The Laws of Seduction

This excerpt from Fucking Law by Dr Victoria Brooks is published with permission.

The Laws of Seduction

Fucking Law is an urgent call for everyone to find inventive ways to question the ethics of sexuality. This excerpt is from Chapter 4, Fucking Orgasms.

The most effective judges of her sexuality have not been Ethics Committees. Not at all. To be frank, she did not care what these anonymous bodies thought of her. To be sure though, they had an opinion. Oh yes. Think about it: it was only by chance that her philosopher was not on the committee. It could so easily have been him sitting there, judging not only her sexuality, but her work, too. In fact, despite his absence, he became it. He became the whole committee and, for a long time, her conscience. He sat on her shoulder, with every man she later became intimate with. He checked what she was doing. He reminded her, with flashbacks of pain, that it would be easier to say nothing. He reminded her that the problem was her, and she spent all her time subsequently, and uselessly, proving him wrong.

She had a taste for a certain “type” of man, this was for sure.

The kind of man whose eyes are brown, dark deep wells which mystify and stun her.

She is seduced immediately and it feels like this dark grip in her blood. Like every cell is weighed down by wanting, which makes her hands feel empty without holding his cock, and her arms feel useless without gripping his body. She recognized them immediately and could not resist the swelling in her cunt as the scent of them tickled her.

Because of her body’s reply to these men, for a long time, she never thought of there being any kind of ethical problem associated with her attraction. She had sex with them. All kinds of men, with “tiger-eyes,” eyes that make you think they will eat you for breakfast, that you will be consumed. And yes, she wanted it. She wanted to be consumed, eaten whole. Fucked until she could not stand. Fucked until she could not breathe. Fucked until there was nothing left of her. To be fair, she got what she wanted.

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Why can you not find any men you like at these parties? I see loads of women I want to fuck, so it’s your fault, for being too picky. She thought about it. It was a fair question. She couldn’t think what it was. In the car, on the way to these parties, her knickers were wet. The thought of being fucked by lots of men excited her. Just the little nugget of possibility excited her.

That she could lay back and be desired and pleasured. That it was all so very naughty, that she could just have any man she wanted, was delicious.

But in her fantasies, the men had no faces. The men had no hands. The reality dissipated her arousal within a second. She pushed at her desire, demanded that it work, shouted and screamed at it to function. But it refused. It stopped dead in her chest, refusing to go south. She sat in darkened rooms, with a glass of wine. Desperately fantasizing to trigger and trick herself into wanting someone. Anyone. She just couldn’t do it. She sat with her boyfriend and apologized. She wanted to go home. The truth of it was, that there was no man with tiger-eyes. There was no man there who was cruel enough to dangle love that she could not have before her. There was no man to mistrust her, apart from the man she was with.

Her philosopher met with her in a slightly more coherent state. She at least knew that she was done with sex parties and brothels. The problem perhaps was, that she did not yet know why. It was not until she started to think more carefully about her body, that she realized that there were two massive problems that she alone would not be able to tackle. These problems were intimately and powerfully connected. At the nexus of their connection, she would also find a handy starting point for beginning the infinite task of searching for the ethics of her sexuality. The first problem was one rather unique to law, and indeed to sexuality, rather like the second. The first is judgment, the second is orgasm. It is difficult to know which one to begin with, so the only way to do so is to think a bit more about fucking. Orgasm it is then. At this point it is necessary to warn the reader that there will be some masturbation as she tells you about her relationship with orgasm, as is commonly known to be necessary.

Orgasms. She knew several things about orgasms. She knew that she’d had millions of them. From when she was too young to know what they were.

She knew also that she’d not had one while having sex with another person until she was 22. She also knew that she would never have an orgasm the first time that she had sex with a person. She was simply too stressed about performing well for that to happen. She was not too sure how she would be judged, so she was better off focusing on the man she was with than on her own pleasure. She could always come by herself, later, if need be. Come to think of it, which orgasms could she remember?

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The best ones were the surprising ones, where she didn’t need to delve into her own fantasies to help her along and she was simply brought to climax by a particular coincidence, where she became space and time, a celestial body, seemingly free of philosophy.

She had just started watching a film on her laptop, having not gone to the beach to do her observations on that day. The night before, she had not slept at all. At 4 a.m., she was sitting in the darkness of her apartment in the naked village, sending heartbroken emails to her philosopher. He had said that he could not stand her being at the Cap and that he was jealous. She sent emails through sickening tears, saying she didn’t understand. She was not aroused by the space. Not in the least. They’d had an intensive argument via endless essays during the day.

