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The next Writers Meet:

http://eroticwritersmeet.eventbrite.co.uk/

I’m rarely late to a party but I’m often late to talk about, and the Erotic Meet Writer’s Meet is no exception. But, it’s better to review something late than never at all, and the events of last Saturday are still vivid in my mind, so without further delay or procrasturbation, here’s the Hungry Joe Report.

The Event & Attendees

Organised by the irrepressible and effortlessly amicable Miss Annie Player, the Writer’s Meet turned out to be a free-flowing discussion between an eclectic group of sex writers. Representing Team Bloggers was Molly, of Molly’s Daily Kiss fame, the articulate Innocent Lover Boy whose fame comes from his blog of the same name, and the irresistibly cheerful and rather gorgeous Vina Green, who is assured of future internet fame, and perhaps myself, of no fame whatsoever but who happens to run a blog or two in which I impotently flap my gums about how amazing sex is, like we even need a blog site for that. Representing poets, although she hates to be labelled as such, was the gorgeous Annie Player with her infectious giggle (and judging from my incumbent man-flu, infectious diseases too). Representing screenwriting was SC, who spoke eloquently about her art and balancing it with parenthood. Representing actual published writers was Susan, the author of the Joy of Sex, to which I used to masturbate as a child and was too embarrassed to tell her so. The hysterical Meg Philip was present to talk about writing, performing ebooks and imagination, and Shalla attended to remind us how difficult it is to get started, and how we take what we do for granted sometimes. (I was very pleased to see her start her own blog after the meeting.) I turned up to try hard not to be smug that I make a good salary writing in the adult industry. I failed in that endeavour, I’m sure.

The Venue

The meeting was held downstairs in Soho’s Le Pain Quotidien, which is French for “the [something] bread”, I imagine. I’m sure it’s a reference to some arcane literary thing or other. I’ll look it up when I get off this train and then tell you, and I won’t edit this sentence to make me look clever, like I knew all along what it means – because I’m not and I don’t. (Looked it up. It means “daily”.)

It was beautiful, perfect. Sat in my waistcoat and fauxhemian jewellery drinking expensive wine and eating organic food, I’ve never felt more ‘writery’. The waiter, Miguel, was a very charming chap who made us deviants feel right at home immediately, as did the rest of the staff. The food was great; I had some sort of prawn salad at was quietly pleased when it arrived accompanied with fruit I didn’t recognise. My iced latte was great, the ambience of the room was great, and as a former chef in a past life I was happy to be able to see into the kitchen.

I was more than happy, actually. That put a few things in perspective for me; being sat outside the kitchen looking in rather than vice versa, in good company talking about the two most important things in my life (sex and writing), was a neat metaphor that proved to me that I’d made the right decision to become a writer and a deviant. I don’t mean to imply chefs are beneath me, I mean to imply that I made a difficult choice long ago and it paid off, and these seven people who flanked me proved that I’ve come a long way in the last few years. Thanks mainly to Annie Player for showing me that, way back at the first ever Erotic Meet.

Anyway, that’s just a weird personal tangent. Back to the Erotic Writers Meet.

Things I Gained

Here’s a list of things I took away with me after the meet. This is a bullet-point list; the most important tool for lazy writers like me who are on trains approaching their stations.

• A renewed sense that you can live a life like mine and still be healthy, productive, stable and “normal”.

• That the best phone to write on is a Blackberry. That’s more important than it sounds, to me at least. It’s a valuable tip; thanks to Meg and ILB.

• That despite incredibly disparate backgrounds, ages, and orientations we can all find things in common.

• I learned a lot about other writing processes and styles, and that’s ALWAYS of interest to me.

• I learned about something I’m yet to experience but will have to consider for my future: how to balance my writing and lifestyle when I eventually spawn an army of little Hungry Joes.

• That it’s almost impossible to make money in fiction or in print, when it’s of an adult nature.

• More other things that I will keep to myself but were eminently interesting.

• That mango and prawns are nice together.

• That iced lattes and wine are nice together.

• That we are all oddly passionate and impressively articulate about what we do.

