So, a guy writes into The Times saying that he met a woman he fancies but she's a porn photographer and it's offputting. While Suzi Godson's answer is cool, I was a tad narked at Dr Thomas Stuttaford's comment If your potential partner has no unusual sexual tendencies, her natural curiosity in this field will soon evaporate
When will people realise that working in the sex industry is just like any other job? Except more fun (and generally, with less sexual harassment). Then again, my advice to the bloke who wrote in is 'if you're freaked out by the idea of her doing the job then don't inflict yourself on her. Let her date a real man instead.'
Even by my usual standards, things have been a tad mental recently. Since my last post, I've finished the friends book (am hugely relieved that the publisher really likes it and mailed a load of friends when she finished reading it because she felt guilty for neglecting them. I was petrified of writing it because, unlike the sex stuff that I've been writing for years, this one doesn't have smutty bits to distract people. Well, not many) I've decided to donate 10p from every copy sold to Outsiders - an organisation that helps disabled people make friends and find partners. I figure that sharing royalties with a charity on all my books (as far as I can deal-wise) is a good thing to do. I've been toying with the idea of setting up a scheme to help other authors do the same thing but I'm not sure I have any spare time to run something like that so I'm trying to mention the idea to as many people as possible so that someone else sets it up instead (feel free to steal the idea - and let me know if you do so I can sign up.)
I've also written another couple of books - or, to be more accurate, done rewrites for publishers on books other people wrote that weren't quite right, but it still equates to about 16,000 words on top of the friends book. Which was fun (though it feels a bit weird doing rewrites on other people's books. I've got no probs editing people's copy when it's for a magazine but it seems a bit mean that I get my name on a book when someone else has done a load of work on it - I've asked the publishers to put them down as co-authored books with the original writer on the cover too, as that seems much fairer.)
Obviously, writing two and a half books in a month and a half wasn't enough work, so I've also got a load more proposals out there for a variety of sex books. If they come off, I'll have at least three more books to write by the end of the year, which would be cool, 'cos that means I'll have written twice as many this year as last year. However, that sets a dangerous precedent because I know what I'm like and I'll want to double my output next year as well. And OK, that's just about feasible, but it'd mean that by the time I'm 40, I'd have to write 1,536 books in a year, which frankly, doesn't leave me enough time for a holiday. Or indeed, any sex, so I'd probably forget what it's like and start coming out with tips like 'shove your fingers up your partner's clitoris' (a concept that was genuinely used in a Cliterati submission a few years ago. Needless to say, we didn't run it.)
Somehow, in with all the writing I managed to fit in a holiday - a week's excape to Dublin which was ace. I felt very 'I am woman, hear me roar,' 'cos I decided to go on my own, partly because I figured that it's something I should have done already at my age, and partly because I wanted to see whether I loved it as much if I went on my own as when I went with other people. I'm still toying with the idea of moving there at some stage in the future so saw the trip as a bit of a 'testing the water' thing - and was pleased to find that I utterly adored it. OK, so my lifestyle wasn't quite what it would be if I lived there, as it entailed many cocktails at The Clarence, several spa treatments and much shopping, but it was brilliant fun. And I discovered that it's entirely possible to make friends if you just hang around in the smoking areas of bars (something that are rare finds now due to the smoking ban. The words 'beer gardens' have never been so appealing as it's the only place you're allowed to smoke over there. My favourite one - even thought the bar itself is pure tourist hell - was the Temple Bar who appear to have quite literally taken the roof off an area of the pub. You can still see the framework where the roof was before. I think this shows admirable spirit. "You say we can't smoke indoors. Fine. We'll take the roof off because it's outdoors then, isn't it.") I had a top night out with a 23 year old radio mate over there - who proved that being young is a dangerous thing because we managed to stay out until 4am even though she had work the next day. I felt bad enough just doing the tourist thing so Christ knows how she felt working. You can get an idea of the type of night we had when I admit that we ended it with a kebab. And it tasted fantastic.
After a week of excape, I came back to do a radio day for Triojan condoms, who are currently doing a campaign with cabbies handing out free condoms in Brighton - something I thoroughly approve of. Having had a detox treatment the day before in Dublin, I managed to ruin it all and spend the night thoroughly retoxing with the Trojan team - something that I really didn't appreciate the next morning because I woke up to find my sodding boiler had broken again. A hangover with no access to hot water and thus a 'recovery' bath is a bad thing. The boilerman eventually turned up the next day, by which time I'd spent an age feeling sorry for myself and waiting to hear back from him, envisaging another week of no hot water. The hangover sucked so much that I didn't drink for a whole 24 hours, in that 'never drinking again' way. Sadly (for my liver, at least) a publishing mate called me on Friday afternoon. I'd already cancelled a night out with a girlie mate because, 24 hours after the session with Trojan, all I could face the idea of was a quiet night in with a take away and some trash TV. Publisher mate liked the sound of a quiet night so came over to join me. And somehow, we found ourselves drinking by about 9pm. Despite knowing him for nearly ten years, he and I have only seen each other alone three times and seemed to catch up on pretty much the entire ten year's worth of nights out in one night, to the extent that I'm not sure when we stopped blathering. All I know is that he looked as rough as I did the morning after.
So, of course, I did the sensible thing and spent Saturday in bed. And when a mate called me at 9.30pm asking me to go to a party they were at because there were some really interesting people I'd like there, I was well behaved and said 'no, I need to rest'. I definitely didn't immediately put the take-away I'd ordered in the fridge, put on a cocktail dress (it was a posh party) and head out into the night. Because that would have been irresponsible of me. But, assuming for a second that I had gone, I might have seen the mask that Tom Cruise wore in Eyes Wide Shut, and some Oscar Wilde first editions. Which was pretty cool. The people there were ace fun too - random media types, many of whom went to sex parties on a regular basis so were really interested in what I did, which was nice. But of course, none of that happened because I was a virtuous soul who was tucked up in bed with a mug of cocoa at 9.45pm. Really...
In other news, I'm dead excited because I'm up for Writer of the Year in the Erotic Awards for Brief Encounters. I was particularly pleased with the description on the site: "The book is nevertheless a cheerful romp, just like its authoress." As Mil said "Certainly far better than 'The book is available for £6.99, like its authoress'" I find out whether I've won on 3rd September but in the meantime, there's an exhibition of all shortlisted work at Coffee, Cake and Kink
And that, pretty much, is it. Excessive work, occasional partying and a brief escape. Tomorrow, I'm covering for Sarah on Scarlet, 'cos she's on holiday. Obviously, I'm overjoyed at working in an office and doing mornings. Still, at least it's only for just over a week. And who knows, it might even keep me away from parties...