Remittance Girl's Blog

Forte Da

The erotic worlds we build are a curious interweaving of language and images. Most of us have done a shit-ton of borrowing. From the first time our mothers speak to us, and from the moment we manage to get our unwieldy, infantile tongues to cooperate just enough to spit out that first word, we are enveloped in an alien language, not of our making. And while the pains and tickles and chills and comforts may be truly ours, we are all bound to use that foreign tongue to express what we feel and what we want.

And even that, even what we want is a compromise. That aching pang for what that has no name is cajoled, bullied or wrestled into a choice, whether broad or narrow, of the selection predicated by what’s on offer. 

Harold wants me to wear plastic sweat shorts. While his fantasies of what he wants to do with me in them are borrowed from the mountain of porn he’s watched, or some repetition of a hazily remembered high-school fumble, the sweat shorts are entirely personal. They are all Harold. The thing that makes him and undoes him, simultaneously.

He doesn’t want to know what I look like, because this has nothing to do with me. He’s an insect, trapped in a sticky globule of amber: caught in that moment, a thousand years ago, watching his mother from across the room, in their stifling, stinking, mould-riddled trailer home in Alabama. She’s vacuuming the carpet in her bra and see-through, plastic sweat shorts. She’s trying to lose that last few inches of flesh, before putting on her pretty green sundress, and stepping out with her new man. And leaving Harold alone.

After he comes, Harold gets sad. In the beginning, I thought that telling him I was still there would make him feel better. But now I know that’s not what he wants. He wants me to go, just like she did. He wants to savour the loss, and spend some time alone with the image of those shiny, transparent shorts. Sweat slicked flesh sticking and sliding under the plastic, and the ache of loss, again. 

Where Does Transgression Belong?

I recently came across a zoom discussion that has lit something of a fire under my ass about writing. If you are interested in the nuts and bolts of erotic writing, of transgression in fiction, and the mechanisms of eliciting jouissance in the reader, I highly recommend you take a look at this. It’s produced by the Lacan Circle of Australia. The author is Tim Themi, in conversation with Russell Grieg. He’s just published a book called ‘Eroticizing the Aesthetic: In the Real with Bataille and Lacan.’ Don’t let some of the vocabulary put you off. Yes, some of it is couched in the language of psychoanalysis, referring to Freudian and Lacanian theory that might sound like gibberish if you aren’t acquainted with this field of study, but it is very much worth watching anyway, and don’t skip the questions and discussions at the end. They’re meaty and exciting.

Tim Themi Eroticizing the Aesthetic

You register at the bottom with an email and it gives you a link to the talk. I’ve registered for a lot of talks on the same site and they don’t seem to abuse or sell your info.

One of the most important things I took away from the talk was that art (writing, visual, etc.) is exactly the place where transgression should live in our society. Not in politics. Not in government. Not in civic life. And one way I think we can push back against that encroachment of the transgressive into our civic life is by putting it back into our cultural life, and pushing back against those cultural institutions that demand political correctness and ethics in all the wrong places. Perhaps because they feel so powerless to impose it in the places where it should be, like our systems of law, of education, of government?

This has also inspired in me a real desire to speak with other writers, to discuss and discover how to get transgression back into our art. To examine what even constitutes transgression and taboo anymore, to think about what function it serves, to share our ideas on how to trigger real jouissance in our readers, instead of relying on burnt-out cliches which have lost their ability to the shock of the truly erotic.

So, I’m thinking about starting a zoom workshop, that perhaps could be turned into a re-occurring thing, where we brainstorm, try out ideas on each other, expand our ideas on what can be transgressive, our ethical concerns, etc.

If you are at all interested in this, please leave a comment below, or tweet me on twitter @remittancegirl.

Fiction, lies and the Jouissance of Delusion

I have been unproductive as a fiction writer for quite a few years now. It began in the wake of finishing my PhD and, for a while, I attributed the writer’s block to intellectual exhaustion. Then I wondered if, perhaps, the practice of thinking critically about the process and mechanisms of fiction writing had somehow ‘broken’ my ability to do it.