In Sum…

The writers meet was fun, lively and genuinely valuable. It’s always good to surround myself with likeminded folk, it’s good for my confidence, and this was the first time I had sat down with a group of purely writers, like me and, also like me, chose sex as their subject matter. No one was there to push their products or promote their work; we were just there to talk about it. If you write erotica or any kind of adult material, I would politely recommend that you attend next time, so please head over to Erotic Meet, create a free account and stay updated for upcoming events.

Something I want to learn next time: How do other writers organise themselves? I’m terribly disorganised as a writer, how do others do it?

Come along and educate me. Details for the next one are here: http://eroticwritersmeet.eventbrite.co.uk/

While I busy myself writing up the events, here’s a shot of me drinking wine, in mid-conversation, just before taking my final shot. More photos and a full write up will follow, but in the meantime, here’s me – naked, collared and having a great time.

This was taken by @Capt_Teflon, who I can’t thank enough for existing.

I found this guy near London Bridge and needed a photo. I love how it came out, his smile is so disarming.

My urethral sound arrived. I’m pissing blood just looking at it.

Shit just got real.

Wait... that goes WHERE?!

With no plans last Wednesday and with the promise of good company, good drinks and good ol’ fashioned nakedness, I headed out to a show – Burlexe. But in the event, I didn’t see a good show. I saw two brilliant shows.

This might take some explaining. I hope you’re sitting comfortably, because for much of the time I spent at the Shadow Lounge in Soho, I was not.

I’ve seen many burlesque shows in my time, and I adore them. I love the confidence, the devil-may-care, the nakedness, the lightheartedness. I love the glamour, and I love the highness of brow. I love it when I spot some nuance of a performer’s movements that indicates training in a classical dancing style, and I love to recognise that she didn’t give up her ballet because she wasn’t talented enough, but because burlesque performance offered a whole different sense of self-affirmation for her.

But Burlexe was different. What it did was combine humour with a minute examination of the various motivations of a woman who sheds her clothes before crowds, and I walked away not thinking “that was sexy” or “that dancer was unusually talented”, but I walked away with my head filled with contradictory thoughts. The fact that I was thinking about it at all – and continued to think about it all week – might be considered as praise, but I’m not done there.

Now, you’ll have to forgive me; I don’t remember which performer was which, and in which order they performed. I do remember my favourite bits though, and my memory is vivid for particularly powerful parts of the night. If you can bear with me, I’d like to describe the night as a whole, with reference to certain parts of it.

The evening was a series of emotional peaks and troughs, and the transitions between those points was often startlingly steep, and I’ll come back to this point. I have to admit I hadn’t done my research and had assumed I was going to view a rather standard burlesque show with marabou feathers and big characters and big voices and pouting lips and subversive performances of Swan Lake, and there were elements of that. But only elements, and they were elements of a much larger composite.

The format of the show was pretty standard now that you know there were happy bits and sad bits. It went happy bit, sad bit, happy bit, sad bit, happy bit and so on, and after each performance Kele Le Roc appeared and worked the crowd. (She was sensational by the way, flawless, and to my eternal discredit I didn’t recognise her. I remember leaning to my gorgeous partner in crime and talking about how fantastic this singer was and that she should be famous, only to discover later that she was.)

While all of the cerebral bits were bang on point, there was one comedy performance that I thought was a tiny bit too Carry On, in which a “male” journalist interviewed a starlet who flirted outrageously. “My, that’s a big one” was one of the earliest lines, referring to the journalist’s microphone. In a normal burlesque show I would have thought nothing of it and enjoyed it, but taken holistically this skit didn’t suit the tone of the rest of the show for me. Holistically, the show deserved a higher brow, but I understand why this piece was part of the show. It served to bridge the gap between two very thoughtful performances and in that respect it succeeded.

