Fetishism 101: Notes from TheoryGirl

Wow, I'm still enjoying the reflected buzz off that last post. All those fabulous sex toys with their wonderful adornment -- how delicious, thanks so much, Lacy.

And also how very strange.

But that's one of my writing alteregos talking. I've got a crew of 'em in my attic and this one's called TheoryGirl. She's the one who's wired a little bit strangely, whose erotic apparatus is hopelessly and forever jacked into her intellect. TheoryGirl gets hot, bothered, and fascinated by the astonishing weirdness and awesome variety of the human erotic imagination.

TheoryGirl can't help but ask how come certain of us out there find ourselves so enthralled by the eroticization of inanimate objects and also the objectification of flesh (from where TGirl and I sit, you can't have one without the other). Here's a pic of me, btw, taken by Celia, at last summer's RWA National Conference, while I was channeling TheoryGirl.

Note the slightly wired quality. TheoryGirl's the one who asks the uncomfortable questions.

Uncomfortable because in the world of 70s feminism where I grew up, "objectification" was about the worst thing you could accuse someone of doing. And with good reason -- because in the real world of human relationships, you never want to treat anyone as anything but a political/moral/narrative end in her or himself. Everyone is the heroine/hero of her/his story/journey through life, and no one should be treated as any less. Which is about as close to a moral credo as I suppose I have.

And yet in our erotic fantasy lives, the opposite can often be true. It seems we like a little vacation now and again from the awesome and miraculous responsibility of being a human among other humans. We like to play at being less -- or more -- than human. Not only are we fascinated by jade and ivory phalluses, but we're fascinated by their obverse -- by bondage, immobilization, flesh constrained to mimic object. And we're fascinated by our human power to affect such transformations.

TheoryGirl's considered answer to this problem is that because one of the facts of being human is that we’re never exactly sure what “human” is, it’s not really so weird that we’d want to explore it at its boundaries and margins.

In a troubled world (where freedom is misinterpreted as unchecked power), this makes me extraordinarily nervous. But in my own blessedly sheltered private life and in my writing, it works just fine, thank you very much, and I've come to believe that you get into considerably more trouble pretending it doesn't exist. (I'm not going to give any contemporary examples of holier-than-thou sexual hypocrisy. Just read the newspapers -- and weep.)

I've never done any better describing it when I riffed off this quote from Dominique Aury, who wrote Story of O (as Pauline Reage). In a memoir-essay called"A Girl in Love," Aury remembers

those oft repeated reveries, those slow musings just before falling asleep, always the same ones, which the purest and wildest love always sanctioned, or rather always demanded, the most frightful surrender, in which childish images of chains and whips added to constraint the symbols of constraint.

To which I added that,

At the bottom of Aury's elegant and urbane pornography lies the fantasy life of an impressionable child -- the sort who listens carefully to the overheated perorations of an overzealous religious school teacher, who pores endlessly over the lurid imagery of a comic book or an illustrated saint's life. Because pornography's power doesn't reside in the extremity of its images and motifs, but in their naiveté and redundancy -- in the pornographer's need to employ the symbols of constraint, and to spell out the abstractions of power and passion in the most primitive terms possible.

You can find a link to this essay, my tribute to Dominique Aury/Pauline Reage on my web page, btw.

And yet, I’ve discovered that my erotic imagination has its own limits, too. I felt much freer to explore my fantasy of a global S/M underground in Carrie’s Story and Safe Word, because Carrie was a contemporary character who was so sure of her own political and intellectual autonomy (read: over-educated motormouth TheoryGirl type) that the reader could be sure she’d never lose herself in the rules of the game or mistake "the abstractions of power and passion" for the real thing.

Whereas when I write stuff that takes place in the 18th or early 19th century, where no woman (and not every man) could feel sure of her political and intellectual autonomy, I find I’m a lot more careful - less free with the whips and chains and other props. I use found objects more - I try to imagine how immobilized a body could be simply by being placed in a certain posture wearing a tightly laced corset.

Gotta go write that scene now. Deadline calls. I may give you a peek at that scene, tho, in some future post.

And I may also, in a future post, write about the astonishing, even if confused and constrained, erotic imagination of Emily Bronte (talk about the fantasy life of an impressionable child), who tells us in Wuthering Heights, that what 6-year-old Cathy Earnshaw really wanted, when her father set off to Liverpool on the fateful trip that brought Heathcliff home, was a whip.

