Charlie J Forrest

Last weekend was, well, busy to say the least. I was at the Nine Worlds Geekfest in Heathrow (don’t look so shocked, yes I am not merely an international man of mystery but also a bit of a geek… on occasion… ok, a lot of a geek, a lot of the time).

Amongst the sessions that ranged from the fascinating (gender and sexuality in fan fiction) to the ridiculous (writing circular Gallifreyan) was something I particularly enjoyed. You see Zak Kier and Kristina Lloyd were running an erotic open mic… I think you can see where this is going.

I enjoy spoken word events, I’ve done a few and I like to think I’m better than I used to be at standing in front of a room full of people and not dissolving into a cowering ball of mush. Along the way I’ve learnt a couple of things.

1) Don’t read. This is a quite high bar and certainly isn’t applicable to everyone, but it’s something that’s worked really well for me. I could stand with a few sheets of paper or a book between me and the audience, but there’s something invigorating about performing from memory that makes the words really yours.

2) Silence is good. If there’s silence it means everyone is listening and that can’t be a bad thing right? It’s very easy to see the gaps as something terrible to be avoided, but filling the void by reading non stop and quickly can make it hard for the audience to follow. Pause, pause frequently, and look folks in the eye.

3) Apologise for nothing. You are not there to seek approval, you are not there to present something to be critiqued or judged. You are not a meek and obedient child. Look the audience in the eye and leave them in no doubt; you are the very devil come amongst them!

“And there were times when yeah, alright, I confess
I did things of which I am not proud.
Everybody wades through the same coloured shit,
But it doesn’t drag everyone down.

I was stupid I was insensitive
I was everything I promised I never would be.
I’ve seen a lot of foolish behaviour in my time,
But I tell ya’; they’ve got nothing on me!”

David Ford

I don’t think I’m going to be able to write erotica with the theme of ‘shame’. At least not a short piece. Maybe if I were to take overcoming it as the theme for a novel that might give it the breathing space it deserves. But instead I’m going to talk metaphysics and breaking down the subject-object divide.

Yeah, that’s right, metaphysics, sexy times no?

First up a proposition, there are two selves. Two of you, two of me, two of everyone. There is the self that observes the universe (the first self) and the self that observes the self (the second self) with me so far?

The role of the second self is to act as a counterpoint to the first self. It’s sort of the Jimminy cricket, it holds us to account and acts as a reference point by which we can judge and define ourselves (a bit like a moral compass).

Shame, as we traditionally understand it, is an emotion, directed inwardly. That is, it can be seen as a verb, but it’s a verb where the subject and object are both the self. I feel ashamed of me. I am bothe the subject and object, which can get confusing. In the two selves model this is the second self shaming the first self. Which is by and large a good thing. I did something wrong, or something that conflicts with my idea of who I am, and I feel ashamed of this. Maybe next time I shouldn’t use the flame-thrower on those kittens.

Because why wouldn’t there be a t-shirt for this? (Click the picture)

This is the useful kind of shame, the sort that makes us into empathetic, compassionate people in order to keep the first self and the second self in tune.

But you need to keep your second self safe. Because there are fuckers out there who will try to pretend to be your second self. They will don convincing costumes and familiar voices, using weasel words and manipulative tactics.

They will try to shame you, but they can’t, not if you know that they’re not you. They are not your second self, because your second self is right there beside you, telling you you’re doing great.

“But why would you want to be tied up?”

Substitute in the above sentence the word “spanked” “peed on” or “locked in a chastity cage” or indeed any of an infinite variety of kinky activities.

To which I say:

Why do you sleep naked? Why do you have windows? Why aren’t you huddled in a bunker wearing a full suit of medieval armour with a stockpile of small arms and a lifetime supply of canned food?

We do it because we can. More and more I’m coming around to the opinion that the vast majority of activities that feature “power dynamics/exchanges” could be described as “trust play.” An activity that not only cements bonds of trust between people, but actively revels in them.

When I first started martial arts training I was a socially awkward shy and introverted person… Ok maybe that’s not really changed much, but after a few months of regular classes I started to feel a little kernel of inner strength. A calmness that comes from thinking “Hey, if shit got real, I might do something other than curl into a ball and try not to die.”

It’s a heady experience and something that’s been a big help to me in life (even if it means I sometimes do dim things like hiking across rough bits of London on a Friday night because I missed the last tube).

The only problem is that it’s a confidence that, on some level, relies on my physical ability. If I lost an arm or a leg, or was sick or tired, I wouldn’t be in the same position from a self-defence perspective. So what does that mean of the little nugget of inner strength? Is that as fragile as my physical health?

