Ahoy sailors on the good ship internet.
It is with a heavy heart and sagging gut that I have come to learn that the most popular work of ‘literature’ at the moment is something called 50 Shades of Gray. Now let me be as transparent as the brown paper bags of my local curry house after my order of ‘Ghee Bricks’ (Oh, don’t ask for them in your local take-away, they probably won’t sell them to you. After all, I had to lobby for weeks against my local MP, and health council, before they let me have mine. Nazis) I have no issue with new literature permeating the charts. It is good for all authors and readers indeed. Where I do have an issue however, is when this ‘literature’ is nothing more than the sex-crazed ramblings of an undersexed sex-person. It simply will not do. I attempted to read the first chapter of the glorified doorstop a few days ago and found that I simply could not. As I opened the first page the words throbbed at me like a throbbing knob—metaphorically, my spectacles steamed and, at the first mention of outward ‘eroticism’ my stomach twisted and I convulsed like I was having a stroke—not that kind. A bad one.
A prude am I you ask, yes? No.
NO. I say again. I have seen more genitals than you can imagine, and indeed have written about them in one form or another for years. Whether that be in my novels, in my many (unpublished) essays on the human form, or indeed during my common bouts with the porcelain god when I had but a biro and the cubicle door for company. I am no prude. The problem I found with whatserface’s book, and indeed as I have found with the esteemed George R. R. Martin (a close personal friend and somewhat of a protege of mine despite his age) is that their sexualisation simply does not fit the time and place of the world in which it inhabits! That is what revolts me so, not the mention of bollock-whipping or naval hair shaving so prevalent in whatserface’s book. I have often pulled up George on his linguistic inconsistency in this aspect, his ever-playful response being to cease contact—signed characteristically in the guise of a literary lawyer.
Whatserface has the same issue. Young people today don’t talk of ‘breasts’, ‘nipples’, or ‘members’ They have their own beautiful and alien language. ‘Top-rockers’ , ‘cherry discs’ and ‘meatloader’ respectively. Whatserface (and you, George!) could take a leaf out of my own [many] books where I tackle sex, sexualisation, and sexiness. I have been ever vigilant in keeping my books truly authentic. Even, and indeed especially, when that authenticity is absolutely, and totally, irrelevant.
Let me indulge you with some examples:
In ‘Where You Go, Buboes’ — my love-story set in a medieval village during the great plague, I tool care to replace any mention of anything that might be regarded as sexual today with something that would have been contextually relavent. Breasts became ‘chest turnips’, the male member became ‘mudded love-limb’ and the act of masturbation (a prevalent theme in the book) became ‘popping the fun buboe’
You see the difference a little research can make? I certainly hope so. And before you go and another penny or two the ever increasing money-pile of whatserface and my friend George R. R. Martin just stop and think ‘Does someone who singularly fails in creating authentic sex literature deserve my cash over an author who could do it with his eyes closed (and often does)?’
I think you know the answer.