Erotic Review Magazine

The First Class

by Nusa Bartol-Bibb / 23rd September 2014

From the thrillingly explicit to the oblique, from the heartwarming to the tragic, from the ridiculous to the sublime: fiction's great scenes of sexual initiation come in many guises.But as the existence of the Bad Sex Awards attests, that doesn't make them easy to write. ER takes a look at the authors who've overcome adversity to produce perfect passages on surrendered virginity, inceptive masturbation, and uncharacteristic abstinence.

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“Someday ever woman will have orgasms – like every family has a colour TV – and we can all get on with the business of life. ” - Erica Jong


We're not the first to spot this one, but…

23rd September 2014

…we'd hate you to miss it. First The Times of India, now the London Times. Is The Thunderer trying to rehabilitate the P-people by judicious use of humour? Good for them. We at Erotic Towers applaud a brave, if solitary, crusade. Misguided, perhaps, but after all, we're only human.

The Eloquent Ms Padukone

22nd September 2014

The elegant and intelligent Deepika Padukone, the Bollywood film star, has been having words with The Times of India, the world’s largest circulated English newspaper, who asininely tweeted, "OMG: Deepika Padukone's Cleavage Show”. Finding this sort of line tiresome and crass, she re-tweeted, " YES! I am a woman. I have breasts AND a cleavage! You got a problem!!??". ToI tried to justify their position in a rather lame editorial, boasting, “Deepika, just for the record, we do not zoom into a woman's vagina or show her nipples. As a newspaper, we take every care to ensure that we pixelate them if they show up in a picture…” So Deepka wrote a splendid rebuff to this and posted it on Facebook, asking the ToI to respect women off-screen and to behave with a little more sophistication: “It is not about breasts, penises, or any other body part being reported. It is a matter of context and how out-of-context the reportage is just to sell a headline. And more so during a time in dire need of an attitude shift towards women.” Bravo, Deepika, bravo!

Suppressed Voices

21st September 2014

SWOU (Sex Worker Open University), an online community of sex workers, has posted a guest blog on The F Word website, condemning the absence of any current sex workers on a panel discussing sex work at Feminism in London to be held on 25th October 2014. In their statement they insist that: 'For Feminism in London to include current sex workers on a panel about sex work should be non-negotiable […] the logic being that the people who are most affected by any given issue should play a significant role in conversations about it.' The very fact that they have issued this statement suggests that they would be keen participants and are eager to have their voices heard. With a heavy dose of irony, this panel was originally going to be called Suppressed Voices. They have since changed it to something more appropriately indirect.

It's never too late

19th September 2014

We can see why the international media is all excited at the news that Andreja Pejic has made a documentary about her sex reassignment. Really, we can. But over at Erotic Towers, there’s another trans woman holding our attention this week. Unlike supermodel Pejic, Ruth Rose was far from a fledgling adult when she felt able to publicly self-identify as a woman: it wasn’t until she was into her seventies that Ruth stopped living life as a man called James. With sex reassignment surgery being so involved and so expensive a medical procedure, she could quite plausibly have continued to the end of her days living in a male body that didn’t feel fully hers. But proving that life really can start at eighty-something (and that this health service has got your back), Ruth has undergone NHS-funded sex reassignment surgery at the age of 81, making her the oldest person in Britain to have the procedure done. Here's to Ms Rose! And here's to letting your true colours show! Because as a wise Cyndi Lauper once said, 'your true colours... are beautiful'.

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Robbie in Midwinter (Dreams from a mountain farmhouse)

by Gin B. / 22nd September 2014

We’re playing I-spy in the dark. You and me, naked, in bed, huddled on a single futon, under deadweight of blankets and quilts, fearful of exposing an inch of skin to the sub-zero pitch-black mid-winter Japanese mountain air, we play I-spy. In the dark. Me first. Eye spy with my little I something in Robbie’s deep psyche … … an ocean. “What kind of an ocean?” An opaque, grey, choppy North Sea kind of ocean, cloudy and uninviting, an ocean of destitute black seaweed and rusting hulks of wrecked tankers, their oily slickness long-forgot under the waves. “What else do you see?” A boat, a wooden raft, no, some floating debris, a man clinging, you clinging, struggling to climb out of the turgid water, no helping hand to pull you up…

Louisiana's Seagull

by Ali May / 17th September 2014

It was July. They sat on the raised platform of one of the sculptures and watched the sea. The sky was a crisp blue with a light scattering of clouds, the air so thin that Silja was sure she could see Sweden gleam under the sun some 14 kilometres away on the other side of the waterway. Akari thought this was ludicrous. “It’s your imagination, silly,” she said. “How can anybody see that far?” Silja had promised Akari this visit to Copenhagen’s Louisiana, for a few years and when they found out about a special Yoko Ono exhibition, they both agreed that the time was right for a day out. But when they got there they were hungry, they wanted coffee, and then they were distracted by the sunshine that is rarely ever found that high up in the north. They settled beside the sculpture and caught up over the stories that they owed each other. Since graduating they had busied themselves with work and all the rest of that grown up stuff and didn’t get the chance to meet up as often as they used to.

