Category Archives: writing

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Joe Rivers is a music writer and Features Editor of independent music and film website, noripcord.com. He also blogs at foreverinacrylicafternoons.blogspot.com

It’s near impossible for me to walk past a display of “lad magazines” without recalling the ridiculous example I saw in 2004. One of the weekly lads’ mags – I can’t remember if it was Nuts or Zoo – carried as the front page headline: “REVEALED – what happens when girls shower!” It was obviously meant to be tongue-in-cheek, but it was still difficult to believe a national magazine would carry such an “investigation” as their main feature. A cursory glance through the pages revealed the following findings:

• Girls tend to shower whilst wearing thongs or G-strings.
• Girls wear lots of make-up in the shower.
• When washing, girls will use the shower head to focus only on the area below the neck (this may be related to the previous point).
• Girls often bring an attractive female friend to shower with.

Scientific research at its finest, I’m sure you’ll agree.

Ridiculous it may be, but it’s the kind of thing people are willing to spend their money on. FHM and Nuts both have circulation figures of over 100,000, with Esquire and Zoo selling over 50,000 per issue. Factor in other lads’ mags like Loaded, and even a conservative estimate reveals over 250,000 different people buying these magazines on a regular basis, with the figure reading them likely to be even higher.

But why is this a problem? In situations such as these, it’s important to know your enemy, so after a visit to the supermarket, I became an embarrassed and apologetic owner of both Nuts and Zoo magazine (20-26 January 2012 editions). Worryingly, I also received a money-off coupon for a future edition of Nuts, so my supermarket loyalty scheme now has me pegged as a lads’ mag enthusiast.

Most of the content was as expected; depressingly simplistic “banter”, articles about fast cars, a few pages about football, and lots of pictures of women in various states of undress. However, look beneath the surface and there’s a more sinister undercurrent. Zoo contains a joke about masturbating over Kate Middleton in a cinema, Nuts contains a (presumably regular) column called “Sex Advice From A Fit Lesbian” and there are numerous requests to send in photos of your significant other in provocative poses. Zoo also contains the most depressing promotional competition I’ve ever seen; the chance to win a “top boys’ holiday” (including free entry to a lap-dancing club) for “Britain’s Most Under The Thumb Man”. With the implication that women nag their partners and that men are weak-willed and put-upon, neither of the genders come out of that one particularly well.

Sexism aside, there’s a nasty seam of homophobia too, particularly in the sport pages. Nuts features “Man-Love Corner!” which displays pictures of footballers embracing one another in celebration and “Stealth Bumming Corner!” where a man positions himself in such a way that the subject of the photo doesn’t realise may look like they’re engaging in anal sex (despite being fully-clothed). With top-quality, era-defining humour like that, it’s not difficult to see why so many people fork out their hard-earned cash on it. There’s a danger that I’m coming across like an uptight killjoy here who can’t appreciate “a bit of a laugh”, but these magazines and others like them are available in shops across the world and reinforce certain views and stereotypes. “Remember, people, women are there for the enjoyment and pleasure of men,” they suggest, “and because homosexuality is a complex and potentially sensitive topic we don’t understand, it must be bad, so let’s ridicule it.”

Of course, the fault for male misogyny doesn’t lie solely at the door of lads’ magazines and, obviously, the concept of men wishing to assert their perceived superiority over women is as old as humankind itself. However, lad culture, as we know it, is a relatively new phenomenon which came to prominence in the mid-1990s along with Britpop. Although Britpop had its artistic and thoughtful types, arguably the most popular band were lad-rock forebearers, Oasis, who contained, in simian simpleton Liam Gallagher, probably the biggest “lad” of them all. The growing popularity of the Premiership (still in its infancy) and the holding of the European Championships in England meant football became the national interest again. After hooliganism blighted the 1980s, the 1990s saw copious amounts of money flow into football and it became such a mainstream pursuit that it outgrew its working-class, male roots, and the middle-class and women became avid fans. The mid-1990s also saw the launch of the original lad titles, FHM and Loaded, which, coupled with the “girl power” aesthetic of the world-conquering Spice Girls, resulted in a brief “ladette” period, where women decided to be empowered by matching the men in terms of alcohol intake and other “lad” behaviours.

Is it dangerous though? I’ve “read” two lads’ mags today and it hasn’t transformed me into a breast-fixated knuckle-dragger, incapable of rational thought and reasoning. As true as that may be, I’m an adult who’s confident in my views and beliefs, but schoolchildren are not, and that’s where I believe the problem lies.