As the storm quietened, and the words began to soften, she felt her arousal grow.

The sun was high in the sky and despite the curtains being drawn, the apartment was steaming hot. She could barely breathe. He sent her virtual hugs and kisses, which she felt across her body. Alone, she could play with them, feeling his hands wander from her waist, into her bikini, where her clitoris swelled. The terrace door was open, letting in hot and heavy sea air from the beach and the naked foam parties, all happening in her absence. She was safe from it all. She was wrapped in warmth, intimate with herself. She didn’t have to touch anyone, but herself. No one would touch her. But she could watch. She could imagine all that delicious penetration and pretend she didn’t care about jealousy and possession. Each atom carried on that breeze gaped open, aching to close around another. Molecular orgies drifted through the door and played with her skin, causing its dermis to morph into the almost painfully red and taut surface of a cock aching to fuck.

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She wanted to fuck more than ever. The sofa was sticky with sweat, sand and her juice. Her cunt was in that ridiculously wet state, when she felt she cannot continue to exist without something inside her. He sent her messages telling her how aroused he was, describing how he would penetrate her. She wanted to be fucked so badly that she searched for something to penetrate herself with: anything, a deliciously cold cucumber, an erotically shaped shampoo bottle. Penetration was not the only thing though. She needed the weight of a body on top of her. She wanted to open her legs for someone, to lay back and feel like she was being fucked. To feel vulnerable and used, yet safe and powerful, like the opening of her own cunt. From the play of her fingers, she began to feel her orgasm rising in her stomach. It always began there. She felt it like a flavorful yet intensely hot chilli would feel on her tongue: painful yet delicious. The heat would get too much. It would burst out of itself, and in doing so, her whole body felt this heat, like every cell had flip-flopped right then and there in her capillaries. Her breath was withdrawn from her. Her sight was withdrawn and she could hear nothing, not even her own noises. The beautiful sting would twist through every organ, which threatened to burst out of her skin, before there would be, what she thought must be audible, a huge clunk of a contraction in her vagina. Sometimes resulting in a gush of fluid, sometimes not.

Then there was this warmth. Like what she imagined heroin must feel like, on its first injection into virgin veins. A honey toasted warmth engulfing her brain, so that she would either fall to sleep, or exist in a daze for the rest of the day.

There on that sofa, in the middle of the naked village, she had such an orgasm. She was not sure whether it was her proximity, or her distance, to the fucking on the beach, and to him, that caused its intensity. The following day would be another day of jealousy and judgment, only to grow in intensity toward months and years of the same.

She found the location and time of her orgasms to be insightful. On her own, she could come very easily. In her most lust-filled hazes, she could make herself orgasm in public, without being noticed. She could squeeze her thighs together and have the most intense orgasms within a couple of minutes. She had lost count of the times that she had done so after sex with boyfriends too, when they had gone to sleep after climaxing themselves. When she was with another person though, she sometimes would orgasm just as intensely, but it was rare.

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You were full of sleep from an afternoon nap in our hotel room bed, just moments from the beach. A few hours before we had walked in the dunes and had been lying together, fully clothed. It was hot. Too hot to be there, really. I had a thought, while we were there. You knew it too. We sat together in silence among those strange plants that grow in that mountainous sand, looking out towards the sea. As much as you didn’t want to say, I didn’t want to hear. I didn’t want any of it to matter. So I took you by the hand and we suddenly got to our feet. We ran down the dunes and I ran toward the sea. I decided to forget it all as we walked along the beach. I decided to forget that you were another philosopher. By the time we woke together in our bed, I felt close to you, and safe again. You didn’t speak, but we kissed, a kiss full of the taste of sleep. Our smells were all over us. Contented fucked molecules all around us. I felt your erection against my thigh. My favorite thing. You barely moved. All I felt was your breath and your muscles flinch in pleasure. I felt the tip of your cock in that between place, just before you enter my pussy completely. I rested there a while, while watching your movements quicken.

I fucked you, and it was the softness of feeling the intimacy of our building space, that made me come as intensely as I did that time at the Cap. Even your skin, the surface of your organs, was soft, despite the hardness. Despite and despite, my orgasm is strong.

She maddened herself in thinking about her orgasms. She had little to go on in terms of a guide, if she was honest. The books she read would help a little, but conversations with men, or even other women, did not get her any further. She thought that she had orgasms in places and in situations that were not “normal.” She thought her fantasies might be somewhat weird, too. It was not until she found Nicholson Baker and his beautiful, intimate yet completely strange Vox, Fermata and House of Holes that she found playful (completely weird spaceless and timeless) fantasies without jealousy and possession, without tears, and without the violence and boredom of pornography. She was always perfectly happy to watch pornography with her lovers, and sometimes she would watch it herself, when her desire had reached a particularly insatiable peak, and she found herself without a man next to her. But it was a flat orgasm for her.

