Humpty was logically correct, but his view makes discussion difficult.

Pornography as a word was coined in the 19th century, but it referred to articles and engravings that had been published for over a century beforehand. Pornography was about “celebrity courtesans” and their scandalous lives, starting with the Restoration and King Charles II; though it would be more accurate to call the women his mistresses rather than prostitutes. Nell Gwynn did, however, describe herself as “the protestant whore”. Articles and images were salacious, even vicious caricatures; but at least based on fact, rather than being fictional. Later, pornography also encompassed famous but non-royal whores: even then, “sex sold”.

This form of pornography is still with us — you only have to look at the red tops and their obsession with the antics of slebs, celebrities and footballers.

You’re right to connect today’s fictional pornography and commerce: money is defined by the dismal scientists as “a store of wealth, a measure of wealth and a medium of transaction”. But I don’t think that money is what distinguishes pornography from erotica, the etymology notwithstanding. (It is splendidly ironic, though, that so many porn stars are also escorts.)

Rather I’d say it was the difference between “reality” and “unreality”. Both tend to arouse, both are designed to arouse, but pornography does this through scenes and descriptions which belong to fantasy land; it is “unreal”, imaginable but impossible. Erotica is something that is “real”, the events depicted could happen, the descriptions are “literary” and realistic rather than fantastical.

I think you’re probably right as far as young adult fiction goes. Under-age sexuality must be the largest elephant in the room in our culture at present. But as far as adult literary fiction is concerned, honestly, pick up a Houllebecq novel. There is a LOT of sex in it. It’s just horrible sex. So I don’t think publishers have a problem with descriptions of sex, as long as that description is not likely to be arousing to most readers. And, to be fair, I’m not sure it is the publishers who are the problem here. I think it might very well be the writers.

If you look what was publishable via “serious venues” in the 70ies and what makes it past the gatekeepers these days it’s obvious what is happening. A large part of it is self-censorship. Another part is censorship, plain and simple, even if it disguises as peer pressure.

Honestly, this is why I started with the Bataille quote. Because I think he said something incredibly true. For all its repression, the Church recognized the power of erotic passion for all its intensity: they variously tried to sublimate it and re-channel that energy into religious ecstasy. Science sought to medicalize it. To deconstruct it by quantification. But nothing has taken the essential power out of sex as much as its trivialization by the media and its commodification by the marketplace.

I think it’s been a marvelous project in misdirection. Because, if you look at mainstream representations of sex in the later half of the 20th century, it’s all tits and ass. All Benny Hill gropes. All sparkly pasties on the nipples. And this is not sex. But it’s close enough to pass for it and perpetuate the message that sex is indeed cheap and ultimately trivial.

Anyone who has attempted to write “serious” erotica – and by that I mean erotic fiction that pushes beyond the cliches to some sort of original vision – knows how difficult it can be to simultaneously arouse and make a point. Meanwhile, the notion that sexual feelings are somehow less valid and important than other emotions completely ignores the impact sex has on our lives and our psyches.

The members of my family who know I write erotica sometimes ask why I don’t write something “serious”. Personally, I can’t think of anything more serious than sex. And to be honest, there’s nothing that interests me more.

Quite honestly, I just think that this affected refusal of sentimentality ends up looking a lot like the very thing they are apparently so desperate to avoid. The truth is, sometimes life IS sentimental. Sex has it’s place in the serious novel. It shouldn’t be avoided. But it helps if you base it on the merest vestige of reality.

I can’t think of all the sex scenes I’ve come across in ‘serious’ novels (and, for some reason, mostly in books written by men), that are composed as some sort of personal desolation, as if the act itself were completely empty and without satisfaction, ever. Joyless, formless, the pair bond, the attraction, the expression of physicality, affection, emotion – completely absent. I do not believe this sort of writing necessarily reflects the reality of the writer (or reality, period), but, as you say, some fetishistic extreme, an intellectual sensibility that almost doesn’t want to be associated with the sticky, messy reality of an honest orgasm.

Desire is so often filtered through objectification: the romance novel, pornography – neither of which the *serious* author wants to be associated with (the former being, historically speaking, written for the ‘lesser’ entertainment of women, the latter being crude, unspeakable filth). Unless the writer has a point to make, sex, in the serious novel is pointless. Why write about it unless you are seeking to arouse or lead astray? After all, we don’t look to the likes of Martin Amis to teach us about sexuality (or much else, for that matter).

Another male author who does write with a certain amount of abandon, riffing on sex in all its sticky conundrums and joyful, playful wonder is Tom Robbins; he even manages a few fine philosophical touches without entering the realm of personal annihilation someone like Houellebecq frequently explores.

There is no real comparison to be made here except what *is* a healthy concept of sex (written or otherwise)? The intellectualized version with all its fear and finality (sex and death always go hand in hand), or something that strips the fear and darkness away, reminds us that pleasure should bring a smile, a laugh, a release of whatever toxic build-up we’ve been holding onto for so long – or is that just fantasy? How many literary relationships are ever explored in full (or real ones, for that matter)?

There’s a loneliness to all of this, that’s what stays – the lonely character, the lonely writer – and we all know you can’t have sex by yourself. There’s another word for that, with all its childhood nightmare associations, all the shame and humiliation and bad jokes. It all gets wrapped up in that adult psyche, somewhere, meant to be unraveled later.

Sorry to ramble, hope something made sense.