Giving sex a good name since 1995
Love always used to feel like pigging out, the same kind of bottomlessness. Sex was for cold mornings where you forgot to close the blinds or for hot summer afternoons, when the urge took you, when the sun was watching but you didn’t care, all white rumpled sheets like an advert.
Politics tend to attract a certain sort: the crawler, the ambition-filled thrill seeker, the disturbed, and the sociopathic. Along the way, the odd good egg is bound to be found, the seeker of justice who wants to right the world and order it. Go to the capital, change the world as you see fit. At the very least, give it a go.
Sobriety made be brave enough to put a Hoover up my bum. There I said it. So glad to finally have that off my chest.
Our US and Canadian readership is now greater than that of the UK, so let me apologise to our North American friends and cousins in advance: from time to time we’ll be publishing a bit of escapism that is more focussed upon British politics than theirs. Which isn’t to say that we’re not riveted by the fortunes of one D. Trump – just rather less qualified to comment.
I’m not proud to admit this, but eight years ago I went through this phase where I was suddenly attracted to men. Or if you prefer, persons with a non-detachable penis. So I went straight to the source, and posted an ad on the Craigslist W4M personals in Los Angeles: Kinky Queer Chick In Heterocurious Phase & Wondering What All the Fuss Is About. I was a very popular W.
Some women say that the first time they look, really look at their private parts, they are struck by the beauty, the folds like petals, the soft colours from rose to amber, the intricacy. Let them. I am happy for them. I have never been the sort of woman to gaze adoringly in a glass at my own vagina, vulva, fanjo, whatever. It doesn’t appeal; there is no need for it.
Sex is danger. So much is staked on the gamble of a safe, solvent and, hopefully, healthy customer. Once delivered, all that matters is maintaining rapport, keeping interest. The advent of the novel coronavirus (COVID-19) merely added a touch more of that danger to that oldest of professions. With a lexicon burgeoning with terms emphasising containment and suppression, the sex industry, along with others, has been laid waste in an effort to contain the pandemic. Bodies are being withdrawn out of circulation, as is the cash that accompanies them.
Congratulations, Keir Starmer! Erotic Review warmly welcomes you as the new Labour Party Leader. Now, with the UK in lockdown and many struggling to survive, we need, more than ever before, a strong, united and articulate opposition ready to hold this Conservative government to account. A government which is floundering and vastly out of its comfort zone: it struggles to catch up with events as they occur, not before. While Sir Keir has promised to lend his party's support when it is needed and to cooperate in a responsible way, he has also promised to get tough on this government's rolling inadequacies. A case in point would be its refusal to accept EU help to bulk-purchase medical equipment that Britain desperately needs in the fight against coronavirus: a move seen by many as playing petty politics with people's lives.
Of all the bad ways for the UK to start a new decade, leaving Europe has to be one of the worst. Erotic Review deplores this act of national self-harm. We must start the long journey towards rejoining as soon as it is practicable to do so (which is probably now). Membership of the Labour Party could be a sensible first step in this direction, given how UK politics has become so lost, fragmented… and binary. We need a strong opposition to start to reverse the destruction the Conservatives have inflicted over the last few years. Surely finding someone to stand up to a right-wing populism that rivals that of Donald Trump is not beyond us.
Shields is getting on with the business of being his own bitch, peeling off the layers, nakedly probing, ostensibly to meet his own needs but not without a wink to those of us on the dark side of the glass. It’s a risky performance.
