My books are not about anal intercourse—at least, when I think about my books they’re not about anal intercourse—and yet there’s enough of it in my books that I don’t feel able to get my new blog going without addressing the subject.
Amazon has a lot of books set in Victorian times and presenting as erotica (you can read what Suzie Hopkins thinks about that here and I agree with her when she says that “porn describes sex that people do to each other and erotic writing is about sex that people do with each other”, although I also think the quality of the writing has to be taken into account). An amazing number of those “Victorian erotica” books feature men having anal sex with women and I’ve been struck when reading them by how easy it all is. The man presents himself at the woman’s rear, the woman wriggles her bottom a little, the man gains entrance and both parties enjoy themselves.
There’s a lot of anal sex in Winging It, some of it between men and women but mostly between men. Here is how Jimmy experiences his first anal possession by another man: It was a big bed, with fine cotton sheets. I had no idea where his money came from but it was clear that he had a lot of it and equally clear that he didn’t mind using it to spoil himself with luxury. He drew back the top covers, took two pillows and laid them in the middle of the bed, one on top of the other. Then he laid me, face down, with my hips on the pillows and my bottom raised in the air. He said, ‘Wait there.’
He went out of the room. When he came back, he showed me a pot of Vaseline. ‘I’ll do everything I can not to hurt you more than I have to.’
‘I know you will.’
He took off his clothes. I peeked sideways; I wanted to see him. He was lovely. Longer and thicker than me, even though he was as yet only half erect. The feeling when his finger, covered in Vaseline, began to work its way into my tight little rosebud was indescribably beautiful and I became hard once more. Once again it was first one finger, then two, then three. He went back to the Vaseline three times to push more of it into me and I could feel from the easier way his fingers moved inside me how slick and slippery I was becoming. As he worked, I moved my legs further and further apart to give him room.
Then his fingers were gone. Once more I peeked, this time to see him covering his penis—I can’t avoid that word any longer. It was by now fully hard and pointing upwards. He knelt between my outspread thighs. ‘I want you to relax,’ he said, ‘as much as you possibly can. The more relaxed you are, the easier this will be and the less it will hurt.’
‘And push back. While I’m pushing forward, push back.’
It did hurt, and I’m not going to pretend it didn’t. It hurt. But not intolerably, and after he’d got the tip of himself into me it hurt a little less. He paused and then pushed again, gaining another inch or so and the hurt was less. He continued like that—take an inch, pause, take another inch—and at last his hips were resting against mine, and now it scarcely hurt at all and what pain there was didn’t matter because I had what I wanted. A man completely inside me.
“It did hurt, and I’m not going to pretend it didn’t.” Of course it hurt. It has to hurt. Why do so many of those Victorian erotica books ignore that? Sometimes they talk about discomfort, but they never address the pain that someone has to feel when they give themselves in this way. You have to really love someone and want to please someone to let them take you in the rear.
As we read a little later in Winging It, there are other risks, too. Most sex between men is masturbation, fondling, frottage, blow jobs, rimming—we know that an arse that has been buggered too often loses its tightness and a slack arse is a problem we can all live without. However, when I first accepted what I was and allowed a man to break me in I let him bugger me often in the early days because (a) it seemed loving to give myself to him as much as I did; (b) I wasn’t aware that I might be storing up problems for the future; and (c) it was what he wanted, he was bigger and stronger than I was and I would probably have struggled to prevent him even if I had wanted to.
The Binding is a Mandrill Press book that you could call, at least in part, Victorian erotica, and it features the classical man/woman anal, but S F Hopkins doesn’t pretend it’s easy. The heroine first gets the idea of being taken in the rear when she spies on the neighbouring cabin and sees it happening to someone else: Mrs Marjoram knelt on the bunk, her bottom raised in the air. I use the word “bottom” to be kind; you will remember the immense hindquarters of your father’s favourite hunter? I shall say no more. As to the captain, he had in one hand a jar from which, with the other, he scooped a white unguent which he then slathered into the space between her great bottom cheeks—she moaning the while. Then he ran his hand, still soaked in the cream, the length of his naked shaft, which grew visibly under his ministrations.
He spoke a word, and she reached back to take the cheeks of her bottom in each hand, pulling them apart in a most unbecoming manner. At last, he clambered on to the bunk behind her and, seizing her shoulder in one hand, with the other guided his tool to the very opening of her bottom and began to work his way into her, exciting her little moans and protestations. From his demeanour, and the little of their conversation I could pick up, I should say he believed himself to be the first to enter that forbidden place. My dear, trust me. I have since become no stranger to this act of love and abasement and I shall tell you—that furrow had been ploughed before.
