In Derek's little bedroom, sex can be kind of boring – but it is also very weird…
The hidden anatomy of a fig… and its eater. New Short Fiction from Danielle Schloss.
Dave McKean might be getting a taste for it. Like his short story from omnibus First Time, Celluloid has no dialogue or narration whatsoever. A silent comic book, his first erotic graphic novel follows a female protagonist through a series of fantasy sexual scenarios triggered by the discovery of a film camera that opens a magic portal on her wall.
When I was a slip of a lass, a whisper of ‘NORWICH’ in my inner ear was sufficient to dissolve me in panty-drenching hilarity. This was not, I should stress, due to anti-Norvölkisch prejudice on my part, but because a fellow school-chum had taken upon herself my education in WWII postal acronyms. ‘Nickers-Off-Ready-When-I-Come-Home’, we sniggered together; ‘Be-Undressed-Ready-My-Angel’.
‘I wish I could subdue the flesh that sadly troubles me…’ So the wonderful and not altogether regretfully still randy John Betjeman in his poem 'Senex'. The autumnal tone manages to combine all the burgeoning and moist and ripe stuff with misty wistfulness. So it is with the ageing process.
A scruffy buzzard perches on the ‘welcome’ sign in the small Highland town of Grantown on Spey, its head angled down and sideways. Its one visible eye peers into my own, a bright pulse of contact as I drive by, and as a result of this I feel expected. I have made a reservation in the same hotel where our family holidayed each summer, although it is decades since I was last here. I have no idea what I will find, and am relieved to discover that the hotel is almost unchanged. The croquet lawn at the back has gone, and new houses fill its place; the gravel drive now forms an ordered car park. But there is still a glass case on the writing desk in the lobby where a – perhaps diminished - variety of hand tied fishing flies bristle, iridescent, over their hooks.
WomenTime plays a ‘swings and roundabouts’ game with women. With maturity come wrinkles and sagging, fading and withering, scraggy neck or double chin and a definite loss of pertness in the pertinent parts. I am increasingly horrified at the amount of loose ‘curtain material’ I have to gather and draw back with one hand while enjoying my wake-up wank of a morning.
In the great debate of pornography v. erotica the view is that, among its other failings, porn is clichéd and mechanistic. There are no surprises. It’s all as predictable as a Big Mac with fries and coke. With the burger, you know just what you’re getting and how it will satisfy your hunger down to the stomach’s final gaseous expression of satisfaction at the end of the meal. Despite the subsequent feeling of mild self-disgust it does the job, in a linear sort of way. Porn is no different, or so they say.
‘Porn is everywhere’, Irvine Welsh averred back in 2002, but a recent twelve-hour power cut to Castle Riley sadly proved how readily Irvine’s proclamation can be gainsaid. With not even so much as a half-charged laptop between us, my cohabitee and I were thrown back on the pastimes of a less technological age: parlour games and reading aloud.
Whether with laughter or desire, expect pulses to race at Spencer Maybe’s multi-character solo show. Based on the delightfully ludicrous premise of a God-ordained mission to save the world from ecological disaster – through the medium of burlesque – The Last Trilogy is one of the freshest experiences available to Fringe audiences this year.