But in looking back over my blog, I realize that the block had begun earlier than I thought. It wasn’t a sudden stoppage, but a slow loss of desire. I have started a lot of stories but I cannot finish them. And in examining my emotions, I find that my sense of responsibility is the problem. The only subject matter that has ever compelled me to write is in the field of transgression. It is this aspect of social human experience that has always provided me with creative fodder.

Humans are, with a few exceptions, social creatures. We thrive in company and have overcome almost all our environmental threats by living in groups. While some of us may enjoy our alone-time more than others, we generally choose to live in social groups. And this sets up a paradox. Because it is impossible for cohesive groups to exist without controlling, repressing or subverting our instinctive urges. So, we created laws and sets of values, taboos and virtues to mitigate the selfish, narcissistic part of our selves. I’m not singing the praises of all the norms we have created. I’m just pointing out that sociality is impossible without some schema of rules that moderate instinct. This is the essence of a shared reality. And it could be argued that it is an entirely constructed fiction, it is essential to cooperative living.

For centuries, humans ascribed these rules to the gods. It was the gods, or god, who dictated how we should live and behave with one another. But, slowly, from the period of the Enlightenment onwards, we began to toy with the idea that perhaps we were the authors of those rules. And that, while some of our most commonly shared taboos might have some foundation in nature (the prohibition against incest is probably a product of the observed results of inbreeding in either human or animal populations), many were simply invented to stop us killing each other in a rage.

It was post-modernism that dealt the deathblow to the concept of absolute truth or absolute right. But is important to remember that the post-modernists who challenged all these absolutes were also people who, for the most part, understood the fundamental importance of a shared reality (fictional or otherwise) to the cohesion of society. More recently, the political forces in society who have decided that truth is unimportant have no interest in social cohesion. In fact, just the opposite.

You may think I’ve traveled a long way from my opening sentence. What has this got to do with my writer’s block? Well, it comes back to the concept of fiction.  About 8 years ago, I began to notice that fair number of my readers left comments that made me suspect they were not reading my work as fiction, but as some kind of psychosexual guide to living. That made me increasingly uneasy. Especially in view of some of the subjects I grapple with in my fictional writing. I focused on transgression within the no-man’s land of fiction specifically because I thought it was a safe space in which to explore the consequences of it. And while I believe that transgression has a part to play the evolution of social values, advocating transgressive acts in reality was never my purpose. Indeed, many of my stories are cautionary tales.

In response to the frightening feedback that some readers were using my fiction as a guide to living, my stories became more and more didactic. I felt an increasing need to reflect the sometimes-painful consequences of transgression in my fiction. This produced stories that gave me no sense of accomplishment or pride. They were schoolmarmish and self-referential. I found them nauseatingly politically correct. And while I fully embrace political correctness in daily life, I’m not a fan of it in fiction.

Meanwhile… fiction was becoming reality. The rise of Trumpism rendered transgression mainstream. It made overt sexism, racism, ableism, non-consent, transactionalism and selfishness into social virtues. For millions and millions of people, it made the pursuit of truth, of scientific inquiry, of the shared aspiration to improve all our lives… all those things became the pathetic, useless pastimes of the ‘liberal elite’. Even the fundamental tenets of Judeo-Christianity – while given sanctimonious lip service – were rapidly and gleefully pushed aside to usher in the era of fuck-it-all selfish indulgence and an orgy of white victimhood.

When I saw women wearing t-shirts saying ‘Trump can Grab my …. Pussy’ at Trump rallies, I knew my writings on transgression no longer held any cultural value as tools of intellectual inquiry. What was the point in writing about taboo while Trump groped Ivanka’s ass on live television and millions of people still loved him. I’m not going to even get into the vast level of barely-hidden financial corruption, of flagrant race-baiting, or the millions of lives lost to a global Covid-denying right-wing ruling class. I’m not going to get into it because I’ll start weeping and never finish this blog post.

In a recent opinion piece for Politico, the political writer and strategist Jeff Greenfield pointed out that almost half of Republicans knew that Trump’s lies were lies, but did not care.  Please let that sink in. This appetite to choose fiction over fact is incompatible with a functioning democracy. It’s actually incompatible with a functioning society. Because although all societies are built on a shared, fictional narrative, none can survive the conscious admission that it is entirely fiction.

