Tag: 10+min read

The first time I read this book, I failed to give it a proper chance. I was frustrated that it wasn’t a history book. It seemed that most people in it had casual interests in porn when I like to think I have an academic and slightly competitive interest in porn. 

When I reread it, I was able to view it with much kinder eyes. I could take it for what it was – a sweet book where people have some of their first conversations about porn, and get to talk about things they’ve never had a chance to before. 

ELEVEN: “The first time I saw good-quality hard porn was with a group of guys from my work. It was in the early eighties, so I was in my forties by that time. I was invited to come over and have fish and chips on a Friday night, and watch porn.”  

Page 217

Polly Barton is a writer and Japanese translator, with no background in journalism nor porn. In some ways, that makes her the perfect person to collect and share peoples’ casual opinions on porn, however at times it resulted with her seeming to be the main character. She was both the interviewer and one of the interviewees. She asked the questions, and then respond to other answers with her opinions and memories. I was shocked when during her final thoughts she wrote:

“I haven’t even proposed any of my own thoughts on porn”

As I felt that her opinions came up frequently. The impression I got was that she was on the fence without being neutral, which meant the book was drawn to similar places and discussions repeatedly.

POLLY BARTON: “Queasy is a good word for what I feel. Then I am troubled that it feels like such a good word because I don’t want to be a prude and I want to be sex positive.”

Page 84

Every interviewee offered a unique talking point on the part porn played in their lives. One woman attends a virtual strip club with her roommates, somebody has a niche fetish they find morally complex, and someone else talks about what it was like watching porn for the first time at age 37.

For this book, Barton emailed her acquaintances to find subjects, but unfortunately her pond is only so deep and so wide. Multiple people had similar opinions, so at times the final product can feel a little shallow. Many of them shared the opinion that porn has the potential to be liberating, beautiful, diverse & queer but that most porn is racist, misogynistic, violent & can be harmful to the way people think about sex, and women especially. 

FIFTEEN: “It’s interesting though: In fetish stuff, the boundaries of pain and pleasure are blurred, whereas in the mainstream pornography I’ve seen, that pain is constantly there, and that’s interpreted as pleasure. It’s not seen as painful. Do you know what I mean? It’s not really identifiably S and M is it? It’s just part of the accepted sexual practice.”

Page 277

There were definitely some fascinating interviews, but sometimes I found it difficult to see that with the amount of overlap between different peoples opinions. Sometimes, the Venn diagram seemed to be an almost perfect circle. Additionally, as someone who spends a lot of time thinking about, reading and talking about sex & porn, parts of this book were frustrating to read. The interviewees generally weren’t informed about the topic beyond their everyday use, though thankfully most of them had some knowledge from engaging with relevant media such as a podcast episode. Great conversations come from differing levels of knowledge and experience, but the group seemed to have similar levels of experience to each other and Barton, with only one interviewee mentioning having done sex work before. Had Barton been more knowledgeable, or interviewed professionals and academics then I think this book would be all the better for it.

POLLY BARTON: “Most people I’m friends with are sex positive and body positive and so keen to register that they’re down with anything and supportive of everyone. That, for me, is a positive thing but I often sense that when we’re talking about things that are hard to talk about initially, such as sex and porn and intimacy […] that need to be ‘cool’ can present a barrier. There’s an echo of the way people worry about political correctness in this pressure to be pro everything.”

Page 121

The even sexuality divide really surprised me. Age however, was not as evenly distributed. This isn’t too surprising – once again, limited pond. Barton was 39, so it makes sense that most of her acquaintances would be of a similar age. I’m so glad there was an outlier in their 80s though – this book would be far less interesting without him. 

A few times, the conversation moved to racism in porn and how that reflects onto the real world. I felt that these sensitive topics were treated with respect and thought from both parties. Topics like how porn can affect our interpretation of attractiveness and desirability, and how real-world minorities are treated as a consequence were discussed. Sometimes I wasn’t sure whether it was Japanese people offering their opinions on Japanese porn, or non-Japanese people who’ve lived in Japan – That makes quite a bit of difference. After all, porn reflects our culture, and whilst it’s okay to criticise from either inside or outside, they’re wildly different viewpoints. 

TWELVE: I don’t know what came first: my understanding that Asian women were fetishized, or being aware of porn. It’s always been in my brain. I don’t know when I learned about it, but I think I’ve always known that they’re tied together. For me, one of the main things going on was being compared to a geisha. That, in combination with the misguided belief that geishas are prostitutes. Comparing me to a geisha in their head meant comparing me to a prostitute. 

