he uncovered my ankles. He feasted his eyes on my calves daintily set off in openwork stockings of a delicate shade of pale brown.

  “Oh, you are too bad, really! I ought not to let you do that – no, really! Pray do not do so – oh!”

  It was a delicious game of seduction. I enjoyed his lecherous touches. He was constantly becoming more confident of his sudden and uncontrollable passion. He strained me to him. His breath came quick and sweet upon my face. I lusted for this man’s embrace beyond all power of language to convey. His warm hand reached my plump thigh. I made pretence to prevent his advance.

  “Pray – oh, pray do not do that! Oh!”

  A sudden jerk as we apparently sped over some points. I relaxed my resistance a trifle. He took instant advantage of the movement. His finger was on the most sensitive part of my private parts. It pressed upon my clitoris. I felt the little thing stiffen, swell and throb under the touch of a man’s hand. His excitement increased. He drew me even closer. He pressed my warm body to his. His kisses, hot and voluptuous, covered my face and neck.