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.
It was our local village carnival recently. In procession with the usual tractors (ancient and modern), 1950s Austin cars and glum looking children in Disneyworld-inspired, home-made costumes, were various floats. As always, these were mostly created by local football and young farmers clubs. And as usual, they tended to major on tableaux featuring hefty blokes with lividly rouged faces and wearing floral dresses and balloon bosoms. The term ‘bosom’ is especially apposite in the context – ‘breasts’ implies a totally different perspective on this aspect of gender difference.
Yesterday morning there was a knock on my bedroom door. When I opened it, my new housemate was standing outside in his underpants. He's a faux-hippie in his early-forties. So far my observations are as follows:
His almost religious obsession with recycling sits slightly at odds with his prodigious consumption of Air Miles.
In the noughties he would have been described as 'metrosexual'. He owns more miniature hair products than Boots in Piccadilly Circus and has littered the bathroom with a plethora of grooming products from foot files to moisturisers to exfoliators. He has two types of toothpaste: Pro-enamel and Colgate Total, mouthwash and an electric toothbrush. Of course, for his tushie, only Aloe Balm Wet Ones will do.
On Thursday night I did a trial shift in a restaurant in Figueretas. For those of you who have never been to Figueretas, it’s a gaudy beach on the outskirts of Ibiza Town. One of those lurid little resorts, littered with souvenir shops that sell t-shirts depicting women engaging in various metaphors for fellatio (licking lollipops, peeling bananas etc) and bars which sell cocktails with names like Sex on the Beach, Cock Sucking Cowboy and Slippery Nipple.
When the sex offenders register was first conceived, we can presume it wasn't intended to include teenagers taking photos of themselves. That would be absurd and no right-minded lawmaker would wish it. But laws, like pets, have a life of their own. Take your eye off them and they will shit in your house.
This week, a teenage girl was given a police caution for taking a photo of herself partially undressed and sending it to her boyfriend. In any normal conception of the world this would be considered regrettable teenage behaviour. In the brave new world in which we live it is 'distributing indecent images of a child'.
John Wilmot, 2nd Earl of Rochester, is often thought to be the quintessential Restoration man, in terms of his debauched lifestyle and squandered brilliance. When he began one of his most famous poems, A Ramble In St James’s Park, with the statement that
‘Much wine had passed, with grave discourse
Of who fucks who, and who does worse’,
his aristocratic readers, recognising themselves as those who participated in such ‘grave discourse’, would have sniggered and enjoyed the allusion.
I sit on my terrace with the sun setting on an azure sea – or some such. In the fields around me cattle graze peacefully and sheep engage in sheep like wanderings, dispersed across the meadows. I note that three young bulls (all virgins) have just broken out of their enclosure and are heading for a neighbouring field full of dairy heifers.
On the wireless news is brought to me of Iraq and the sectarian conflict erupting from its previous simmer. The Sun has, via the postman, delivered a free copy of its special ‘celebrating England’ issue. This is a masterly stunt designed to reinforce and infuse our World Cup efforts with a general sense of how brilliant the English are. Pace any Scots or indeed Welsh readers, there is acknowledgement that being English is inclusive.
View All Articles »
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.
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.
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.
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
“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.
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…
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.
Channel 4 has had the wisdom to allow Everett total creative control. He conducted his inquiry with delicacy, balance and restraint. There was nothing louche in the way he explored the world of paid sex – in which he has been both consumer and vendor. Instead he used his credentials to elicit the views and commentaries of his respondents with great insight and gentle empathy.
View All Reviews »
Eve Made A Wish
Eve Made a Wish
has a wonderful selection of high quality erotic toys and lingerie for women at our boutique. We’re not burlesque and we’re not soft-porn – we’re here for positive, sensual erotic pleasure and contemporary design. Be seduced by us!
We stock fabulous products from Shiri Zinn, Je Joue, Rianne S, What Katie Did, Kiss Me Deadly and JimmyJane.
is a friendly, independent cycle shop in Battersea, London SW11. Established in 1992, our bike range isn’t huge but it is considered. British favourites and classics, Brompton, Pashley and Moulton rub handlebars with our favoured hybrid brand, Giant. Come and visit and see for yourself.
OPEN Tuesday – Saturday;
59A Battersea Bridge Road
London SW11 3AU
Tel: 020 7738 2766
Did Johann Salvadorus kill the Homecoming Queen? No, he did far worse…
Why not treat your Kindle (or other eReader) to a first-class read? Now available from ER BOOKS, Heart Killer is a dark, erotic, time-tripping crime thriller by Andy Nowicki.
Heart Killer is Nowicki’s fifth novel, with close thematic links to his controversial 2011 novella, The Columbine Pilgrim
eBook price: £4.30
Erotic Review Books
The web has a new home for creative erotica. An independent online publishing house, ER Books publishes carefully selected digital books, often beautifully illustrated with contemporary and classic erotic art. Browse our catalogue. Explore our website HERE