CONFESSIONS OF A SMUT PEDLAR
INVITATION TO CLIMB ABOARD MY CHOPPER)
I call it "queererotica' but that's a
posh way of saying porn. At least, I still don't know what the difference
is it seems to depend
on the company you keep. We erotica
writers can argue for days about that
let alone the legal beagles ad moral majority.
to writing queerotica than whipping it in and out, hot man on
man action, warm wet tongues entwining in a sea of saliva and so on. Without getting too artsy and precious,
erotica is one of the few areas in which you can really write about being gay or
bisexual on an equal basis given it's still an unequal world. Erotica is about possibilities and imagination
anything can happen anywhere because, let's be honest, we
get hard-ons everywhere: weddings (mmm ... the best man), shopping (mmm ...
bankers), taking the dog for a walk (mmm joggers...), dropping the car off at
the garage (mmm mechanics...) ... I'm sure it's not just me. Heterosexuals find love everywhere with
erotica I get to queer the pitch a little.
And I don't
just mean the here and now. My first
novel, Hot On The Trail, was set in
the wild, wild west (mmm ... cowboys) and all of a sudden I realized there must
really have been queer cowboys, gayboy cowpokes with desires, dreams, loves,
hopes. They deserve a history too, even
if it's just imagined. They should have some of the action.
I often get
asked how much of what I write is based on real life. Well, all of it and none of it. There's only one way you'd find that out,
buddy, so let's see what's on offer. I'll
let you in on a secret there ain't nothing like the real thing. The trick is to write something fantastic and
believable that might just happen. The
sexy teacher might well be gay, the nurse might just give you one at the hospital, the horny
soldier might just miss his missus and shoot his load... you get the drift. You think it, I just write it down. You've had those thoughts too ... I just make
sure my pen's in my hand.
know I write smut, they start telling me about
their secret stock of porn. Sometimes
they share it with a partner, sometimes it's hidden from their mum, sometimes
with their mates, and sometimes it's the focus
of a party. But it's a common part of
being gay for a lot of men and it's not surprising. Straight fellas get to see tits 'n ass nearly
everywhere. Yet it's only recently that
men have become eroticized, or taken off more than a shirt (the only good reason for watching the football or, as you
Americans call it "soccer' who wants to know about their
The hardest thing about writing smut? Words. How
many terms are there for throbbing
gristle, trousersnake, manmeat, purple headed love truncheon,
sugarstick, shaft of delight, tower of love, organ of lust, old slimy ...
well ... yeah, there are lots. But never
quite enough. Suggestions on a twelve-inch
So, that's a little about my world of
pervedom. Climb aboard this chopper and
experience some adventure. I guess it's
about time for me to go back to doing some research. Help welcome from soldiers, coppers, gardeners,
footballers, businessmen, navy SEALS, lawyers, doctors, firemen, celebrities,
shopkeepers, barmen, astronauts, bridegrooms, cowboys, headteachers, builders,
priests, traffic wardens, fitness instructors, go-go dancers, strippers, porn
stars, rugby players, Roman gladiators, travelling salesmen, chicks with dicks,
farmers, postmen, truck drivers, prisoners, zookeepers, estate agents,
blacksmiths, chefs, plumbers, warehouse operatives, civil engineers, dustmen, bus
drivers, cartographers, bouncers, chimneysweeps, scuba divers, pilots, judges, window
A bright, bright sky. Grey clouds blown recalcitrantly against the
purple night by a hoarfrost wind. Bright
white sparks of light shone like dust specks in ultra-violet mediated
backrooms. Victoriously bright beside
them, a waxing moon, reaching its white fullness tonight. Hidden only now and then by the clouds puffed
past its luminescence, the moon's bright beams dripped out of the sky. A magical evening, a magical sky.
Beneath it all, the cold city. The evening creeping quickly, cloaking the
lonely concrete car parks and tower blocks. The city skyline fast becoming manmade
outcrops of concrete and metal, crowding out the sky above. Milky glows from the dark sky above spotted
rooftops with off-white ripples.
A lonely night. Magical, maybe, but lonely,
definitely. The crowds wandering the streets, busy disappearing from work,
consisted of solitary figures stuck into the same frame. Cal, separate, apart, alone, fitted in.
The long lane stretched ahead, gray pavement
merging with gray wall in the gray light. Cal kept his head down, not daring to look at
the figures brushing past him, waifs crashing into his world. Occasional grunts as shoulders collided were
the only communication in this bleak landscape, inhabited by aliens so similar
they all merged into one mass. Sharp
solitary barks from beggars in doorways reminded Cal he had somewhere to go to
tonight, some lonely prison that kept the rain out of his hair.
Back to the same ritual of a microwave meal
for one, hours stretching ahead to be filled with bootlegged CD's and satellite
TV. The same feeble optimism of
answer-phone messages and e-mails, beguiling promises of winking lights and web
notifications masking junk mails and caller withheld silences. The relentless ritual of waiting for
nightmares to savage sleep. Then morning
breaking, like the first sodding morning. The whole bloody thing over again.
It had been a bad day, even as bad days go. Even as Cal's days go. Sell, sell, sell. The advertising spaces seemed like chasms he
couldn't fill, the cold calls to prospective clients brick walls he couldn't
break through. Even the regulars, the
only friends he could name, coldly decided budgets were allocated or passed him
round offices until they could find someone responsible for buying advertising
all of whom were absent or struck down by some mysterious plague. Cal visualized them with pustulous boils,
wretched misers who had made his own day hell.
Was there no end to it all? No break to the monotonous misery? The hateful heterogeneous havens, the smirking
laughing blokes in his office would return to. Squeaky clean kiddies screaming daddy's
return, elaborate meals prepared by mother's hand, tomorrow's clothes pressed
and hung before a night of family entertainment and, for the lucky, soft unlit
lovemaking beneath a goose feather quilt. Warm perfumed heaven.
Cal sold it but never bought.
Car lights flashed in front of him, a trail
of blazing white coming toward him and red dots disappearing away from him. It appeared to be an escape, wagons ferrying
the desperate to freedom. They were
getting out of here. Out of the city,
out of this dreadful hole. The humdrum
It happened before he had noticed, before he
could fathom any of it at all. There was only movement, a surreal soundless
freeze-frame. He hadn't noticed that
there was even a pub there before, a quaint black timber-framed front creaking
from years of weathering.
Two men leapt out. Clad in striped tribal rugby tops, hair
cropped as if for the marines, they stopped in front of Cal, completely
oblivious to his presence. As if rehearsed, but entirely spontaneously, the
first dark haired brute dropped his trousers and pants over his thighs in one
move. The second fairer, a leaner
build dropped to his knees behind his mate. Cal couldn't believe his eyes as
he watched the fair man bend forward and plant a loving kiss on his mate's
behind, as the first man turned his head and looked on. A sigh of ecstasy issued from his lips, as his
friend delivered the single loving blow between the cheeks.
Within an instant, he had pulled his trousers
up, his mate too standing again, and they'd rushed together back into the pub. No trace of their strange ritual remained,
apart from Cal's open mouth and wide eyes. The blood rushing through him continued to
pelt round his body, leaving him with a semi-erection and the after-effects of