Tag Archives: feminism

Who’s pleasing whom? In search of our own language

Simon_Penning Pleasure_2



When I ask myself the question: WHO IS PLEASING WHOM???

It’s the first part of a pair. What follows is:



This is the theme of my next non-fiction book. It’s a critical analysis of writing in the feminine and of the (still far too) male-dominated nature of academic discourse. Will we ever dare to speak our own language(s) and survive in today’s academic landscape?

I’ve got several bones to pick in this book. I look at what Nicole Brossard calls writing in the feminine and at just how far we may go in calling this style of writing a new language. I look critically at Brossard’s use of the term we, wondering how (and why) a white middle-class lesbian feminist can claim to be the mouthpiece of all women. I look at what language permits and what its gatekeepers will not allow. I also look at language’s gatekeepers and the extent to which even feminists bow to their demands. This leads me to question the situation of  feminist scholars who (must?) continue to speak the ‘old’ patriarchal language. I recall my own experience as a scholar, setting a new accent, being both creative and critical in my writing, only to be told by my feminist tutor and by my feminist examiners that: you don’t do it that way. Why not? Is there really only one way? One language, a single voice, in this day and age where diversity is self-explanatory? When will there ever be change if no one dares? The tension between feminist intentions and the real possibilities of expression within an academic arena become viciously apparent. In this book I also look at the merits of writing in the feminine as, perhaps, a first measure that leads us in a good (I’m not sure that I’m ready to say right) direction. Thought is a journey in language. There can never only be one way. This book is about daring to fly and assessing the risks. I hope you’ll read it when it’s out.


Just so that you know:

The contents of this book are part of my PhD in Creative & Critical Writing. Do you see the joke: if you can’t be creative and critical in a PhD in Creative & Critical Writing, then where? I’ve passed the exam and will receive my diploma by Christmas. Now I can beef up my critique and say it how I mean it.

You don’t know me. Yet.

Women. Pussy-smelling women whose scent screams at you what will never cross their lips. That’s how he knew who I was.


Where was it? When? Soaking up all the attention as though the party were being thrown for him. He was a guest like everyone else.


– I know what you’d like…

– I beg your pardon?




– I told you.

He scooped out my cream. Painted his lips with it.

– Kiss me.

– This doesn’t mean you know me.

– I know you well enough. You’ll be back for more.



There should have been guilt somewhere but there wasn’t.


– If Nick was any good, you wouldn’t be here, so don’t worry about it.

– Who told you that I’m worrying?

– You do this all the time, then, do you?


Watching my family life from a distance. It seemed so normal. So good. So empty. Maybe one day the children will hate me. They look happy for now.


Do you love me, he wanted to know.

– Do I need to?

­– A little bit, at least.

– Do you love me?

– Enough to eat you out and finger you the right way until you spritz. I thought it would hit the ceiling. How would I explain that to my wife? Next time we do that, can I film you? Place a camera between your tits and film your spritz and me sticking my face in and gulping down the lot.


Folding the laundry. Nick will be home soon. I will get the peck on the cheek.


He is a good man, I say.

– Well he’s not good enough.


What can I say?


I don’t like the look of Tatar’s dick. What he does with it is heavenly. Slapping my face with it till it’s as stiff as a rolling pin and down my throat till I threw up on him once so he punched me. It was a reflex, he said.

– Sorry.

To prove it, he scraped some of the sick of the sheets and ate it.

– Now kiss me.



Nick is worried that I’m no longer happy. He says he feels there’s something wrong. Talk to me, Carmina. All I see is a good man who hasn’t a clue. Maybe I should put him out of his misery.



I think we should stop, I say.

– No.

– Tatar, let’s be reasonable.

– We haven’t even started!

– Look, I’m not coming today.

– Then I’ll turn up at your place.

– Don’t you dare!

– Nick’s my friend. I knew him before I met you. What’s to stop me coming by for a chat with my mate?

– I’m warning you!

– When can you get here?

– It’s our wedding anniversary, for God’s sake!

– When can you get here?



I said I’d send him a message. A harmless one.




