I am currently nursing a hangover of monstrous proportions after my book launch yesterday. By some bizarre 'scheduling going horribly wrong'/sod's law combination, I'd also agreed to do a radio day (sitting in a studio for hours, while different stations called in and asked me questions from a list they'd been sent by the PR, which I had to sound suitably intrigued by while giving a 'this really is the first time I've ever answered *that* question' tone to the answer.) This one was for Sextoys.co.uk, who were announcing their new sex survey results. Between 9am and 2pm, I did 15 radio interviews. Highlights of the day included explaining to one of the Irish stations that sex toys were actually good for building relationships when they suggested sex toys were immoral (I even managed to get in the phrase 'family values') and trying desperately to remember the name for male masturbation devices as my standard description of this type of toy is the 'cunt in a can' which isn't exactly a radio-friendly term (ever since I saw a masturbation sleeve that was inside a can, the name has stuck in my mind. I like alliteration.)
I then headed home, with the lovely PR for sextoys.co.uk, to get changed. She lives away from town, so I'd said she could come to mine to get ready instead, because a) she's lovely and b) they were sponsoring my launch party. As a bonus, she'd brought various toys with her for me to test (no, not while she was there - it wasn't some dodgy porno movie.) including a very intriguing one called the Gogo Stick, which has a vibrator at one end and a feather-duster type affair at the other; how to be a whore *and* a cleaner in the bedroom, I suppose. Haven't tested it yet but will report back when I have (I suspect it's rather better as a toy for two than for solo exploits)
I'd decided to go for the vaguely classy approach outfit-wise - pencil skirt and shirt - rather than the sluttier look that I usually go with for press events: partly because I couldn't really go much skimpier than the few beads I wore to the last Cliterati party but mostly because I had to do a reading, the concept of which I found utterly terrifying. The reality was less horrible than I imagined it would be (at least for me) although my right leg was shaking throughout from fear. But it was more than balanced out by looking up to see my mum smiling at me from the front of the crowd when I started reading (I didn't think she'd managed to make it on time until I saw her, beaming at me) and people laughing in the right places.
Once I'd done the reading, I figured that was it - work over. So I concentrated on getting hammered. Bearing in mind that I was working until 4am on Saturday, until 1am on Sunday and got up at 7am on Monday to do all the radio stuff, this wasn't the best move in the world. I hadn't managed to eat much during the day (I never can on press party days - again, a nerves thing) On the plus side, I managed not to fall over (so, that's one up on the last party) and wasn't ill (other than today's aforementioned hangover) However, I'd forgotten about the book signing. See, my mate Mil had explained book signings to me: they are not things to get all excited about as it's rare anyone turns up. As a result, I'd bunged down on the invitation that I'd 'sign books if anyone was into that kind of thing and probably write something dirty after 10pm/alcohol consumption' and then forgotten all about it. What I didn't take into account is a) my mates are lovely and supportive people who paid cash to get a copy of my book and then wanted it signed, and b) pissed people are way easier to sell to.
Over the course of the evening, about 50 people came up to me and asked for me to sign the book (inclduing several who deliverately waiting until after 10pm) which was incredibly weird, very flattering and occasionally embarrassing as my drunkenness led me to totally blank on the name of someone I'd met at least five times before and had to figure out who to make the book out to (some, I got away with by asking 'who do you want me to write it to?' while others, I came clean with. I would have done the 'how do you spell your name?' trick, but figured that I'd probably get the answer 'Emma' or 'Sam' and so it wasn't worth the risk.) The other disadvantage of being pissed when you're signing books is that you write things you may regret in the morning. Of which more later.