POLLY BARTON: In what kind of context were people doing that? 

TWELVE: Probably in the playground at primary school. Then on the street with random men, which started while I was at primary school too and carried on.  

Page 230

The book does include an interview with a trans man, but there’s an uncomfortable exchange about trans women far earlier in the book. An interviewee talks about a Japanese porn video he purchased featuring trans women. They both refer to the performers using a problematic Japanese term, and Barton misgenders them.

TWO: “The other one was a ‘new half’ porno. What would be the proper way to say that in English? A trans woman with a penis, basically. But the new halves were the dominant ones in that situation.”

POLLY BARTON: “A new half with another man?”

TWO: “It was a group of new halves with one man.”[…] “Maybe I felt turned on by his reaction rather than the situation. The situation was just -”

POLLY BARTON: “It sounds nuts.” 

Page 59

Not liking how it sounded, I asked the opinion of my friend, a trans woman who used to work in Japan – here were her thoughts on the term:

“a transfemme twist on the word “transvestite” – not a word you use now to talk about trans people, but quite a common one for trans people historically. Calling someone “an oriental” might have a similar vibe – used to be kinda fine, now it’s racist – but new half is still kinda fine (in some contexts).”

Despite the cultural knowledge of my wise friend, I continue to struggle with the use of the word. Many websites translate it as a slur, and Barton had the time to add a footnote about it. At the very least, the misgendering should’ve been removed during editing. 

Looking at this quote from another angle, contemplate: “It sounds nuts.” The kind of judgement that she displays here comes up on occasion throughout the book. Having not had many of these conversations before, she lacks the non-judgemental attitude of somebody working around sex professionally, whether that’s a regular therapist or a dominatrix. 

It’s a lovely book of candid conversations about porn, and works wonderfully as that. However, it misrepresented itself on both the front and back cover. Of course the cover is not the book, but it is there to give you an idea of what to expect, and they failed in this case. I was expecting a lot more history from Porn: An Oral History, though I can clearly see the spirit of Nell Dunn they used to advertise. As for the blurb on the back cover, they ask rhetorical how & why questions, as if they’ll be able to answer them by the time you’re done. But the book wasn’t designed to answer these questions, only to theorise and discuss between people who don’t really know either. I felt misled, and wasn’t alone in this. Pre-release, publishing magazine The Bookseller clearly mistook the title too, announcing “Fitzcarraldo snaps up Barton’s ‘gripping’ history of pornography”. Reading reviews brought up many other people who were confused as well. I agreed with this review:

 “I think the title of ‘An Oral HIstory’ (however punning) is misleading and set up expectations for me that the book doesn’t fulfil. This isn’t a ‘history’ at all and doesn’t have any intellectual or scholarly underpinning, and doesn’t explore the topic of porn historically.” [link]

The pun simply wasn’t worth the readers it misled, who purchased one book expecting another, and I’ll be careful about trusting a book published by Fitzcarraldo Editions at first glance again. The title was one mistake, but I actually think the blurb is deceptive. I’m somewhat shocked that it was all approved throughout the publishing chain.

I hoped the closing chapter would neatly round up everything we’d heard previously, and leave us with some parting thoughts. Instead, after the interviews there’s a bizarre tone shift where on a recommendation from a friend she read Audre Lorde’s Uses of the Erotic: The Erotic as Power. Suddenly, a book of casual conversations becomes an essay and it becomes difficult to read. The words become grand, and the audience is transported from their sofas to an imaginary lecture theatre. It’s totally out of place, unexpected and unnecessary. The essay clearly had a strong effect on Barton, and I think she perhaps wrote her closing sentiments too soon after reading it. It’s a completely different writing style, like a brand new essay rather than part of the book. Thankfully, I didn’t really need a closing chapter anyway, as I found the value in this book lies in the amount of people she asked about this uncommon topic.

It’s difficult for me to sum this book up, having hated it once and enjoyed it the next time. I had a lot to complain about. But if you take away the cover, back cover, introduction and final chapter – I did love the bulk of the book. I loved the bravery with which both the author and the participants showed, putting themselves into a spotlight they weren’t sure they were right or ready for. I enjoyed hearing about people’s first experiences with porn, especially with the formats which seem so old fashioned these days – JPGs painstakingly downloaded over dial up, magazines stolen from the train platform kiosk, mystery film subscription via post…  These things just aren’t likely to happen anymore, and it makes me feel nostalgic for old formats and the unique experiences they brought people. I recommend this book, because I have learnt new things and found it interesting. I continue to share stories and reference media I’ve found within its pages. I enjoyed it enough to spend hours writing about it. Barton’s starring role frustrated me, but it doesn’t take away from the great subjects contained within. 