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Abigail Ekue: Bare Men

19th September 2014

Abigail Ekue is a New-York based creative whose photography has been widely exhibited in the Big Apple and published by everyone from The Huffington Post to Mouth&Mouth. She uses her camera to explore body image, sex and sensuality, and the visceral human experience.

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Because She's Got Breasts

by / 5th September 2013

After a few months at Erotic Towers, Tati is leaving her post as editorial assistant to chase boys in the South of France. Parting is such sweet sorrow: let us sweeten it a little more with a charming song about her breasts. Ladies, this one is for you.

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Soldier-poets, sex, and the denial of death

by Nusa Bartol-Bibb / 18th September 2014

Why was there sex at the Front in the first place? What, in those unprecedented conditions, were the young men of Europe fucking for? And what did they achieve? The mind floods with facts of human biology, sure. Remembers itself toppled by the irrepressible march of libido. The answers seem self-explanatory. But things not always being what they seem, it’s worth looking elsewhere before accepting their explanation. It’s worth paying attention to the poetry that blossomed at the Front and its suggestions that sex played a part in the War far more interesting— and far more important— than all that.

Ibiza is A Foreign Country, They Groom Things Differently Here

by Single Woman Abroad / 16th September 2014

I have taken to going for morning runs with my housemate Rita. She is a superfit West Coaster with a lithe athlete's body. I am a flabby Londoner with a penchant for cheese and ale. Ibiza, I have come to understand, does not tolerate excess flesh and our route along Talamanca Beach takes us past rows of bronzed babes in bikinis, with tits that would have Newton refuting his own theory. Whilst I long ago abandoned the idea of ever being one of these pneumatic RoboBarbies I still believe that a little bit of exercise is probably a good thing as long as I know there's a slice of cake waiting for me at the end of it.

Joan Rivers 1933-2014

by Kate Copstick / 9th September 2014

The last word she spoke onscreen was 'vagina', in Fashion Police, having just torn apart Amber Rose and her ultra revealing Laura Dewitt chainmail dress. "Amber looks so much like a chain link border fence that 5000 Guatemalan children tried to sneak across her vagina," said the woman who sashayed across the world of entertainment for laugh-out-loud decades, leaving unfillable Manolo-Blahnik-designed comedy footsteps as she went - dainty in front with a dagger thrust following. She was honest and she was fearless and a comic cannot be much better than that.

You're either anonymous or you're not

by Single Woman Abroad / 8th September 2014

"I veer from unbridled hubris to neurotic paralysis," I tell The Editor after ignoring his email for a week. I once read a self-help book entitled Self-Sabotage and How to Stop It. Clearly, I didn't absorb anything. I want to be a writer but when someone expresses interest in my writing I scamper into the undergrowth faster than a nervous Ibicenco lizard. After going to ground for a week, sitting in a darkened room refreshing my Twitter feed into infinity, today I feel like I might be a writer again. I'm lying on the beach in my homage to Bettie Page leopard print and hibiscus mismatched bikini and I'm stealing glances at the beardy bartender from the nearby bar while typing away on my iPad. There are small windows of clarity. In these windows I see that I might be able to ditch waitressing and earn my living as a writer. I'm trying my best to silence the self-doubt.

let's talk about sex

by Nusa Bartol-Bibb / 4th September 2014

Really, it’s high time that sex education in this country was given an overhaul. Not just because we still have unacceptable teenage pregnancy rates and a rising tide of STDs but because somehow, somewhere along the line, the Glorious Sexual Revolution has been betrayed, and our schools, colleges and universities are full of fledgling adults with attitudes towards sex that are damaging their relationships both with each other and with themselves.

A CV Is Bullshit

by Single Woman Abroad / 30th August 2014

When I moved to Ibiza I knew what I was signing up for. As my friend C often says, 'This island runs on sex.' Outside almost every restaurant in Ibiza Town you'll find a heavily made up young women in heels and miniskirts whose sole role is to lure in custom. In San Antonio outside the little boat shacks that line the marina, young women in bikinis are employed to tempt you on to various vessels of dubious seaworthiness. Of course, that's just the surface, scratch beneath and you'll find the commodification of coitus on every corner. Sex sells and on Ibiza, it's the primary industry. A few weeks ago I applied for job as a waitress. 'Please attach a photo with your CV' the ad said. I didn't recoil in militant feminist horror and retreat to my bunker in a burlap sack. I needed a job. Pretty urgently as it happens. So I sent off a CV with a photo attached. This is the reply I received a few minutes later:

Interrupted Sea Views

by Single Woman Abroad / 18th August 2014

I'm sitting on my balcony typing. Some days, I can't believe how lucky I am. For a fraction of the rent I paid in London, I have a flat overlooking the azure blue Mediterranean Sea. Of course, this being Ibiza it also overlooks a brothel (well technically, it vaunts itself as an escort agency) with a big red neon sign. Outside, it has a sad little astroturfed garden furnished with a few high white plastic tables and a couple of flags which hang limp in the airless summer heat. From my balcony I have a clear view of the bored looking women leaning on the tables waiting for work to come by. They are dressed in the most obvious forms of sexy: bustiers; stilettos; minidresses.

