I get invited to a swingers club.
The term, as a genre of writing and art, deals primarily with the intricacies of extreme, pleasurable, and fantasy-based sexual indulgences in varied acceptable, and not too acceptable, relationships-hence, the more forbidden, the more titillating and licentious. Of course, Porn, the twin gay brother of Erotica with his dirty finger muddying the pure ecstasies of his sister-their mother, sweet, calm, innocent Sincerity and the father, obnoxious, loutish, malicious Hypocrisy-is another more salacious and smouldering matter to consider, and I still want to live a happy, long life.
Yet, what is amusing and ridiculous in this convoluted predicament of Erotica as subject for stories either short, serialized, or a novel, is that everyone-reader, browser, patron, sponsor or even protester-is extremely curious of the content. And therefore, more than interested and attracted to it, as if they have already done what were presented or had more vast and wide-ranging experiences, than what were depicted. Each one guilty of enjoying the same, as if only looking for proofs, for confirmations, that what they have been doing were acceptable and pleasurable, satisfying and enduring, and thus, universal.
Not unless...the reader or viewer, is a curious innocent child.
During the end of my secondary education, and as part of military training in school, I was included to guard the national museum where an exhibition of paintings by the Masters (some were reproductions) was held. Throngs of students in all levels came each day, yet were often caught huddled in front of one huge printed copy (thank God!) of Francisco Goya's "The Naked Maja" (La Maja Desnuda).
The painting, nothing more but a reclining nude in a couch, is in full frontal and facing the painter when she sat and posed for the portrait. But truth is, there were two versions: this one, and "The Clothed Maja" (La Maja Vestida), which carried more suggestive erotic content in the stories told behind the pose. It was said that the woman was actually Goya's mistress, a duchess, the wife of a government high ranking official. And when the husband learned of the infidelity and sought after the truth-raiding Goya's studio in the process-found nothing but an excellent portrait of his wife, fully dressed in rich gown, looking lovelier than he expected to see, erasing his suspicions.
Yet, "The Naked Maja" exhibited in my country elicited more curiosity with the kids, that a concerned and scandalized mentor, well-meaning in his intentions, covered the nude's vagina with a piece of paper to give it a semblance of modesty, despite the laughter and ridicule of those who saw it. Then again, his gallantry ignited more disaster-the students started peeking inside the paper.
When museum personnel moved the painting from the lobby to the fourth floor since it became an attraction of malicious curiosity among the kids, we found more: Naughty students drew with their pencils, pens, or ball pens on the Maja's cunt, giving her a lush, unruly curtain of pubic hair. Yet, the reproduction suffered more-damaged by mischievous students eager to provide a hole for her pussy-tearing the paper and pushing their pens and pencils harder, fingering her until the wood backing showed through.
What can one expect from a country where religion is a dominant part of living, imposing strict rules on morals and sexual practices like any other Muslim or Catholic nation, inciting more curiosity than is warranted or necessary?
In my honest opinion, the greatest argument proffered by moralists for the acceptance of Erotica as a valid, honourable form of Literature is its corrupting qualities, i.