One day, I hope I’m able to read (or write!) a book which really is a history of porn, covering the past and present I know, as I could only enjoy this book once I accepted it couldn’t give me that. For now, I’ll try to start with Lisa Z. Sigel’s The People’s Porn: A History of Handmade Pornography in America, H. Montgomery Hyde’s History of Pornography followed by Robert Rosen’s Beaver Street: A History of Modern Pornography. I’ll just have to hope not much happened in the years between them, and that nothing has happened since!

Content Warnings:

Unconditional Consent, Group Sex, Bestiality, Consent Violations, Vomit

Catherine dissects her own arousal and erotic encounters with bluntness and curiosity, giving you clear insight into her sexual development, fantasies and experiences. For the most part, I enjoyed this book, and believe I am unlikely to find another quite like it. The narration style made it feel like having a conversation with an old friend. It’s explicit and much of the language is crass, but there are thought provoking moments throughout, coupled with patient reflection.

It’s definitely not for everyone. Rather than pornographic, it’s a collection of detached observations on past sexual encounters. The tales recounted aren’t for the pleasure of the reader, rather an informative tour guided by Catherine for you to experience by her side. As noted in other reviews, it can become a tad monotonous – her behaviour loses the ability to surprise once you’ve read enough of it, and after that you’re simply reading someone recall their sexual history as if it were a shopping list. 

I’ve tried to keep my opinions to the book itself, though Catherine Millet has stated a great deal of controversial opinions since its release, many of which I vehemently disagree with. The publishing of the book gave her a powerful platform to discuss Feminism, Sexuality & Sexual Violence that she didn’t have as an art critic. 

Lastly, due to reading a translation rather than original text, there is room for misinterpretation or a lack of cultural context.

Fascination

This book changed the way I looked at sex, partially because of the way Catherine viewed herself in encounters, and because I found some of the concepts she discusses fascinating. The concept she labels “couple culture” has had the largest impact on me – I think about it frequently. It comes to mind when I think about relationships in any capacity, whether my own or others and covering every aspect of a relationship, from hobbies and dining together to sexual proclivities.

“In the intimacy of our sexual lives we instigate habits and institute a code for the exclusive use of two people – a ‘couple culture’.” – Page 108

“Within a couple, each person brings with them their own fantasies and desires, and that these combine into shared habits which then modulate and adjust to each other and, depending on the extent to which each partner wants them to be realised, cross the barrier between dream and reality without losing any of their intensity. My obsession with numbers found its realisation when I practised group sex with Claude and with Eric, because that is how their desires fused with mine. On the other hand, I did not feel any frustration at never taking part in group sex with Jacques (even when he told me he had done so without me); it must simply be that that was not part of our shared sexuality” – Page 115

It felt like a moment of great realisation to me. It explained why I desired so greatly to return to the cosy shared habits of a relationship rather than try something new together, and gave me the words to say why I was happy to experience some things with one partner but not another. 

As for the way Catherine viewed herself regarding her sense of self and feelings towards her body, I enjoyed learning about such a perspective. I believe that a lack of moral judgement on the usage of the body is usually less harmful than a strict moral judgement, and she makes it abundantly clear that she has none. 

“I grew into a rather passive woman, having no goal other than those other people set for me.” – Page 32

“I was completely available: at all times and in all places, without hesitation or regret, by every one of my bodily orifices and with a totally clear conscience” – Page 46

“The image I had of my body as an integral whole with no form of hierarchy in terms of either morals nor pleasure, and each of its individual parts could, in so far was possible, be substituted for any other.” – Page 58

“I am docile not because I like submission, I have never tried to put myself in a masochistic position, but out of indifference to the use to which we put our bodies.” – Page 204 

“My body is but a mingling part of the air around it and the continuum of other bodies connected to it.” – Page 99

The sexual life of Catherine M is predominantly heterosexual, though she describes some encounters with women. I find her outlook on sexuality amusing – she’s only flexible in order to retain the title of “Most Available Person” at the orgy. There’s a beautiful paragraph about it in Unconditional Consent as Lifestyle: La Vie sexuelle de Catherine M., eloquently summed up as “when Catherine flirts with lesbianism, her voyeuristic pleasure never departs from the phallocentric gaze of heterosexual pornography.”