French Dressing

Her outfit was... a long dress with a full skirt, worn over a sturdy whalebone bodice gathered tightly at the waist, and over a stiffly starched linen petticoat. The low-cut neck scarcely concealed the breasts which, raised by the constricting bodice, were only lightly veiled by the network of lace.

This is the costume given to Story of O's eponymous heroine when she enters "the chateau," as it's called -- a regime of erotic submission she accepts as though in a familiar, recurring dream. The language is austere, depersonalized. The narrative voice refers to "the" rather than "her" breasts. And in fact, soon after, one of the "masters" of the chateau tells O that her hands are not her own, and that she has "lost all right to privacy or concealment."

O receives her instructions with the same unquestioning passivity with which she allowed herself to be dressed in her costume. Or at least that's how it's usually -- and to my mind not quite correctly -- described. A better word than "passivity," I think, would be "recognition," and of a very literate, sophisticated order.

Neither O nor her readers need to be told that the costume is a dolled-up version of that of a chambermaid, in cruel, absolutist pre-Revolutionary France. And when she's told that Pierre, "who will chain and unchain you, who will whip you... when the others have no time for you," neither she nor her readers is entirely surprised to find that Pierre is "dressed like the valet in some operetta."

The power relations in the chateau -- levels of hierarchy; iron and leather restraints; ritualized sexual obedience; and the screams and tears that the masters wrest from O and the other women in their long, lowcut dresses -- are rendered with eerie conviction. Oddly, though, what makes it so assured, so quietly confident, is its stagy predictability. This has all happened before, O thinks. And so does the reader. At the very least it's happened in the work of the Marquis de Sade, the aristocrat who lived through the revolution and the terror and who staged his own private versions of them in his over-the-top, bloody, sometimes yucky and sometimes wildly funny writings.

Sade dreamed about the limits of absolute freedom and the beguilements of totalizing system and domination. It's fair to say that he invented the genre of BDSM, though he probably wouldn't recognize it in the cuddlier, domesticated versions we're used to. But it's his genre that O enters, quite as Buffy (and Willow, and we) re-enter the world of teen movie horror for yet the umpteenth time. The real conflict in genre fiction, I believe, is the endless argument between the helpless part of us that wants – that has -- to go there once more, and the wisecracking intellectual part of us that can’t quite believe we’ve been suckered, again and forever seduced by the worn old props and operetta costumes.

It’s that conversation that I listen for in genre – the endless, two-sided chatter, the unashamed, ambivalent questioning that I strain to hear (and knock myself out to write) in romance and erotic fiction.

Does Your Mother Know?

Well, mine does now. That I write erotic fiction, I mean.

Our (unspoken) agreement is that she reads the romances, ignores the hardcore. Which works, I believe, because there are places in the heart (or such we might call it) where family really doesn’t want to go, even if your family is as important to your writing self as mine is -- and most especially my mom.

It was my mom who couldn't wait to introduce me to her beloved Jo March and Scarlet O’Hara. She was reading a romance novel when they wheeled her into the delivery room to have me, and these days she’s an all-purpose culture vulture, gobbling up midlist fiction and washing it down with her favorite Ann Perry with a chaser of Amanda (Cross or Quick).

She wanted me to be a writer. And during the long years when I was, shall we say, a non-writing writer, she never lost hope for me. I’m sure that she always believed that the veddy veddy writerly -- and extremely un-Brooklyn -- name of Pamela that she’d given me would someday do its magic, while I never quite lost hope that someday I’d produce something, publish it, and share the triumph of it with her.

But when I finally did publish something, it was Carrie’s Story -- Story of O retold in the voice of an overeducated San Francisco bike messenger with ambitious S/M fantasies and a penchant for literature, self-analysis, and anal sex. The cover of the current edition (tenth printing last December!) isn’t what I would have chosen, but you get the idea. Not a book you’d bring home to Mom.

Or to many people. At first I was very protective of my Molly Weatherfield secret identity. I was serious about not wanting to be contacted by… well, who knew who was out there? And I certainly didn't want to share my fantasy life with my then college-age son.

Or with my mother, even if she would so dearly have loved to know that I was writing at long last (for it seemed -- who knew? -- writing about extreme sex had been just the push I’d needed.)