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Are You A Horrible Person?

by Alexandre Bagot / 3rd September 2014

I stare at the black card in the centre of the table. It reads, 'What would grandma find disturbing, yet oddly charming?' I go through the white cards in my hands and chuckle uncomfortably at the awkward combinations I can make. A few are genuinely funny and hardly offensive: 'Ryan Gosling riding in on a white horse', 'Erectile dysfunction', or 'Passive-Aggressive post-it notes'. Others are too uncannily near the mark to be funny: 'Hospice care', or 'Dying'. And some are quite honestly awful: 'Battlefield amputations', or 'Dead parents'.


by Edward Field / 23rd August 2014

We all love a fairytale ending. Especially after that rollercoaster romance à la Mills & Boon, which overcame more obstacles than a Hastings crazy golf course. Cue the wedding bells, blushing brides, pregnancy, toddlers, mortgages, education, outlawed in-laws, family seaside holidays, bringing home the bacon, pipe and slippers, grandchildren, Werthers Originals, retirement, death, merry widowhood and cats. NO! Wrong! We hate fairytale endings because, really, they suck. So says (rather more elaborately) Helen Croydon in her latest book, Screw the Fairytale: A Modern Girl's Guide to Sex and Love. Her view is that fairytales always end when the Prince kisses the Princess, because the rest of the story is so crotch-witheringly dull.

Blazing Star

by Jonathon Green / 15th July 2014

Rochester, aristocrat, courtier, debauchee, atheist, drunk, naval hero, bisexual, father and, for its own purposes, poet, is one of Eng. Lit.’s perennial conundrums. Like Pope’s Sporus, he seems at time ‘a painted child of dirt that stinks and stings,’ at others, to steal the jealous Hilaire Belloc’s sneer at P.G. Wodehouse, ‘English literature’s performing flea’.  A fallen angel, perhaps, capering on a shit-smeared pin. He lived fast, died young (like Christ, at 33) and, the bulk of his life having been subject to the on-going attrition of incurable syphilis, his corpse was far from good-looking. If one uses a phrase that conjures up a rock or movie star maudit, then it is apt: in many ways his life seems very modern: in two words, the rebel. The question remains: to what extent was there also a cause.

Saintly Stuff

by Kate Borcoman / 11th July 2014

It is generally acknowledged that romantic women’s fiction subscribes, in the main, to the following truisms: there must be an "emotionally satisfying and optimistic ending’ and where possible the ‘hero’ should appear to be unobtainable à la Rochester with his mad wife; Edward, a vampire and, of course, Christian with his fucked-up kinkiness

Such clever, expensive racehorses

by Zoë Apostolides / 8th July 2014

“We're white, we’re westerners, we're girls and we’re rich, of course we're fucking miserable. The standards are just too fucking high for us to be anything else.” Milly Thomas' new play, A First World Problem,  is a must-see. Under bright lights and perched on hard-backed, straight-A classroom chairs three young women are poised like eager greyhounds waiting for the rabbit to be released. Each one holds the key to a future in her lap, cased in an innocuous brown envelope. Have they been accepted to Oxbridge, or rejected? And if they've got the go-ahead, are they attractive enough, slim enough, sporty or edgy or rich enough, to succeed there? These are 'first world problems', and lead actress-cum-writer Milly Thomas' eponymous new play is chock-a-block with 'em.

Review: The Erotic Doll

by Peter Webb / 21st May 2014

At the start of his book, Mr. Smith poses the questions: “What is the nature of man’s – or rather men’s –intimate and erotic relations with inanimate human forms?”…”When, where and why have human beings – usually but by no means only, men – fallen in love with statues and other inanimate things?”…”What provokes or stirs them to consummate that love erotically and what form does such consummating take?” These are provocative and intriguing questions…

Going Down…

by John D. Michaelis / 11th May 2014

Gazzman’s Down On Abby, by missing a crucial ‘t’ and ‘e’, cheekily creates a porno-parody of a particularly notorious period soap, one of the several jewels in Julian Fellowes’ artistic (and now, of course, baronial) coronet. Except that in Gazzman’s movie, not much happens in the way of snobbery, avarice, pride, intolerance or any other of the many aristocratic vices that Baron Fellowes so lovingly, yet obsessively, dwells upon. Aristos and staff are all far too busy screwing one another. In the nicest way possible. 

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