I can’t produce fiction these days. I have to hold on to every tiny shred of concrete reality I can lay my hands on. Anything else feels like a cosmic betrayal right now.

Gambas al Pil Pil

Gambas al Pil Pil

Preamble

This dish is also known as Gambas al Ajo in some parts of Spain. The quantities are going to depend on a couple of things: how many you are serving, how big your shrimp are, and the size of your frying pan, because you want the shrimp to nestle quite close but not on top of one another in the pan. This recipe works well with largish frozen and thawed shrimp, but the sauce (you dip bread into it) is what’s special, so even if you can only get the cheap small shrimp, just get more. Make sure they are thawed and well-drained before starting.

You can adjust how spicy this dish is. In some parts of Spain, it’s not spicy at all. They just use the sweet paprika and leave out the rest. But feel free to add extra dried chilies if you love it hot.

The only difficult part of this dish is making sure you don’t burn the garlic. If you do, stop everything, wipe out the pan and begin again, because burnt garlic makes this dish inedible.

Ingredients

500 gm Shrimp: Fresh or frozen and thawed (not precooked)
4-5 cloves of garlic minced
The grated rind of ½ lemon
½ tsp Salt
¼ tsp Black pepper
4-5 tbsp of olive oil
2 tsp sweet paprika
2 tsp hot paprika
4 or 6 small dried chilies
¼ cup white wine or dry vermouth
1/8 cup of chopped parsley or cilantro (optional)

Method

Add the oil into a frying pan on medium heat. Add the garlic, dried chilies and the grated lemon rind. Allow the garlic to soften but not burn. Swirl the pan around to get the oil flavoured with the lemon rind and chilies. The moment the garlic starts to get any colour, add in the shrimp. That will cool down the pan, and you can now adjust your heat. You want a nice bubbling sound.  Sprinkle the two types of paprika, salt and pepper over the shrimp and turn them as they cook. The whole pan will turn a brilliant red. Add the wine or vermouth and bring the pan up to a bubble. The shrimp are cooked the moment they start to curl inward, but you still want to make sure you’ve cooked the alcohol off – so let it go a little longer if necessary. Finally, turn off the heat, and the herbs in and stir. They’ll wilt in the heat of the oil.

Serve in the hot frying pan or individual bowls with lots of crusty bread. Do NOT discard any of the oil. It’s meant to be eaten! Also, don’t serve this on a table cloth you love.

Free Remittance Girl e-books

In a small effort to give something back to the world in this time of crisis and fear, I thought I’d post my books online, for free, as an escape from the constant worries that we are all facing. These are offered in PDF format. I will try, when I get some time, to also add other e-book formats, but I’m pretty busy taking care of my 94-year old mum while in lock-down here in Spain.

All of these books are explicit erotic fiction. All contain material that some people may find triggering. If you would like to read more about them before downloading, you can head over to Goodreads and check out the summaries. If you download them and enjoy them, and have a little extra money, please consider donating to a charity in your area. Please stay safe, and be good to each other. We are our brother’s and sister’s keepers.

“… the only means of fighting a plague is common decency”
Albert Camus, The Plague

The Waiting Room



Gaijin



Beautiful Losers



The Splinter



The Change

Hello world!

Welcome to WordPress. This is your first post. Edit or delete it, then start writing!

Free Remittance Girl e-books

In a small effort to give something back to the world in this time of crisis and fear, I thought I’d post my books online, for free, as an escape from the constant worries that we are all facing. These are offered in PDF format. I will try, when I get some time, to also add other e-book formats, but I’m pretty busy taking care of my 94-year old mum while in lock-down here in Spain.

All of these books are explicit erotic fiction. All contain material that some people may find triggering. If you would like to read more about them before downloading, you can head over to Goodreads and check out the summaries. If you download them and enjoy them, and have a little extra money, please consider donating to a charity in your area. Please stay safe, and be good to each other. We are our brother’s and sister’s keepers.