Look at some of the photos of Mohammed Ali, the ones where he’s posing, fists up for the camera. Then look into his eyes, look into his eyes and try to tell me there’s not a scared little child behind them.

Being easy-going and cheerful can be easy sometimes, if you’ve got a sword in your hand, or biceps and pecs you could feed a family of four with. Doing so with both arms tied behind your back and dangling from the ceiling? That’s something else.

“Hey, it could be worse; at least it’s not shit!” Dan Savage

This is a good one. I can feel it as soon as I clap eyes on it from across the street. It’s not a chain, or at least not one I’ve met yet, so who knows, maybe they can be a little more accommodating than the reds, greens and blues with their, “I’m sorry sir, it’s against company policy,” and their, “Please sir, you’re frightening the children!”

Inside the door there’s a good-sized queue. It’s the fidgety bit of rush hour. When people have got time to get a coffee, but only just. Tapping feet and nervous glances at watches, a crampt queue shuffling forward, everyone’s eyes on the menu, or the barista or the cups as they’re filled one after another, trying to spot which is theirs, as if it makes it arrive quicker. OS when I glance down at my crotch and quietly slip my belt open, nobody sees.

I shave my legs daily so that my trousers can slip as noiselessly as possible to the floor, pooled around my ankles, hobbling me. But that’s ok, I’m not gong to try to get away.

“Can I take your order sir?” says a man with a receding fringe that makes him look like a cockerel.

I order a grande cappuccino. He turns away and I feel the excitement build. He empties the coffee filter with a violent double strike into the bin, refills it and sets the percolations going. Then he grasps a large plastic milk bottle, pouring it free hand into the metal jug. I feel the tension rise within and without me as he scoops it under the steam nozzle. i can’t help but imagine the sight, the sensation of the pipe disappearing into the chill white liquid. Then he casually twists and valve and it’s happening. The mixture of boiling hot gas and cool liquid being thrust together. The nozzle gushing forth and transforming the milk into a simmering bubbling mass. I lick my lips, my fingers are clutched tight to the glass shelf, leaving greasy fingerprints hovering above the blueberry muffins. He pours the milk into the coffee, enriching it with the life-giving drug. All the while he uses a little spoon to hold back the last bit, the best bit, that little head to be added, untainted, on the very top.

“Would you like chocolate on top?”

I want to collapse into a puddle on the floor, how could he know, how could he see that those words were just what I needed to hear. He brings the mug over to the counter like the pervert that he must be, placing it right there in front of me while he grabs the little shaker and taints the head with brown speckles that darken as they melt into the warmth. It’s too much, I clench my eyes shut, holding that image of the first touch of chocolate sprinkles onto the foam as I sink to the floor in utter release.

Then there are voices, louder than before. How could I interrupt the sacred part of the day, how dare I hold up the rush hour queue with my selfish needs? Eventually the Police come. I recognise one of them. They take me to one side and take my statement, talk to me, talk to the barista, but by now all the other witnesses have gone, hurried off with their cardboard cups in hand and a story to tell that nobody will believe.

I get home and look at the large-scale map on my wall. With a heavy heart I pull out the tape measure, string and pencil and draw another, larger, circle encompassing the growing bulls eye radiating out from my home. More territory to cover, more coffee shops to try, the impossible search continues.

Thus far I’ve blamed my mistakes upon Reddit, feminism and white male privilege. Next up, Twitter.

Things only really went south when I started crafting an online persona. You see it’s not enough just to write stories. Nowadays you need the whole package. The Twitter the Tumblr the Fet-Life the angsty self-justifying blog. So when I started writing under the name Charlotte, I started putting these other bits together.

At first it was fine, I mainly used Twitter to put unimaginative adverts up for my stories. Except then people started engaging with me. People started talking to Charlotte, and Charlotte replied.

This was the point at which the head fuck started. Because I didn’t want to ‘out’ myself as not Charlotte to everyone, but, as time went on and some people started engaging with me more, I didn’t want to carry on feeling like I was lying to them. What I’m saying is, there’s no clear cut-off point for when you should own up to people that you really have a willy. Some people probably wind up in that position for years, others either have the issue forced, or force it themselves. In my case it was the latter.

In March I attended Eroticon 2014 in Bristol. I put on my suit, I hung my name badge around my neck and tried to find the least creepy tone of voice for shaking hands and saying “Hello, my name’s Charlotte.”

I could have not done that. I could so easily have either not gone, or asked for a different badge name, or worn a track suit and a hockey mask for the entire weekend. But I didn’t, and I am so glad that I didn’t, because it made me realise just what an amazing group of people had gathered together for that conference.