I had my first experience of the world of lads’ mags at the age of 14, when I found a discarded copy of Loaded at my local leisure centre. I took it home and read it intently; it was like being given the key to a tantalising glance at adulthood (I’m showing my age here, 14 year old boys in 2012 have probably viewed hours of hardcore pornography, but that’s an argument for another day). That issue of Loaded – featuring a newly-famous Jordan on the cover – showcased a world where women would pose provocatively for your titillation, submit to your whims, and were always desperate for sex. Less than two years from the age of consent, I was given a preview of what I could expect my life to be like in years to come. I’d seen the future, and it looked like a Robin Askwith movie.

Naturally, my life didn’t quite follow this path and as my teenage years passed, my disdain for this genre of magazines began to grow. To me, they’re for men who can’t handle reality, celebrate their own lack of knowledge, and feel threatened and emasculated at the merest sleight. In short, they resemble the protagonists of Pulp’s wonderfully sharp Joyriders (Oh, and we like women / “Up the women”, we say / And if we get lucky / We might even meet some one day).

But not everyone can grasp that they represent an exaggerated version of life. Like small-minded nationalists, they think they rule all they survey, and anyone different is to be feared and dismissed. This wouldn’t be quite as bad if these magazines only affected the mindsets of boys, but they’re seen by girls too. Therefore, males learn to see females as objects of gratification, and females see that’s what’s expected of them and – in some cases – depressingly conform to that role. During your school years, when adulthood is an exciting, exotic land, messages like this that tell you “how life is” can be dangerously appropriated and become the norm. It’s one of the myriad reasons why feminism still needs to exist and be campaigned for so vociferously.

The solution here is education. There’s obviously nothing to be ashamed of when it comes to sexual desires, and men will always want to look at the bodies of attractive women, but more acceptance needs to be taught. These magazines could prove upsetting and confusing for anyone struggling with their sexual identity, girls with body-confidence issues and those who don’t conform to mainstream ideas of “normality”. These people need to be told that there’s nothing wrong with them, and that these magazines are the problem, not them.

Alex Billingham is a genderqueer pipe smoker twirling her moustache whilst adjusting his bra. 

* * * * *

The edge of heights excites and terrifies me, particularly buildings or bridges. The notion that this height is false, constructed against the surface of the world, makes the feeling more intense. It’s not the fear of falling or slipping away to nothing, rather the physical force expelled by the edge. It pulls, it yanks me toward it, over it.

One of my first memories is of a dream I had as a child. My grandfather had taken me to the park and I went on the climbing frame. That night I had a dream of being on the frame and leaping away; the fear was so intense I awoke in a sweat.

When I’m near an edge there’s a shot of adrenaline, my pulse rises and breath quickens. I feel the fear enter me and leave me weakened. I can feel the anticipation run over my skin. My limbs are no longer my own but the edge’s. That loss of control over my body turns me on; I am truly awake in those moments. Knowing that the edge could so easily take me, just a leap away.

I fantasise about being taken/forced to the edge of a tall building and being fucked with a strap on right at the edge, the other holding me both to and from oblivion.

I yearn to go over. I fear because I know one day it will win out and I simply won’t be able to resist the pull and will run to it embrace it. For that brief second to be falling free. I would live forever in that moment.

This is another piece by our friend Olivia Sparrow (see her piece on towerblocks by clicking HERE). You’ll be seeing more from her soon on Bearded Eloise with her band The Ritas.

Olivia Sparrow is a gap-toothed, glasses-wearing, gin-swigging, queer femme. You can see more of her work at www.oliviasparrow.co.uk

* * * * *

I am attracted to things that scare me.

My nosocomephobia isn’t enough to keep me away from fantasising about and acting out normally unsexual things such as examinations, surgery and therapy for sexual means. The fear I experience enhances pleasure. At the same time that I feel a crushing sensation on my chest making me unable to breathe, as I walk down a dimly lit hospital corridor, a feeling of sexual desire and wanting tries to override it. I want to fuck a surgeon; someone who could harm me and put me back together again. Someone who understands the technicalities of death.

Women do not scare me; this is why I am able to undertake, usually unfulfilling, sexual relationships with them at the drop of a hat. Men scare me, this is why when I have sex with a man, my orgasms get confused with panic attacks.

I have a fixation with hands. Hands can hurt and soothe, just like a surgeon. I like being held down by the same hand that will help me up, I like being smacked by the same hand that will stroke me.

Sexual intercourse does not really interest me. I find objects, situations and ideas more sexually arousing than sex. I enjoy the idea of sex more than the act. I suppose this is why I have trouble finding sexual partners. I can easily have an orgasm from the tension that is generated by staring at someone and being stared at. In fact, sexual tension is one of my biggest turn-ons. I am turned on by featherweight boxing, tower blocks and footage of rioting.