But I was determined to keep it all a secret. Which included hiding the essays I (as Molly) had been publishing in the online magazine, Salon.com, about the great French erotic writers Dominique Aury and the Marquis de Sade -- because the author blurb and sometimes the text referred to Carrie’s Story. And much as I knew that my mother would have loved the brief, precious email I’d gotten from the noted author Francine du Plessix Gray, in appreciation of what I’d said about her book At Home with the Marquis de Sade—well, it just seemed too weird to introduce my mom to Molly Weatherfield.

Luckily, however, my mother is possessed of strange and mystical mind-reading powers. Okay, call it coincidence if you must -- but for me it was as though the band had begun playing the theme from The Twilight Zone when, at a family bar mitzvah (where else?) Mom suddenly asked me what I knew about the Marquis de Sade. Because bless her culture-vulture heart -- she’d seen “Quills” in Florida that winter, and she was wondering whether I might be able to supply her with a little literary-biographical background.

“Well, umm... yes,” I stammered. “Funny you should ask,” I mumbled. “Because actually…” I continued. And so I showed her the Sade piece (you can find a link to it on my web page if you go to the ABOUT PAM page and look for ESSAYS BY PAM) and a copy of the note from Ms. Gray. Which did make both of us awfully happy.

So was I silly to keep Molly a secret for so long? No, not exactly. Because a literary essay, even about an erotic topic, is quite a different thing from hardcore erotic fiction. So when a piece of my second Carrie book, Safe Word, came out in The Best American Erotica 2000, and when I told my mom explicitly not to read it, and when she did anyway (something about the conjuncture of one of her children and the word best causing her to take predictable leave of her senses)... well, sometimes it seems that a loving and overeager parent simply has to learn about life the hard way.

“What did you think of it?” I asked her. “It. Was. Very. Well. Written,” she replied, avoiding eye contact but clearly sadder and wiser for the experience.

I should add that my very wise son, (who's now a graduate student in Victorian literature) has never opened any of the Carrie books. But he has read my romances, and he paid me the best compliment anybody has ever paid my writing after he read an early draft of The Bookseller’s Daughter.

“It walks," he said. "It talks. It’s a novel. Congratulations.” Who could ask for anything more?

And to the writers out there: do you share your erotic writing with your family or do you hide it, perhaps behind your pseudonym?

Of noms de plume--and the contest winner!

I wanted to take on a nom de plume for my erotic historical novels that had some meaning--at least to me. Some kind of sly, wink-wink allusion, since I didn't want to use my real name.

My first choice was Colleen Réage, which anyone who's read The Story of O will understand immediately...and for those of you who haven't, well, get thee to a library and snatch up a copy. Note the author's name, and then enjoy the read.

The Story of O influenced my erotic writing quite a bit, and that and the A. N. Roquelaure (aka Anne Rice) books really set me off. (Although, admittedly, before that I'd glommed all the Bertrice Small Skye O'Malley historicals, and had delved into Ordeal: The Story of Linda Lovelace.)

So, anyway, now that you know my influences, you'll have an idea of what to expect in Unmasqued when it hits the shelves in August.

Anyway, I digress. (Get used to it. It happens a lot.)

My editor, much as I love her, didn't love my wink-wink choice of Colleen Réage, so she suggested I think of something else.

So I thought again and came up with Colette (as in the infamous Colette) as the first name. It was close enough to my real name that I might even 1) actually answer to it, and 2) remember what letters to write when I'm signing that name.

But for a last name...I was stumped.

Then about the time I had to actually give the final name to my editor, a long-awaited item arrived in the post. It's an adult comic book collection called Lost Girls, and it was created by the talented Alan Moore (The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen) and Melinda Gebbie.

The first installment of Lost Girls had come out in the format of a regular comic book about fifteen years ago, and I bought the original and then the next two editions. Then they stopped.

Now fifteen years later, the entire, complete collection, as planned, was released in a leather bound trilogy and in a slipcase. I'd ordered it three months earlier, and it finally arrived. And it was gorgeous.

What is Lost Girls, you ask? Get to the meat of the matter, Colette. (That was Jane, I'm sure. She's always concerned with meat.)

Anyway, Lost Girls is an erotic story about three women, grown up from the lost girls they were in children's literature: Wendy, from Peter Pan, Alice from Alice in Wonderland, and Dorothy Gale from The Wizard of Oz.