One of the things that Dan Savage talks about semi-frequently are situations where you tell someone one thing, and their response tells you everything about them. That’s exactly what I found when introducing myself to people as, almost without exception, the conversation went roughly as follows:

Me: Hello, I’m Charlotte Forrest.

Other Person: [pause] Oh, that’s not what I was expecting.

Followed by perfectly normal conversation as if nothing unusual had just taken place.

Amazing.

But it got better than that. You see, at different points in the weekend some very considerate people sat me down and had quiet conversations, in the most constructive sensitive way imaginable about the fact that I was basically being a bit of a twat. Not only that, but in all instances, this was prefaced by, not only asking me why I was chosing to use a female alias, but was there something deeper driving this. Without judgment or harshness, on multiple occasions I was given the opportunity to talk about how much of ‘Charlotte’ there is in ‘Charlie’

A-mazing.

I thought I was going to cry.

I mean, sleep deprivation, complimentary Sherry and not eating properly all contributed to this emotional roller coaster, but the simple realisation of how patient and understanding people can be really got to me.

It also made me feel like crap. Not just for the reasons I’ve already outlined, but for the extra one, that it felt like a horrible wasted opportunity. I’d had 48 hours surrounded by these people and I felt like I hadn’t been able to connect with them the way I wanted to because I’d stupidly put up an unnecessary barrier, a giant elephant in the room that had to be negotiated before people could even begin to interact with me. the real me. And not just my willy.

Gather round children and listen to the voice of white male privilege as he desperately wrings his hands.

I think of myself as a feminist. And I will say as much to pretty much anyone. One of the great things about being a male feminist is that, when you talk to people about it, it automatically cuts through a huge amount of the bullshit that tends to get attached to the word. Nobody assumes I’m a misandrist, a militant socialist, sexually repressed or about to start telling people to “check their privilege”. No, when I tell people I’m a feminist they assume that I mean what it’s always meant, that I think all people should be treated the same regardless of sex or gender.

That’s right, even in feminism there’s a benefit to having a willy.

So being a good little feminist man I assumed that there’s no problem in assuming a female pen name, because men and women are equal, right? So there’s no problem there then. It’s not like I could be part of the problem is there?

Right?

Wrong!

You see my thought process relied on living in a utopia that doesn’t exist yet. So by adopting a female pen name I was, inevitably, taking on a huge swathe of societal assumptions that come with that.

It’s a bit like a white person who has a circle of largely black friends and uses the ‘n’ word with them. Because it’s just a word right? And they use it right? And you’re just, like, so modern and down with things you don’t even see people for their skin colour right?

I’m getting painfully close to espousing on topics I really don’t have any right to, but that’s kind of my point. One of the most insidious things about people in a privileged position is that it can be hard to realise it.

So my basic point is, ideologically, that shit don’t fly because we’re not living in a Utopia.

So far so academic. In the next post I’ll be talking about my personal experiences and why starting a female pen name was one of the worst decisions I’ve made in years and the consequences thereof.

Molly and Harper over at the It Girl Rag Doll podcast have done a very interesting couple of episodes on the closet, and the various ways of being in and/or out of it.

I’m going to elaborate a little on my experiences of coming out, or at least part of me coming out, yes that bit, my willy. It’s a bit of a big topic so I’m going to break it down into three bits. 1) Why, 2) Why not 3) Fuck!

When I first started publishing erotica, all of six months ago, I started out with a female pen name.

Why?

Well, truth be told I didn’t really think it through. When it came to creating a name to write erotica under I was slightly blown away by the “Oh my God! I can be anyone!” thought. The fact that this thought immediately led onto considering a female pen-name is something I’m not going to think too much about right now. but what I would also say is that a big part of my decision was due to trying to do the ‘done’ thing. Note I don’t say the ‘right’ thing, because I wasn’t setting out to make a statement, I just wanted to write and sell stories. Of course there’s no absolute consensus on whether writing under a pen name that differs from your gender (and boy does that term get confusing in this context) is a good idea or a bad idea but, in the absence of any reliable information on what the best course of action was, I turned to Reddit.

And so Charlotte was born.

I’m not seeking to blame that particular online community for what I did, but I would just say that, when your starting out with something new and scary, it can be very tempting to look at the people who are shouting loudest and assume that:

A) They know what the hell they are talking about &

B) What works for them will necessarily work for you.

So those, as they stand, are my reasons excuses, for putting my first titles out under the name Charlotte. In the next post I’ll look at why this was a bad idea from an ideological perspective.

Normal service should resume in the near future.

In fact I’m spending the day editing and polishing off a couple of pieces so fingers crossed should have some new releases soon.

plus gratuitous use of the word fuck, obviously.

