Over coffee with my girlfriends we talk about books. The new Jonny Steinberg, Zakes Mda and J.M. Coetzee. We have this need to read thought-provoking South African writing. It’s a guilt thing.
During the conversation, I brought up how much I love reading erotica. My girlfriends mostly rolled their eyes at me, preferring literary prose, but one friend nudged me under the table.
‘I have a great collection’, she said. ‘Let’s swap.’
Great, I thought, knowing that her collection would not be anything like mine. Even so, good erotica should be shared.
We met the next day. Kissed hello, ordered cappuccino and exchanged parcels. My books were wrapped in beautiful white tissue paper. Hers were in an old crusty brown paper bag.
We’re both grown up sophisticated women, but we hid our books anyway.
‘They’re a bit old and worn’ she said sheepishly.
I looked inside the packet. Cheap romance paperbacks. It was cool. I could read them to my lover.
That night I suggested to BB that we bathe together. Candles, champagne and a bit of gentle erotica. Kinda sexy.
I filled the bathtub and added some oils. BB got in. I sat behind him, wrapping my legs around his body. He lay back into me, eyes closed and I started reading.
There’s good erotica and there’s bad erotica. There’s gentle erotica and there’s hard-core, down and dirty oh my sweet dear god what the hell is this erotica.
This was not the gentle erotica.
I should’ve checked the title of the book. Fisting for Beginners, by Giselle Renard.
I got through two chapters.
Splash. I dropped the book in the bath.
Splash. I leapt out the bath in half a second.
Splash. BB leapt out behind me.
‘Yay,’ he said, ‘we’re finally going to explore.’
I yelled at him to get out the house and to go and explore himself. He stood there dejectedly, trying to pull his jeans up over his wet legs.
I ordered him out. And then I poured myself a glass of champagne, added a bit more hot water, settled back and picked up the soggy book. I started reading.
Page 27. Oh my…