But then, when she is determined to experience it for herself, Suzie does not try to pretend that it is easy: I shall not, therefore, lead you through every move and manoeuvre by which we three gained what we wanted of each other. There was much amusing and agreeable deferring to me on the lines of “If I could just place your leg here, Miss Melissa” and “Miss Melissa, if you were to turn onto your front?” and “I wonder, Miss Melissa, if I might just adjust you to this angle” (and, most sweetly, “Miss Melissa, if you could bear to open those heavenly lips for me”) and, with encouragement from them and co-operation from me, we achieved our ends.
I shall, though, admit to having managed what you will have inferred was for me a prime aim of the evening. It took liberal application of Angus’s cream, both to me and to David’s sterling tool (they had decided between them that this task was for him. I pretended not to hear the sotto voce negotiations, though only a deaf person could have missed Angus’s agitated whispers to the effect that “You’ve already had her cunt (can you believe I never heard that word till then? Perhaps you do not know it even now) so it’s only right I should have it now.” At length, Angus simply put his foot down and said that he was the Chief Steward and he was giving his orders and that was that) and then quite a lot of persistent pushing while I knelt and Angus tried with his hands to open me enough to give the younger man space to enter. If I am frank, there was also more than a little pain. And then, just as I thought it should never be done, with a little pop it was done.
At which point Angus rolled us both over, joined together as we were, and, as I lay face up and impaled behind on David’s splendid equipment, Angus mounted me before with his.
This three-headed, six-legged creature then rocked back and forwards for some considerable time at the end of which I feel confident in saying that all participants were fully satisfied. I was a little sore, it is true, and I do believe that that was so also of David, and Angus approached a state of exhaustion which was, I believe, attributable to his greater years.
Finally, let’s take a look at another of my own books—A Perfect Solution. Chris’s problem is that he cannot decide whether he would rather be a young man or a young woman and he experiences sex in both capacities as he makes up his mind. He has it with a girl:
‘I said I haven’t seen you. You’ve seen me but I haven’t seen you.’
‘No. Would you like to?’
I knew my face must be bright red and I didn’t understand how she could stay her usual colour and be so calm and smiley about things. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I would.’
‘Okay.’ She rolled onto her front, hooked her hands into the pyjama pants and pushed them down. ‘There.’
I knelt to look. It was lovely, of course, but it wasn’t quite what I’d had in mind. I said, ‘That’s your bottom.’
‘It is. Do you like it?’
I put one hand gently on each cheek and pressed them apart so that I could look at the tight little rosebud at the centre. ‘It’s lovely. It’s a lovely bottom. But I’ve got a bottom, too.’
‘Oh, I see. You’d like to see what I’ve got that you haven’t.’
She was teasing me, but I didn’t mind. It was the nicest possible kind of teasing. ‘Yes.’
‘All right.’ And she rolled onto her back. ‘There.’
I couldn’t believe that I was looking at it. At “It”. That’s how boys had always referred to it while I was growing up—as “It”. If a boy mentioned “It” you didn’t need to ask what the “It” was that he was referring to. You knew. And I was looking at it. But not very clearly, because not much of it was visible.
I didn’t know whether she’d let me see any more, but I had to find out. I took hold of the PJ pants where they hung half way up her thighs and pulled them down with as much gentleness as I could. She didn’t stop me. She didn’t stop me when I took them right off her. Nor did she stop me when I put one hand on the inside of each knee and pressed them apart.
I could see it now!
Eloise put a hand on the back of my head and pulled me down so that she could kiss me. She said, ‘Do you like what you see?’
‘Oh, I do.’
‘Would you like to kiss it?’
Kiss it? I’d never thought of kissing it. Kissing “It”. But if she wanted me to…
‘All in good time. I’ve got something else you haven’t got.’ While I’d been staring at “It”, she had unbuttoned her PJ jacket. Now she took it off. She was naked. A young woman…a beautiful young woman…was in my bed, naked. She lay back and I could see from her face that it was her turn to feel shy. Female insecurity was not something I knew about then. I had always thought of girls as having far more self-confidence than boys; they don’t. It’s a show they put on. She was gorgeous, but she didn’t feel confident enough to know that she was gorgeous. With her arms by her side, she said, ‘What do you think?’
‘Oh, Eloise. You’re lovely.’
She kissed me again. ‘Am I, darling? Would you like to stroke them?’