Turn ons are a deeply personal thing. One of the phrases that crops up endlessly (alongside safe sane and consensual) is “your kink is not my kink, but your kink is ok.”

Partly it’s about being open-minded and not giving someone unnecessary shame/emotional baggage for something that they didn’t choose and can’t really control.

But there’s another aspect to it that doesn’t get talked about so often and that is that, not only is your kink ok, it might well be my kink too, I just haven’t realised it yet.

Usually I think this is because a lot of kinks can be pretty mind-boggling upon first exposure (What do you mean you like a woman to kick you in the balls?!?) and sometimes it takes some reflection to properly unpack the idea and get down to what it is about it that works for someone and (more importantly) could work for you.

Of course this is no guarantee and I’ll cite an example of something I’ve seen time and again, that I understand, but really really doesn’t work for me.

The hand on the throat.

I know that a hand on the throat doesn’t mean people are doing breath play and I can really understand how powerful/intimidating a gesture it can be and how that can act as a massive turn on.

I just don’t like it.

And I could leave it at that, but in this instance I thought it’d be worth unpacking the other way to try to figure out what about it doesn’t sit comfortably with me. And be in no doubt, this is all about my issues, rather than there being anything bad about this act as a turn on. (Also, for simplicity’s sake I’m going to talk about the scenario where it’s a man putting his hand on a woman’s throat.)

I think it’s a little too overtly violent for my tastes. I have a similar issue with punching. Closed fist is bad, whereas slaps and spanks are more playful. It’s clear from the use of the open hand that thought and choice has gone into an action, with a fist, or a hand on the throat, it’s more ambiguous, there isn’t a clear line in my head.

Part of it comes from the societal conditioning that, as a man, you don’t hurt women. It’s drilled in from a very young age. Obviously, when you’re looking at BDSM certain parts of this blanket understanding need to be peeled away, but it’s easier to do that for a slap on the buttocks than it is for, say, a slap on the face. I’m not saying it’s a bad thing, just that it gets progressively harder for me to contextualise things into perfectly fun play rather than am I secretly  being a terrible person. As I say it’s my issue not anyone else’s. The only reason I can give for not wanting to do it, is that I equate it in my head with angry uncontrolled violence

But it’s not an absolute blanket ‘no’ either. To quote a very wise person “I never stay in the same place.” Where I am at now is not where I was five years ago and five years hence maybe I’ll have developed enough self-awareness and confidence in myself to be more comfortable with this.

Your kink is not my kink.

Your kink is fucking awesome!

I’m not ready for it yet.

I want to talk about Eurovision. With that in mind, let’s get the bigotry out of the way first.
Sod the dutch.
Seriously, what a ridiculous country. Wooden shoes, non-latin-based language. Loading it over the rest of Europe with their effective public transport, thriving international trade and the world’s least efficient air conditioning systems…

It’s just a sorry excuse for a thriving first world state without the balls to call itself Scandinavian.

Ok, done.
It’s no secret that the best song is seldom the winner at Eurovision. (for the record the best entry this year was Greece’s pop take on Rage Against the Machine) but instead is a barometer of the political climate.

At one end of the spectrum was the “We are Slavic girls” song, complete with erotic butter churning. Well, I say erotic, downright saucy if you’re a twelve year old boy… and it’s 1993… and your family have been transported through time from the late Victorian period.

The crude titillation made me think of Vladimir Putin. No, not like that. Rather that it’s something that worked well once in the world of twenty or thirty years ago, but has been superseded by the modern world. What interest do pubescent boys have in condescending cleavage when there phone can provide near limitless hypnotic porn at the tap of a screen?

Speaking of Putin I was half expecting Ukraine’s entry to be a group of spetsnaz guys in insignia-les uniforms. But perhaps satire isn’t dead.

Anyway.

At the other end of the spectrum the Dutch were beaten off (hurrah!) by Austria’s Conchita Wurst. Lots of cheers, everyone gets a big pat on the back, well done.

Welcome to Level 2.

You see it’s not that transphobia is dead. Wurst’s victory has spawned countless umming-and ahh-ing commentaries that, in the majority of cases, tend to come down to the same thing. People going ‘it’s a bit weird’ but having the common sense and intelligence to dress it up as something else.

So if, in the coming days, someone makes mutterings as to whether someone with a beard putting on a dress is a caricature to reinforce gender stereotypes, or a valiant crusader against social conformity, just remember that, first and foremost, it’s someone looking fucking amazing, who held the attention of a continent in the palm of her hand for an evening.

Conchita Wurst is a human being, just like everyone else. We are all expressions of Dharma, all beautiful ripples in the fabric of the universe.

Except for the Dutch.

Sod the Dutch!

(not really… some of my best friends are Dutch)