Featherweight boxing because I like violence and roughness, two idiotic people beating each other black and blue, bodies sweating, swaying and bleeding. Tower blocks because I like to imagine what is going on inside, I like to imagine having a liaison on the staircase on the 12^th floor. Rioting, again, because of the violence, and because of the almost choreographed power play.

Sometimes I wish I was like most other people, it’d be so simple. I could go out at night and shag a guy in a toilet cubicle. I could get a boyfriend and spend the rest of my life, lying on my back, crying with boredom. I need ideas, thought and passion.

This piece, written by my friend Athene Hardy, is a kind of companion to the one posted on Wednesday. This time, though, the submissive perspective is a female one. Again, this is an eloquent and intelligent piece and we’re proud to have it on the site. 

If anybody reading this considers themselves to be the ‘D’ in D/s then we’d absolutely love to hear from you. You can contact us at emily@beardedeloise.com, on Twitter at @rey_z, or in the comments section here.  Your name and details will be kept entirely anonymous.

*****

As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be dominated. The thought of being spanked and fucked by a strong, commanding man electrifies me beyond measure.

Long before I could comprehend them, my desires for spanking and submission were flourishing. At a very young age, I remember playing a game with my younger sister. We’d found a large walking stick in my grandma’s house and I convinced her that we should play ‘school’ and the stick should be the cruel schoolmistress’ cane. Initially, I played the role of the student but quickly became frustrated with her (understandably) half-hearted acting. I became the brutal teacher. As the mistress, we each pretended to beat one another but never came close to making contact. We soon grew tired of it: her through lack of interest, me through unhappiness in this dominant role.

Aged eleven, I was speaking to a man online who believed I was eighteen. His messages grew sexual in nature and began to incorporate elements of BDSM. I was both horrified and incredibly excited. I had only just discovered what a blowjob was: I was watching an episode of Six Feet Under with my (rather liberal) parents and remember being distinctly offended by the idea of Nate’s penis in Brenda’s mouth. Yet, just a few months later I was feeling an unfamiliar giddiness at the thought of a man whipping me and demanding I address him as ‘Master’.

These two experiences have left me feeling overwhelmingly guilty, particularly the first. Understanding it as I now do, I feel sickened that I could have involved my sister in my burgeoning kink. I know that it was an underdeveloped part of my sexuality desperately trying to form and break through and that it wasn’t consciously sexual but I can’t help feeling ashamed. I’m sure she has no memories of it but it has stuck, stubbornly, in the back of my mind. The second had more positive results. Although the age and circumstance of my discovery were less than ideal – if someone told me of another eleven-year-old being exposed to such things then I’d be disgusted and I feel for the unwitting man – I finally began to understand the dark desires which had been rumbling, quietly but consistently, for most of my life. As with all children of my generation, the internet became the great encyclopaedia and I unearthed more and more about dominance and submission.

The more I learnt, the more fixated I became. Eventually, inevitably, I discovered porn. Throughout my teens, I have regularly orgasmed watching a woman being spanked and fingered over a man’s knee, or reading about a girl tied to a bed and being fucked ruthlessly, or imagining myself sucking the cock of ‘my Dom’. My compulsion peaks and troughs: sometimes, weeks can pass and I will think of it only intermittently but at other times, I can spend a couple of hours a day just reading or writing erotica – not purely for sexual gratification but to explore all the realms of possibility within a Dominant/submissive dynamic.

I am twenty now. I had a long-term boyfriend up until recently and although we had a fantastic relationship with a healthy sex life, I never felt he could give to me what I crave. It just isn’t in his nature so I never did, or wanted to, ask him.

It is almost a cliché in the BDSM scene but I am not an overtly submissive person: I am driven, independent and extremely stubborn. Very few know about my ‘true nature’ and I’m sure if they knew I was into D/s, they would picture me as a Domme. Yet, there is nothing I find more arousing than choosing to be at the mercy of another’s will.

This is the first ‘proper’ article in our new ‘pleasure’ section. It’s joyous, expressive, sexy, sleazy, brilliant.

Olivia Sparrow is a gap-toothed, glasses-wearing, gin-swigging, queer femme. You can see more of her work at www.oliviasparrow.co.uk

When I was growing up, I lived next to Spaghetti Junction. I suppose that’s where the obsession with concrete structures started. Even when I was young, I remember feeling excitement whenever I travelled on it, the way it looked as you approached it on the top deck of a bus or on the backseat of a car. I liked walking underneath it and staring up at it, admiring the strong concrete pillars and complicated design. I could see it from my bedroom window and the constant hum of the traffic worked as a brilliant soundtrack to the hideous concrete installation. The first time I ever masturbated, I was looking at it.

