Suzanne Portnoy

Today was one of those days I would prefer to forget. First, I went to a meeting that I thought was in Chelsea Harbour but turned out to be in Oxfordshire. Five hours later, I arrived at the Metropolitan Hotel armed with a carrier bag chock full of sex toys and books only to be told my gig had been rescheduled for the 29th July. I think my brain must still be in Cap D’Adge, France’s largest naturist village and a swinger’s paradise. Having arrived back on Monday after spending the most blissful weekend there, I am feeling slightly scatty and more than a little chilled.

Cap D’Adge may not be everyone’s mug of latte but it’s hard for me to find fault in the place. OK, the beach was a little windy and at one point I counted eight guys all having a wank only a few metres from where I was sitting with my bf, but it seemed a small price to pay for being able to lie naked while having my nipples caressed and squeezed. It’s not everyplace where such behaviour would be allowed but in Cap D’Adge just about anything goes… and I mean anything. It’s not uncommon to see mature women wearing clit rings with long chains attached to them or guys with more jewellery in their scrotum than your average WAG wears to Mahiki. Younger men chat up women old enough to be their granny. Men, clearly aroused, stand over couples watching as they kiss. Size 16 women who really should know better try and squeeze themselves into 2 piece PVC bikinis. And always there is the nakedness and one realises that although we are born with the same parts in roughly the same place, everyone’s geometry is quite unique. And every afternoon, just like clockwork, hundreds of men would gather on the swinger’s section of the beach, often ten rows deep, watching some couple get it on or waiting to get a blowjob.

‘I don’t get it,’ said my bf whilst surveying the circle jerk and gently rubbing my clit. ‘It shows off the worst aspects of masculinity.’

‘You may not understand it,’ I said. ‘But that’s the way it is. It’s the wolf pack mentality.’ Meanwhile we sat, a hundred or so metres away and watched, laughing at the insanity of the place.

As for us, we spent most of the time enjoying the sun, taking in some of the nightlife, eating cheese and bread and drinking French wine, having lots and lots of sex and getting to know each other better. By the end of three days we were brown and satiated. It was, in short, the perfect holiday. Now if only I could find my brain…

This morning I was forwarded a link to what I can only describe as one of the most depressing and disappointing interviews I have heard in some times, even more depressing than the Ricky Gervais/Larry David interview on telly a few year’s ago when Larry David revealed himself to be not nearly half as funny as his character in Curb. This interview was on Radio 4’s Today programme with Kate Copstick, the new editor of The Erotic Review, who declared that she would never let a woman write erotica for the magazine because she felt, deep down, that women didn’t enjoy sex enough to be able to write about it and that, because our approach to sexuality was so different to that of a man’s, it had no merit.

OK, I admit I’ve never been a big fan of the rag. I’ve always thought it was for stuffy, plum in the mouth, public school types who thought that anal sex and spanking were the height of naughtiness. I particularly remember an article written by some uptight woman who declared she hated a man going down on her because she couldn’t bear to look at his bald head between her legs. Another story I recall was one written by Rod Liddle where he suggested that everything from blowjobs to anal to rimming had derived from homosexual practises and that heterosexuals were simply following a trend that had been set by gay culture. WHATEVER. It was all so po-faced. Even so, just because I’m not the greatest supporter of The Erotic Review doesn’t mean I wouldn’t at some point like to write for them or even to read a few stories written by my erotica writing sisters.

I remember, back in 2005, when I first submitted my proposal for ‘Butcher, Baker’ to Virgin Books. A completely unknown and unpublished writer, my now editor sent me back this letter. I’m sure he won’t mind me reproducing a bit of it to demonstrate why Kate Copstick’s editorial policy is so very, very wrong.

He wrote:

What I will say is that your experience is extraordinary and very much indicative of a side to female sexuality in the west that has come out of the underground in the last decade or so. Ordinary women having extraordinary sex lives that contravene cultural and social expectations. Handled well, it’s something women love to read about, and something men can’t keep their hands off. It’s still sensational and shocking. In short, it’s all about how it is written - the right voice, tone and pitch that is missing now. And also how it is presented: outside of the adult fiction ghetto.

I’m fascinated by your attitude and actual experiences - especially the lunch time pick-up (those lucky boys). Also your evolution from the fetish scene to the everyday. I don’t think you’re a swinger either, but you are the type of woman that is something of an urban myth, among men: “what if a woman existed who liked sex as much as we do, and enjoys it for the sake of pure pleasure.” We wait our whole lives for one of those lunchtime encounters…

From Anais Nin onwards, the libidinous and sexually disinhibited female adventuress has been the vital electricity that has pulsed through erotica. Femme fatale, siren, huntress… Your approach is great too - not bound by submission or empowered by domination, but open. Interested in passion and people and intimacy and unfettered pleasure, I guess.

You have the experience and the stories and something to say about contemporary sexuality - male and female (you are allowed to generalise) - but we need to eroticise your material: make it red in tooth and claw, raiseeyebrows, get pulses racing, court disbelief. We’ll need greater detail, an overall structure around a central narrative. We need to make it multi
sensory - put the reader in the room with you, and inside your head. What you do is daring and it’s sensational and most people can only dream of doing it. But above all else we need the right VOICE. All important - the voice wins a reader over and takes them on your journey.

Well, of course, after that letter I fell in love with him and we ran away together. Actually, a few weeks after that I remember sitting in a big conference room wearing some quite spectacular black leather boots and a pencil skirt starring at a guy ten years my junior dressed in black jeans and a black heavy metal t-shirt. I seem to recall he spent more times looking at my boots than at me. A few weeks after that I received a contract to write ‘Butcher, Baker’ and a year later the book appeared on the shelves and even managed to make it into Amazon’s Top Twenty, so I guess I did something right or wore the right boots. Since then (if my inbox is anything to go by) I’ve had hundreds of emails from fans of both sexes saying how much my writing turns them on. I feel genuinely sad for Kate Copstick if she doesn’t realise the value of erotica written by women and I’ll be keeping one eye on The Erotic Review’s circulation figures from now on to see how well she fares. As for the rest of you, I would urge you to ban subscribing to a magazine with such a sexist commissioning policy.