They're all grown up now, and they have different things from their youthful adventures that influence them as they explore their sexuality.

Alice has a laudanum addiction, and she has an intense fascination with a looking glass...Wendy and her husband have a very cool, reserved relationship, but their shadows are much more passionately involved...and Dorothy...well, she's a naive little girl from Kansas who becomes very experimental and daring in her sexual exploits. (Can't imagine why I chose her name, huh?)

It's an extremely well-done story--everything from the art to the themes and undercurrents is brilliant. I haven't read the whole three volumes yet; I've been savoring it. But I love it.

Anyway, that, my friends, is how I came up with my nom de plume.

Oh, and the contest winner of our Grand Unveiling Contest is:
SETON

Please post a comment with your email address so we can get in touch with you about your winnings (lucky devil!).

Past and Present, Hide and Seek

After posting my own face as avatar in my first responses to Celia's post, I’ve beaten a hasty retreat, back behind the ambiguous smile of my cover girl for The Slightest Provocation. Because I’ve rather belatedly realized that I’m the only author on this group blog to be posting under my erotic-romance-writing name, which is also my own, everyday name of Pam Rosenthal. All of which, in the context of this frank, clever, trash-talking blog, makes me want to reach for the nearest mask or figleaf.

Funny how all that works.

And, no - in case there might be any doubt - I didn’t choose to publish erotic romance as “Pam Rosenthal” because I thought the name conveyed that sexy Brit resonance so often coveted for romance writer pseuds.

The story's simpler. By the time I got published in writing erotic romance I’d been writing my down and dirty literate smut as Molly Weatherfield, and it felt like time to get a little credit under my own name. (Or, more correctly, the name I'd come by via Michael Rosenthal, after meeting several eons ago, during the summer of Bob Dylan’s Blonde on Blonde and the Grove Press translation of Story of O.)

I’m a slow reader, a slow writer, and a slow learner. Unlike some of you precocious young things, I was well past adolescence when I turned to erotic writing. In fact, by the time of my first story, Michael and I were ourselves the parents of an adolescent much given to rolling his eyes in extravagant, desperate humiliation whenever I'd sing along with the girl groups on oldies radio.

More than two decades had drifted or hurtled by since the hot Manhattan summer of Michael and I reading Story of O together in that hard single bed we found so roomy and comfy. By now we had a bigger bed, jobs, responsibilities, a big mortgage on a tiny San Francisco Victorian, and that eye-rolling offspring.

But that morning had been a particularly lazy, sexy, sunny Sunday. Michael hadn't gone off to work at his bookselling job until eleven. After which I had decided that it might be fun, interesting, at least therapeutic and certainly better than housework, to curl up in a chair in the bay window and jot down a few of the secret, outré, long-cherished S/M fantasies that had passed through my head in the prior hours.

Several hours passed, quite imperceptibly. Sunday morning became Sunday afternoon and I was still in my ratty old pink terrycloth bathrobe. The only time I’d gotten up was to consult the bookshelves, to check the punctuation of COMMA CLOSE QUOTE HE SAID PERIOD. Because there were real characters speaking real dialog on the page before me. I felt like God. There was no going back.

I finished the story and sent it to a local zine I admired, “Frighten the Horses,” which had recently published a hot and beautifully crafted poem by Kim Addonizio (check her out if you don’t know her work).

Maybe six months later I received what I now recognize as a wondrously generous, helpful, and encouraging page-long rejection letter from the zine’s editor, erotic writer Mark Pritchard (also a fine writer, and now a friend – check him out too). Mark wrote that while I’d produced an unusually well written first attempt at a story, I clearly didn't understand much about what a story actually was; patiently, he suggested that something - perhaps transformative or revelatory - usually happens in a story. I, of course, thought he was a fatuous idiot, cried a lot, and tried to forget the whole thing.

Except that I didn’t. Couldn’t. Partly because I was lucky enough to be living in San Francisco’s Mission District during a wonderfully creative queer and feminist-inspired efflorescence of erotic culture (this was the early 90s – more about all that in my next post). And partly, simply (simply!) because erotic fiction-writing had been so much fun (it was never very therapeutic; the first thing I learned is that it shouldn't be).

But the fun is what I hope will always remain. Which makes me think I’ve come to the right tea party. I like my tea green, by the way. As green as I was when I started that first story. May I always be able to find my way back to that moment of innocent bravery.

Later,
Pam