Hence my one and only criticism of the evening: for a mainstream audience, the transition between the light and the dark was too stark, and just as you squint and readjust momentarily as you literally transition from the lightness into the dark and vice versa, I figuratively squinted and readjusted as we moved from the frivolous to the deep. There was a fantastically warped interpretation of Alice In Wonderland followed immediately by what felt like a piece from an artistic one woman show about a stripper who developed her strength of character after being raped from an early age – and both of these performances were absolutely brilliant, but the lightness of the former compounded the discomfort of the latter. This is no doubt by design and I truly understand that and respect it – I mean, the show had been pulled together deliberately to highlight the stark reality of stripping by juxtaposing it with our frivolous perception of it. However, when we’re talking about the rape of a ten year old girl, it doesn’t need that juxtaposition. The awkwardness of the audience made it very uncomfortable, and I found myself dreading the inappropriate laughter of another tipsy patron more than the performance itself.

I found that last argument hard to articulate, but I hope you get a sense of my meaning. What matters is that if I had seen that performance as part of an artistic endeavour, I would have appreciated it more. The fact that I felt ashamed of myself as a man at hearing the performance, and then more ashamed of my shame, can only mean that the performance was effective. It was certainly powerful. Taken on its own merits, it was flawlessly performed, insightful, thoughtful and difficult, and all these things made it hit home for me.

My favourite piece of the evening was the story of a Polish stripper who appeared semi-naked, then got dressed as she related her life story. This was fantastic, really. Really. I was blown away at the time, and the more I’ve thought about it since, the better it gets. There are so many spiralling layers to it, and it’s hard for me to tell you about it without giving away spoilers. Therefore…

SPOILER ALERT!

The performer appears, and walks slowly around the stage, and in a perfect Polish accent (I’m assuming she wasn’t Polish, in which case the accent was great) she described her relationship with her family. She was dressed in not very much at all and was effortlessly sexy. She worked up to the stage and described her husband, and her children. While on the stage she slowly dressed, as though getting ready for work. She described the murder of her husband, and for a moment I thought she was getting dressed for the funeral. But no. Nothing that cheaply theatrical. Instead, it became obvious she was simply dressing for work, and while doing so she discussed how she had got into stripping for the sake of her fatherless children. It didn’t seem like a story as plainly about female empowerment as anything that preceded or followed; it left a bittersweet taste in my mouth – hence the title of this review actually.

But then, well after the show, I began to think specifically about this performance. The fact that she was dressing throughout it rather than stripping turns everything on its head. It really was about empowerment. It was a stunning inversion of my attitude towards stripping. It deserves a review on its own, and I’ll give it one when I see it again, which I will.

END OF SPOILER ALERT

I better close this down because I’ve gone off the deep end a bit, as I tend to do. So I’ll wrap it up succinctly. Would I recommend Burlexe? Absolutely, without a doubt, as long as you’re aware that it’s not all fun and nakedness. Some of it will make you ashamed, some of it will make you laugh, all of it will make you think; hence why I told you I saw two shows instead of one. A lot of it will make you uncomfortable. Taken performance by performance, it was absolutely sensational. The performers were brilliant, the script was great, the accents were spot on, Kele Le Roc was mindblowing, the show was seamless, the stagehands were discreet, the venue was perfect.

But you will walk away and think, and that’s rare. And that’s burlesque. And that’s magic.

Info!

http://burlexe.posterous.com/last-night-at-burlexe

This is me, something like a year ago, back when I had short hair, posing in my then girlfriend’s T-shirt. I just found this on my hard drive and wanted to share it because it’s fucking ridiculous.

One from my archives today, from a very filthy weekend away.

I have an overwhelming desire to be naked and/or have sex in every new place I visit, like a dog marking its territory. This time, I happened to grab a photo of it.

I wrote something quickly during my lunchbreak, and was given the idea to record it rather than simply post it here. This is the result.

The words are below. Sing along.

“Hush pet, hush pet”, the owner decreed

With a softness of tone concealing his ravenous greed.

“Thank you Sir, thank you Sir” said the good little pet

While he reddened her skin and beat away her regret.

“You did well, you did well” he said through his grin

With a sinister tint that hinted his sin.

He’s breaking her will. He’s breaking her in.

Soon will the bribing and begging begin.

I’m continuing my stalinesque cult of personality. This is me today.

I need your approval for self validation because I’m shallow and empty and devoid of any other redeeming characteristics.