By some strange coincidence, my other book and the Lovers' Guide film I wrote 7 secrets to a passionate love life also both came out yesterday. They were written months apart but, with Valentine's Day around the corner, it's the logical time to release shagging-related books and videos. This has led to confusing conversations, where I have to remember what the hell I'm talking about (never an easy job at the best of times) It's like being some Hollywood representation of a schizophrenic; 'Am I talking to Emily the editor of Scarlet? Or Emily the casual sex author? Or Emily the seduction manual writer? Or Emily from Cliterati?' [cue psychiatrist waiting for a voice to emanate from me so s/he can tell which version of me s/he's getting]
Ironically, none of the Emilys are getting laid at the moment, partly because I'm stupidly busy with work and none of the pizza delivery boys so far have been my type, and partly because I'm beginning to realise that writing a casual sex book isn't the best way of making a bloke think 'God, she's perfect girlfriend material'. I know this, because I've twice been told I'm 'interesting, fun and attractive but not girlfriend material' in the last week by men explaining why they wanted to be friends rather than anything else. The 'sexpert' tag seems to be a great way to terrify blokes too. For example, last night I met a bloke who, for various reasons, I knew had taken part in some fairly extreme sexual situations: been whipped by dommes, had fat blokes masturbating while watching him being tortured, gone to endless sex parties and many, many more sordid things, as part of his job. 'Aha,' I thought, 'this is a man who will understand what it's like working in the sex industry.' [NB: the next paragraph is a digression but does explain why signing books pissed is a very bad thing to do. If you just want to get to the example, skip straight over it to the para afterwards)
We started chatting and got on well. There was flirting, and he went to the bar to get me a drink. I was feeling really rather good about things. I chatted to other people while he was at the bar, in that 'thanks for coming to my party' kind of way, and, after about ten minutes he hadn't returned. Nature called so I went down to the loo and, when I came back upstairs, I saw him, at the bar, with my beer - chatting up another woman with curly hair. He then came back to the table, other bird in tow, and proceeded to flirt with both of us alternately. It took a while to sink in that this is what was going on, and when I realised, I had a number of reactions (fuck, I really *am* turning into a Hollywood-version schizophrenic) The 'independent woman' in me thought 'you twat/bastard. If you can chat another bird up when you were buying me a beer, you clearly aren't worth knowing.' The 'crap girl' in me thought 'If you can chat another bird up when you were buying me a beer, you clearly aren't interested in me.' And the 'can't-be-arsed -with-all-this-bullshit bird' in me thought 'right, let's sort this out like grown-ups'. And that was the option that won out. I said to the girl concerned (who was lovely) 'this bloke's clearly flirting with both of us. How interested are you?' We established that both of us were interested in him, toyed briefly with the idea of a threeway as the easiest solution and then went for 'may the best girl win, but without any bitchiness'. As it was, he ended up leaving the party alone and I recommended that she (more than) talked to my most recent ex, as he was lovely and we clearly got on with the same kind of blokes. I discovered this morning (well, afternoon) that I'd written in his book 'Curly bird is as filthy as me and I think she'd do threesomes' (he's male, it's bound to add to her appeal) And then, I had a moment of horror when I remembered what I'd written in the other bloke's book. 'You could have been a case study in this if you didn't prefer the bird with curly hair.' Drunken texting is bad: drunken book-signing just so much worse.
So anyway, said bloke is a man who clearly doesn't have a hard time pulling. He works in the industry. He's done many, many, many more filthy and depraved things than I have. Today, we were chatting (work-related things) and he confessed that he'd been nervous about meeting me - and more so about pulling me, because of my job. At which point I realised I should give up and start pretending that I work as an accountant if I've got any hope of not scaring the crap out of men (even ones who pull other birds in front of me). Writing a guide to casual sex has had the effect of tattooing 'slut'on my forehead - if running a porn site for women and editing a sex mag for women hadn't already done that long ago. And it's hard to meet a bloke's parents when you've got such a tattoo.
Men aside, the party was fab though: lots of journos came, much carnage ensued and the evening ended in a gathering of people back at my place. I donated my bed to the cause of getting two people who clearly wanted each other together and ended up sleeping on a futon between two fully-clothed boy mates - one of whom was my old university tutor, who was dressed in rubber, leather and platform boots (even the boots stayed on all night - which made for a very amusing view as he was entirely covered by the duvet except for the kinky boots poking out the bottom of the bed.) Happy drunk people were scattered throughout the house: all's well that ends well, as they say.
Party aside, things are going ballistic. Scarlet deadlines are rolling round again, I've got random freelance gigs and I'm immersed in doing press stuff for the books. Brief Encounters was in the News of the World last Sunday - double page spread with a line saying my book included acts 'not suitable for a family newspaper' which made me smile. I did an interview with the Daily Mail about the book a few days ago - no doubt, they'll be as outraged by it as they were about Scarlet, which means I can feel totally justified in buying a Hated by the Daily Mail T-shirt. And there's a feature based on Brief Encounters in April's Cosmo (out March). The Seduction book has reviews lined up in Cosmopolitan, She, The Sunday Telegraph, Eve, Weddings Today, New!, the Daily Mail and Selfridges Magazine. When I got that list through, I was initially very bouncy indeed - and then petrified. Reviews are way scarier than features (which are glorified extracts of the book) and interviews (which, though I can be utterly misrepresented, are still broadly based on what I say) Because with a review, it's just the reviewer and the book. I know I'll cry if they hate it; and some people will. The first warning I got from Mil when I landed the commission to write my first book was 'don't read your reviews.' He knows what a pathetic bint I can be at times and, as such, is probably trying to protect himself from tear-stained phone calls.
Oh, and as a follow-up to my earlier post about the description on Amazon.com, it transpires the Germans have gone one step better. Instead of describing it as 'slightly controversial', they're removed any element of sexiness from the book description: 'A practical guide to sex without emotional ties.' Wh says the Germans don't have a sense of humour?
And finally, this intrigued me. Apparently Tasmanina devils are dying out because they have dirty sex; sad, but just goes to show that perviness isn't purely the preserve of humans.
Posted by emilyd at February 09, 2005 06:57 AM