So I did. I stroked them, kissed them, sucked them, petted them. They were lovely. So firm. So warm. She said, ‘You can go back down there now. If you want to.’
If I wanted to? Oh, how I wanted to. She said, ‘Use your tongue, angel.’
The first taste was salty. Salty in a nice way. From the very first touch of my tongue, she was moving. Moving and moaning. I licked the whole length, from the bottom to the top and back again, and as I did so I realised that there was one place—right at the top—that produced greater moans and wilder movement. And she was talking to me. ‘Please, Chris. Oh, please, please…’
I’d never heard of anyone doing what I was doing, but there’s something, some instinct, that tells a young man what’s needed. I pushed forward with my tongue, entering her, and she squealed with pleasure. I went back to the place that had produced such a response earlier and worked on it and my reward was more squeals and uninhibited gyrations. She gasped, ‘Fingers, Chris. As well as your tongue. Fingers.’ When I did that, pushing in first one finger and then a second, the result was earth-shattering. She wrapped her thighs round my head and began a furious bucking that ended suddenly with a cry I knew must have been heard by Helen and Virginia in Helen’s room. She reached down and took my head in her hands, pulling me upwards to lie on top of her. She was sobbing.
‘Eloise? Did I hurt you?’
She smiled. In fact, she laughed. ‘No, my darling. You didn’t hurt me. You were wonderful. These are tears of happiness.’
I lay beside her, hardly able to believe what we had just done. Eloise said, ‘Is it all right if I stay here all night?’
‘Oh, yes, please.’
She laughed again.
But it isn’t long before he is on the receiving end: One thing I learned very quickly is that love-making between men is not gentle. Alex took his time but he didn’t hold back. I buried my face in the pillow and stifled my groans and thrashed my legs around until I felt an extra urgency in him and then I was filled with a hot, wet flow and he collapsed on top of me. His face against mine was bathed in sweat.
Soon he’s with a girl—Marie—and he’s convinced that now, at last, he knows what he wants.
Before long, though, he takes a young man to his apartment:
I said, ‘Are you a complete beginner?’
He licked dry lips. ‘Yes.’
‘Well, don’t worry. I’ll show you what to do.’ I showed him into the sitting room. ‘Why don’t you take off your shirt and pants while I pour us a drink?’
When I came back with two whiskies topped up with water he was down to his boxer shorts. I hadn’t mentioned shoes and socks but he’d had the sense to take those off, too. I handed him his glass and told him to sit down. Then I went into the bedroom and brought back the K-Y jelly and some tissues. The condoms I left on my bedside table. I sat beside him. ‘Cheers,’ I said, raising my glass. He followed my example.
I put the glass down, took his out of his hand and put it beside mine, and then I took his face in both hands and kissed him. He responded, amateurishly but with feeling. I said, ‘Put your arms round me,’ and he did. I pushed my tongue into his mouth. I rolled him onto his back and took his boxers in my hands. ‘Lift that sweet little bottom for me.’
Naked, he almost covered himself with his hands before he realised what he was doing. He put his arms round my back again. He was an innocent young girl on a first date, frightened of what was to come but determined to be deflowered. I remembered that feeling. I squeezed some jelly into my hand and wrapped it round his sex. Slowly and gently, and kissing him all the time, I brought him to his climax, grabbing the tissues in time to soak up his seed. He held on to me tightly, and groaned. I put the whisky glass into his hand and picked up mine, together with the little blue tube. ‘First time?’
I took his hand. ‘Bedroom,’ I said. He followed me, holding my hand tightly.
I put my glass on the bedside table and motioned to him to do the same. I started to undress. ‘Lie on your front,’ I said.
When I was naked I pressed his legs apart and started preparing him with fingers coated in jelly. All the time I was doing it he was shuddering and moaning. Then I put on a condom and put jelly on that. And then I took him.
It wasn’t as easy as that makes it sound—he was tight and his body resisted but I persisted and I had him. When it was done and I lifted myself from his sweat-covered body, he turned onto his side and smiled at me.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘What you expected?’
‘Better. For the first time in my life I feel I’ve been true to who I am.’
When I really combed through the Mandrill Press bookshelf I found plenty of other examples—of all our writers, John Lynch is the only one who doesn’t write constantly about sex and though he’s very polite I’m not really sure how he feels about the rest of us—but I think that’s enough. Sex in Mandrill Press books happens between men and men, men and women and women and women and a little of it is anal. What I’d like to hope is that we’re honest in the way we present it. If this is how you want to live your sex life, that’s your right. Feel free.
But don’t pretend there’s no pain in it.