This short episode picks up the protagonists of my trilogy, Verses Nature: The Memoirs Of A Lonely Hotwife:


VN trilogy Screen Shot 2017-07-19 at 11.51.27

‘Literary, astute and gifted (…) shocking, erotic, disturbing and impossible to put down (…) runs right up to the boundaries of the usually acceptable, and then rides right over them.’ (Simone Leigh, best-selling author)


Not erotica in the conventional sense, but rather erotic literary feminist fiction. Yes, fiction can be erotic and literary. Yes, fiction can be erotic and feminist.

The complete trilogy is out now!

€0.99c. That’s a joke, really. This preferential price is to break down your reservations, not only because if you are who I think you are, then you’ll love this challenging read, but primarily because I’m ready and waiting for the discussion I know we’ll have about what erotica is and can do.

Don’t wear the labels other seek to pin on you. Even as you take their words/structures,  make them your own.


why you should never fake an orgasm (and why I did)


If you fake it, then because you think you owe your partner this trophy as a reflection of their expertise?

Why? Why not: no work, no pay?

Who owns your orgasm? One of my favourite lines in Verses Nature is when Carmina, after a disagreement with her lover, Tatar, writes in her diary: I refused to let him make me come. Think about that for a while: I refused to let him make me come.

Carmina owns her body, its pleasure, no matter if Tatar is convinced otherwize. Her orgasm: a gift she may choose not to give?

So, when and why did I fake it? Not for them. I did it for us. I did it for Simone. Simone Leigh and I met each other online. She writes coffee break erotica for women. We’re kind of in the same line of business. I write ‘high-brow rumpy dumpy’. Officially, I call it erotic literary fiction. Men are welcome. At some point I mentioned to Simone that I am a performance artist. At a later point I had a copy of her The Virgin’s Christmas in my hands. Two plus two makes…

Sure. Why not?

One of the problems I have with most of what goes by the name of romance is the role women play. When I think that most porn is made my men for men and most romance is written for women by women, then why do romance authors perpetuate the happy end myth of woman becomes wife? Is that all there is to it? To us? Find a man then settle down? I thought Austen was dead (in that respect).

Leigh’s The Virgin’s Christmas, upon first reading, appears to fall into the category of romance (and erotica), where the female is but a life-size toy men may operate, battery-free.

Take a second look. I did. As I rehearsed this piece, it became clear to me that the protagonist, Charlotte, is everything but a mere pawn. When the Christmas gift of a threesome with her ‘Master’ and Michael is jeopardized by a snowstorm, it is Charlotte who takes the initiative. Okay, they are stranded in the middle of nowhere, far from their desired destination, but must that mean all is lost? They have food, they have blankets. They have everything they need. And Charlotte can think of a good way to stay warm and kill time…

With two men serving her from both sides, Charlotte gets the pleasure she had set out for. Her orgasm is but a couple of words in the text, words which could (easily?) be lost in the overall narrative. Charlotte is, after all, outnumbered.

This is where I step in. I transform Charlotte’s climax into the climax of the story, thereby relegating the men’s orgasms to mere narrative side effects. I read the word Master, seeing in my mind ‘Master’, the citation marks meaning ‘so-called’ and thus dethroning him who, throughout the story, remains nameless (thus exchangeable?). The thrust behind the M as I pronounce it – Master… Michael… – could easily override the softer pronunciation of Ch in Charlotte – Ch/sh, like: be quiet… shut up… it’s a secret, so don’t tell anyone… (???)

My Charlotte stays in control. Her climax, not theirs, steals the show, as ‘Master’ becomes servant, one with no other option than to accept Charlotte’s decision regarding when they will meet again.

The Virgin’s Christmas is part of a series and in this particular episode (episode 7), there are no wedding bells, near or far. Maybe the three will meet again in the New Year? Charlotte will decide. In the meantime, she gets on with her life. With her studies. She’s a bright one, Charlotte. Neither her ‘Master’ nor the love-stricken Michael are calling the shots. I loved being her. Even though Simone Leigh doesn’t accord Charlotte’s orgasm the same weight that I, as a performer, may, it’s there in the text. I didn’t write it. It’s there, waiting for me. Is my more feminist-oriented reading of The Virgin’s Christmas to be reduced to simply faking it?

Make your own mind up.