Consider 50 Shades of Grey, the most recent entry and phenomenon in the sex book wars. I read a couple of pages at the checkout counter of a local bookstore and that was enough for me. My daughter says that she and a group of girlfriends read scenes aloud and howled. So what’s to be made of the trilogy’s 65 million in sales? Do women really crave bondage? Or is it simply that every generation needs a sex novel?
When I was a boy it was Peyton Place. I was just a kid when it came out so it must have been a few years before I read it though I remember the sex scenes as if it were yesterday, bad girl Betty Anderson and rich boy Rodney Harrington on the beach, illegitimacy, incest and more. Then there was Fanny Hill, a bit flowery for my taste but it did the trick, and of course Lady Chatterley’s Lover, though I still can’t imagine entwining flowers in anyone’s public hair but maybe that’s just me. My parents tried to hide Lolita but I got my hands on it and was disappointed: Where was the sex? It wasn’t until I was a grown up and actually read the book that I understood and it became one of my favorite novels, which has nothing to do with sex. I couldn’t tell you what Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer or Tropic of Capricorn are about because I only read the “dirty” parts. The Story of O is the most obvious predecessor to 50 Shades, though dominance and submission were never my thing, so again I skimmed. I did read every page of Erica Jong’s hot and hilarious Fear of Flying, but that was a while ago and I can’t think of an erotic book since that I wanted to read.
But is it possible to shock in 2013? I’m guessing 50 Shades S&M theme is what makes it shocking and (somewhat) taboo—the forbidden always holds fascination and piques our interest.
When S.J. Rozan and I set out to create an anthology that mixed literary and crime fiction writers, The Dark End of the Street, our goal was to show that writing is writing no matter who is doing it. But when we added another ingredient and asked everyone to write about sex and crime we were surprised by the results: most writers put the emphasis on crime. Was there some embarrassment about writing explicit sex? So okay, Michael Connelly did write about a stripper and Amy Hempel an affair between a young man and older woman and Laura Lippman took on the exploits of a gigolo and Val McDermid’s story of an obsessive same-sex affair was pretty hot so maybe I am just quibbling (which sounds like a sex term, doesn’t it?). But the majority of the writers seemed more comfortable writing crime exploits than sexploits.
I recently saw Before Midnight, the latest in the series of movies with Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy as a couple that meet, fall in love, do not have sex, part, meet again, do have sex and now, in their 40s, with children, still talk about sex in between much other talk and arguing. My favorite line (among many), Celine (Delpy) hurling a caustic insult at her best selling author partner, Jesse (Hawke), “The way you write in your book, people come up to me and think I make love to some wildcat Henry Miller type. . . . Ha! You like to have sex the exact same way every time — Kissy, kissy,’ sound of snoring, et cetera — You’re no Henry Miller on any level.”
The line of course brings up so much about writing in general: For one, that readers believe you are your characters. If you write about murder (which I do though not exclusively) you are obviously a madman or a killer; if you write about sex you are clearly a hound. On my first book tour I had just explained that my novel, The Death Artist, was about a serial killer and read a graphic murder scene. The first question from the audience was: “Is this autobiographical?” Duh, what? Though I did have a sort of sassy comeback: “No, this is about a serial killer and I’ve only killed one person.”
As a visual artist no one ever asks me if I am my painting (Hey, is that abstraction a depiction of the inside of your head?). But words seem to trigger some sort of reality response in the reader, particularly if your writing is convincing. I recently wrote a story for “The Marijuana Chronicles,” an anthology of stories, which I edited, and everyone (including very close friends who know me well) asked me if my story was true. I take that as a compliment but it confirms my point that writing is taken as ‘truth’ or often, autobiographical.
Which brings me to my contribution to the world of erotic literature. First off, like Ethan Hawke’s writer character, I will go on record to say I am no Henry Miller (though I hope my theory holds and no believes that). This story happened the way any of stories happens. I had an idea and started to write it. I did not sit down to write a sex story though I had a sex scene in my head and decided to see where it would lead. Soon sex became the driving force for the characters though the plot line is ultimately about something else. I’m happy with the story, so much so that I’ve written a second installment and I think there will be a third and it may possibly become a continuing series following the two main characters though I never know where my characters will lead me—which is why I write—so I can’t tell you what will happen to them.
Many of my stories have been published in anthologies or mystery magazines like Ellery Queen or The Strand but I couldn’t imagine either of those publications accepting this story. I figured I’d have to wait for a hardcore sex anthology (maybe something I should put together) but then I thought, okay, take the plunge, do what everyone else is doing: enter the dreaded world of self-publishing. For years it was the no-man’s land for the un-publishable, but so many of my published writer friends have been doing it, I thought Why not? And this story seemed like a way to get my feet wet (Oh, the temptation of making some sort of “wet’ sex joke).
And so, the first installment of “Carly” is now up on Kindle. Here’s what I hope: You will go to Kindle and shell out 99 cents for my story. I mean, c’mon, how many dollars have you thrown away in your life? And this time I think you will get your money’s worth. I also hope you will send your friends to Kindle to plunk down their 99 cents. Though I do not recommend this story for the easily shocked or offended. And it is definitely not for children. Nor for my mother, so please do not tell her (although she is not easily shocked).
A note on my sketches: The poster for Stanley‘s Kubrick’s movie version of Lolita was fun to draw except for the tiny lettering they used, as if it’s something whispered and secretive, which is sort of a brilliant advertising ploy, don’t you think? Along with calling it a film, not a movie, just to let you know this is something classy not smut, and yet… I haven’t seen the movie in a while but I remember the first half being great and of course James Mason is always brilliant and Shelley Winters is reliably annoying (Does everyone remember she was a method actor who studied with Lee Strasberg at the Actors Studio and was Marilyn Monroe’s roommate?). The young (but not young enough) Sue Lyon, in the title role, didn’t make much of an impression but was saddled with being too old for the part, a role she pretty much repeated (bratty wanton tart) in Night of the Iguana with Richard Burton as Tennessee William’s defrocked man of God and Ava Gardner at middle age, ripe and gorgeous. The whole movie feels sweaty and a talky (a couple of years ago I discovered it in the Yaddo library and watched it one night when I was having trouble working) but it’s still fun, and has one of William’s most memorable lines spoken by the virginal Deborah Kerr in response to a sordid story Burton tells her with apparent disgust. “Nothing human disgusts me,” she says. Oh really, Deborah, well listen to this…
The “girlie” sketch was my first attempt at a book cover for “Carly” but I abandoned it because it looked too 80s Playboy, though I thought someone might enjoy seeing how I spent almost an hour of my life.
For the Henry Miller sketch I went to Google, found a bunch of photos and chose this one because he looks dignified.
As for the little sketch of the Peyton Place cover it’s sort of a cheat because I drew it some time ago for one of the interrelated stories in my memoir-in-progress, “Seaman Road,” which I may also put on Kindle, a few stories at a time. I figure if the sex story doesn’t ruin my reputation the memoir surely will.