I was around tower blocks a lot as a child. Both of my grandparents lived on a council estate (the estate which I now live on) and I remember being fixated with these structures that seemed to go on forever, with their endless windows and balconies. They seemed to have come from another planet, with their sole purpose to dwarf everything around it and impose on people’s lives. There was something deeply appealing about them. I would visit the grandfather I didn’t like just be able to go inside one of them. I used to enjoy riding up and down in the piss-soaked lift, walking the dimly-lit corridors and sitting in every room in his flat, taking everything in. I wanted to rub my face against the walls, throw myself against them, strip the rooms bare and back to the raw concrete.

From the front bedrooms of my other grandparent’s council house, I could see a tower block poking through in between the rows of houses. I used to sit and look at it, admiring its shape and wondering what was going on inside. One of those bedrooms is now my bedroom and I still sit and look at that tower block. It still makes me think, it excites me, it turns me on.

My first encounter with Brutalism would’ve been Birmingham’s glorious Central Library. Again, I used to be in awe of that building as a child and it’s still my favourite building in Birmingham. The outside and inside of that building provided me with endless excitement; the weird, grey, concrete shapes on the outside and the beige concrete squared ceiling on the inside. Central Library is the place where I had my first consensual sexual experience and I don’t believe that’s a coincidence. I didn’t just choose to go there because it’d be warm and had toilets. I was drawn in by the architecture. In a way, I feel like I fucked the building rather than the person I was with. On the way to the third floor toilets, I kept touching and stroking the bare concrete walls. I felt its different textures and explored the shapes and dents. That was my foreplay. It turned me on. I probably touched the walls more than I touched the person I was with.

When I was 14 I saw A Clockwork Orange for the first time. I watched scenes from it every day for the next two months. While I love the story and the film as a whole, I mainly became obsessed with the scenes which included concrete subways, the Thamesmead estate and the interiors of the Municipal Flatblock. Kubrick made these places looks futuristic, beautiful, sleazy and violent. Everything I’d imagined about tower blocks and concrete was being projected right before my eyes. I’d replay and pause these scenes while I masturbated.

Two years later, I started reading Ballard. High Rise bought to life the violence and chaos I’d imagined going on within tower blocks. Concrete Island and Crash made me rethink my earlier infatuation with Spaghetti Junction.

And yes, my favourite music video is Suede’s Animal Nitrate.

I like the way concrete feels; cold, unwelcoming and either very smooth or very rough. I like the way it feels against my skin. I like the way concrete looks; grey, ever changing, easily stained. I like imagining what is going on in each of the windows on a tower block, as the lights go on and off. Sex, arguments, drug abuse, all-night parties, violence. I like imagining myself in all of those situations and how I’d react not only to the people, but to the building. How would the concrete stairs feel as I fell down them after getting into a fight at the top of them? What kind of marks would it leave? How would the bare, undecorated concrete walls feel on my bare back as someone fucked me against it? How would the concrete railings on the balcony feel in my hand as I held myself up whilst giving head?

Komplex Leipziger Strasse, Berlin. When I first went to Berlin, I was confronted with this development on a daily basis as my hotel overlooked it. I could’ve happily spent the whole trip being fucked by my partner as I looked out of the window at the towering constructions. And it would’ve been the tower blocks that would’ve turned me on rather than him.
(Pre-Urban Splash) Park Hill, Sheffield. A beautiful, sprawling concrete wet dream. I want to get lost in the streets of the sky, meet a stranger there and get them to fuck me on the roof. My skin would react to the touch of the damp, decaying concrete. And Sheffield: Sex City would be playing, obviously.

Shakespeare Tower, Barbican Complex, London. I still remember the first time I ever saw this. I was in absolute shock and awe. It looked flat and I convinced myself it was flat. It was incredibly huge and phallic. I got neck ache from looking up at it. The concrete is stained, the building is bizarre. It is perfect. The second time I went there I got fingered by the person I was with on the bridge that connects the tube station with the complex. The sight of it and the traffic noise added to my arousal.

The tower blocks on New John Street West, Birmingham. I pass these tower blocks every time I return home from rehearsal with my band. They look absolutely amazing in the dark, lined up and lit up. The stairwells look particularly inviting. I imagine having sex with my lover in one of the stairwells. The back lighting would make us look like silhouettes to the audience on the main road. I often get myself off in the back of the taxi whilst thinking about it.

Trellick Tower, London. This is possibly my favourite building in the UK. It looks like it’s arrived from another world, it’s wonderful greyish beige colour and the balconies are very interesting to study. The lift tower and its connecting corridors are what I like the most. I want to ride up and down in the lift and I want a different person to meet me at each connecting corridor and fuck me in their corridor. I once stayed with a friend who lives opposite the similar Balfron Tower and I have no idea how I didn’t suggest a Brutalist-themed orgy.

Despite all of this, I don’t think I’m going to get arrested for trying to shag the entire Barbican complex any time soon.