“… the only means of fighting a plague is common decency”
Albert Camus, The Plague

The Waiting Room



Gaijin



Beautiful Losers



The Splinter



The Change

Beautiful Losers

Sadly, the publishing company, Constable & Robinson, who published Beautiful Losers was purchased by Little, Brown. As far as I know, the only available version of the novel is in e-book form here: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Beautiful-Losers-Modern-Erotic-Classics-ebook/dp/B0119PD31C/ref=sr_1_2?hvadid=80401820233969&hvbmt=bp&hvdev=c&hvqmt=p&keywords=remittance+girl&qid=1569755832&sr=8-2

I note that it is not available in any other market other than the UK.

Honestly, I’m fed up with publishing. At the same time, the expectation for writers to produce good work for free is almost universal.

Beautiful Losers first appeared in serialised form on this site. And while I do contemplate just putting it back up, I also hesitate to feed the beast of the ‘freebie’ culture, which really makes it almost impossible for most writers to earn even the most meagre of livings.

Prodigal

It’s always breathtaking. The plunge into the underwater world of humid Phnom Penh. Even within the ramshackle sterility of the airport, the air feels dense and full of fertile smells: durian, urine, algae, damp concrete. Then out past the surly immigration officers and bored, flabby customs officials and into the afternoon swelter of humanity. People coming and going, eating and arguing: the Cambodians neat and crisp in their impossibly white shirts, the tourists sporting an unhealthy shade of heat-stroke red even before they’ve found a taxi to take them deeper into the strange terrarium of the city.

 

I always swear I’ll forego the tuk tuk for the comfort of an air-conditioned car, but never yet have I managed to resist the charm of tuk tuk driver and the masochistic lure of rapid immersion. The long, dusty ride in from the airport drapes me in a sweaty layer of grime, but driving through the clouds of smoke from sweet cooking meat, diesel exhaust, and cloying frangipani seems worth it. As are the glimpses of kids in school uniforms, monks in saffron robes, and proper Cambodian housewives going about their business. Boys lounging impossibly on parked motorcycles, or playing cards and drinking beer at roadway stalls.

 

I love this place. I don’t know why. For every thing of beauty here, there is an ugly mirror image, for everything graceful, there are a hundred tragedies. Perhaps that’s why I love it; Phnom Penh never allows you the fantasy of a holiday for long. It forces you to face the paradox of the sublime, beauty and horror.

 

So, I come to Phnom Penh to be alone amidst the roiling humanity, to be quiet amidst the cacophony, to be grateful among the street beggars and the alms-seeking monks, to be ascetic amongst its gluttonous foreigners. I come to be enchanted and disgusted, to be titillated by the thought that I am here by choice and have a ticket home.

 

The hotel room is a cramped concrete box, with a low out-sized bed, a bar fridge and scuffed walls. The city’s soul has settled on the cool tiled floor, gritty beneath my bare feet. There’s a small balcony that overlooks Sisowath Quay and the brown, silty slug of the Mekong, clogged with water hyacinth and ghosts.

 

I used to come here as an arrogant Westerner, mindful of Cambodia’s history, its madness and carnage, so smugly sure that my corner of the world had learned to stop slaughtering each other. Now I come here ashamed, fearing the West has learned nothing after all. I come here to prepare myself, to remind myself that there is always something after hell, even if it’s only a halting, shaky struggle back up to the fragile semblance of civility.

Slides and Worksheets from my #Eroticon Talks

Lot and His Daughters

I presented two sessions at #eroticon2018, the first was a more abstract, theoretical look unpacking of the concepts of taboo and transgression, and how these are formed as an inversion of contemporary social values. Sadly, the slides for this were meant as prompts for me, rather than an information-rich text presentation. I will, in the coming days, write a summary of my talk, but here is a pdf of the slides I used

Taboo (right click the link to save to your desktop.

The second session was a far more practical and hands-on talk on some of the reasons and methods used in writing long-form erotic fiction. The slides are super detailed and there is also a handy, printable grid-style worksheet that prompts you to construct a full, conflict- and character driven outline for a novella or novel-sized work

Writing Long

Pervert’s Journey Worksheet