‘I wonder how hard it is to write a porno?’ I mused at dinner yesterday. Unfortunately, I was unable to hear other people’s responses, because I was too busy internally congratulating myself on my use of ‘hard’. ‘It can’t be that difficult,’ I continued, when my internal monologue had settled down a little. I know a bit about writing about sex.
Writing a sex column requires very few things: an endless supply of names, euphemistic and otherwise, for genitalia, which a former nanny referred to as ‘private parts’, which made my Mother roar with laughter and tell her to stop being so repressed. She did not last long. (With us. As far as I know she is still alive and well); an ability to plunder one’s own most intimate experiences for material, and an anatomically correct artist’s doll.
(Nothing could be more embarrassing then encouraging one’s readers to try the ‘latest position’ only for it to be proven impossible- the blow to one’s credibility would surely prove fatal)
Equally, the very best sex columnists have a keen sense of their own importance- sex being paradoxically vital (and good sex can certainly feel essential) but its absence not being fatal to one’s happiness. I know this for a fact, because the suicide rate amongst nuns is desperately low.
I pointed this out the same dinner party, and the chap next to me helpfully explained that this was because ‘the nuns are all sleeping with one another’, which I thought about whilst waiting for the quinoa, but dismissed by the time the fishcakes arrived as too close to a porno to be realistic.
The veracity of pornos is something that has been troubling me recently, mostly because a very good friend of mine thinks that we should write one. ‘Yes,’ I agreed happily. ‘I have actually already written a few scenes.’ My friend looked at me, completely confused. ‘Ah,’ I explained. ‘An ex suggested we made a video. I was delighted, and spent the next week writing an intricate and plot-driven script for this video. Apparently he had more well, sex, in mind than soliloquies.’
It is uncertain whether my friend still wishes to write this porno with me. Needless to say, I have thundered ahead regardless, and begun writing a script which I think will be a roaring success. I have even this time included some private parts. (Though only in carefully mannequin-posed positions).
Identifying disproportionately with this fictional character, I have been searching for something I will be terrible at. Not, one might think, too tricky a task. However, in order for this to be a fair test, this has to be a totally new experience. Which, as a grown up, is harder to stumble across than one might think. Marriage, obviously, and children- but after some consideration I felt that might be taking things a little too far. I settled, finally, on touch rugby.
Last night, my friend and I went to our first ever touch rugby game. He has played rugby at a reasonably high level since school. I bought my first rugby ball on Monday. I felt totally prepared. Until I arrived at the pitch (late, because I believed this would imbue my presence with an air of calm experience and nonchalance), and realised that I had absolutely no idea what to do.
unfashionablylost 