“I am always well aware when a woman is attracted to me, not that I have ever expected a woman to give me any pleasure. Oh, I am not denying the devastating delight of touching smooth, rounded, delicate skin which most women’s bodies offer and only a very few men’s! But I only joined in these embraces and their related fumblings so as not to break the rules of the game.” – Page 50

Repulsion 

She discusses how to lower yourself completely is to lift yourself above all prejudice. As theoretically fascinating as that is, I oftentimes found it difficult to read about her dirtier sexual locales and unhygienic partners. I understand that she is “indifferent to the use with which we put our bodies.”, but I feel that sort of thinking may be less convincing when recovering from bacterial infections, among other things. If this book is supposed to be an autobiography rather than an autofiction as proposed elsewhere, then I want to hear about STI’s and contraception more than once throughout the entire book. She mentions getting gonorrhoea from an early encounter, and the reader is left with no choice but to pretend she became completely impervious to everything else once that was cured. 

As for contraception, although she mentions an abortion near the end of the book, it’s never referenced apart from “I had asked him to switch to my arse. Such was my primitive method of contraception.” I do hope that this changed over the years, as France seems to have had a perfectly good contraceptive infrastructure during the years Catherine’s story is set. 

“To fuck above and beyond any sense of disgust was not just a way of lowering oneself, it was, in a diametrically opposite move, to raise yourself above all prejudice.” – Page 154

“I often had to hang onto the windowless door of an abandoned car or to the uprights at the opening of a pigsty, my rear end jutting out all the further as my eyes and nose struggled with the smell of putrefaction” – Page 112

Parts of this book are uncomfortable to read, judging them by my modern standards. She unfortunately uses ableist comparisons quite frequently, to illustrate things like her emotional state and behaviour. Sometimes it feels like she’s being unnecessarily provocative, as a great deal of what she says seems fine until she chooses to elaborate. I wouldn’t kinkshame her for having a degradation fantasy involving bestiality, up until she mentions her disappointment at it never becoming reality. 

Similarly, I found nothing wrong with her cleaning herself intimately with whatever was available – up to the point where she states that she’s enjoying using the items specifically because it belongs to, and becomes an extension of another. She uses words like “annexing” and “embroiling” to bring those parties into her activities, with their belongings standing in for their physical presence. Among the many things she’s indifferent to, consent seems to be one of them.

“I was still waiting to find myself under a trained dog, as Eric kept promising, but it never happened, either because the opportunity just didn’t arise or because he thought it ought to stay in the realm of fantasy” – Page 154

“Not to mention the fact we can to some extent embroil them without their knowledge by annexing their belongings into our most private spheres: a sweater they forgot which you park your buttocks on, or the hand towel in the office toilets which you use to wipe between your legs.” – Page 156

“I have never had any scruples in someone else’s bathroom about using her perfumed soap to chase away the fetid residue of the night […]. I appropriate to other people the same adherence to environment that I have myself, which makes every intimate thing – or any thing that has served an intimate purpose – a sort of extension of the body, a sensitive prosthesis. If, while someone is away, you touch something that they are close to, they themselves are involved by contiguity. ”

Final Thoughts

I can’t help but feel that the publishing of the book itself was an act of perversion, an exercise in exposure kink. In 2002, when interviewed by the Guardian, it’s mentioned that she’s been monogamous for 8 years. For someone who’s main sexual interest is group sex, I can’t imagine what that would be like. If my main interest was no longer an option, I’m sure I’d start looking for experiences that bring me similar pleasure. This quote from further into the book certainly suggests to me that she enjoys the judgemental gaze of strangers. 

“When a migraine pins me in the depths of a darkened room like this, when I don’t even have the strength to peel off the sheet impregnated with the sweat of a night and a day, and when breathing the dissipated stench of my own vomit [ . . . ]. I would like Jacques to take photographs of me at times like that, and for those to be published and seen by people who read my books and articles [ . . . ]. there would be some sense of compensation by inscribing it on the gaze of others.” – Page 147

This autobiography had the potential to damage her reputation and legacy. I think it was a brave act to publish it, and I’m glad she did as I think it’s an important book. An attitude towards sex like Catherine’s, consisting of passiveness and unconditional consent is most often seen in the male domination fantasy, rarely from the perspective of the cooperative party. It’s a helpful viewpoint to have, with it being her desire to be docile in sexual situations, and I applaud her for fulfilling it without hesitation. However, for every insightful paragraph, there’s a distasteful comment or gross recollection that I would’ve rather not read in the first place. Some of the things mentioned in the book, I think she should’ve kept to herself. 

It’s not a read for the faint hearted, as much of the book is graphic sex scenes and coarse language, but if you have an interest in autobiographies, and the way others experience sex then it can be a fascinating, memorable read. 

You can financially support my work by purchasing the book from here.