She found play with concepts to not only be intellectually exciting, but erotically thrilling too. What if she turned jealousy inside out? What if she turned her skin inside-out? What if she played with the boundaries of animal-human, inhuman-human, in her filthy mind?

What if she started fucking with paint, with blood, with pine cones? What if, like in the House of Holes, she forgot about boundaries, identities, right/wrong, straight/gay, human/inhuman, and instead, did whatever she wanted? What if the world started talking a “new round soft language”? Because House of Holes titillated her so much, she was fascinated.

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Whenever she read erotic texts, whether Baker’s, or Houellebecq’s, or Roche’s gloriously filthy, stinking Wetlands, or even the slightly more serious Réage’s Story of O, she found the wetness of her pussy to be more visceral than in any other circumstances. It was like when her philosopher was emailing her while she sat on that faux leather sofa at the Cap. The power of this perverse body built by erotic words was such that it touched her with more intensity than a human body. It was crazily pure, without any hang-up, no jealousy, no desperation, no frustrated longing, not even a decision, no waiting, not “oh is this OK”; it was as if she had missed the split second of “consent.” She did not need to decide; in fact, she couldn’t make a decision. She had no choice whether to be aroused by Lanasha fucking a Magic Kentucky Lime fruit in House of Holes, which will give her “extreme cravings for stiff cock” or Shandee’s lessons on penis washing, or her relationship with Dave’s disembodied arm, or most importantly, the irresistible Deleuzian beauty of Baker’s silver egg hatching, where miniature lovers learn how to kiss and fuck inside a tiny silver egg, forever suspended in ecstasy as they fall asleep in each other’s silver arms, wrapped in a wash cloth, destined to forever discover sexuality together. She could not resist Roche’s schoolgirl musings of holding cum inside her body for as long as she can, a smelly gift that keeps on giving, oozing out of her pussy, “smiling blissfully in my little puddle of sperm” even while listening to the teacher “going on about philosophical attempts to prove the existence of God.”

How familiar that sounds. How touched she was not only erotically, but in a more profound—rather ironically—philosophical way.

How futile man’s musings are in relation to the existence of God, their attempts to be God through their words, to write the cleverest thing, the rightest thing, and all the while there are these orgasms in places they never imagined. She was convinced that a “soft round language,” a language of fucking, was to them, rather trivial.

Good! she thought. Trivial is good. Sexier. More serious. Time: 4:30 p.m. She drew spirals in her field work diary. Round and round and round and round, like a finger, tracing the edge of her nipple, intolerably gently, like the feel of a draping soft and silk cloth, barely touching, then just about barely brushing the pinkness of her nipple. From the outside, the fabric would be tented, a growing nipply tenting. The touch would be so gentle it would cause her skin to erupt in waves, and a hot dull ache in her vulva. The fabric moves to her pussy. The draping is not so successful, since the fabric then sticks, the viscous liquid cooling on withdrawal of the cloth, joyously sticky. Reminiscent of pillows in early mornings and late nights after hot filthy fucking dreams: the cold soft fabric presses desperately against her clitoris. She particularly liked to do this after fucking and being filled with sperm.

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The smell was so thick, so intimate, so kind, so warm and so safe that she wanted to eat it. She ground her hips into the sand, feeling the walls of her sticky cunt rub together, as she looked right into the eyes of a man at the back of the beach. Grains of soft sand jumped into the wind and blew across her naked buttocks, sand-dashing them gently, like a light spanking, reddening her grinding cheeks. The beach was quiet and she just looked at him, as he lazily stroked his cock. She thought about rows of erections, playing with the idea of touching each one, finding the folds, maybe licking the tips where a small pearl of tasty liquid might gleam. She would touch all different sized cocks, sniff them, taste them, without feeling bad about not making them come. She wanted women too. She did the same with their breasts, she kissed their necks and she walked on her hands and knees, so she could lick the tasty clitorises that she saw. All the while, she stared at the man at the back of the beach. The sun held her back and her sunglasses hid her pre-orgasmic eyes. She looked at him while another man started to suck him off. Fucking, pure and simple: she came just as the sea was creeping up to her toes, between land and sea, between solid and fluid, and with not a thought of philosophy, or philosophers, or for the saltier side of her sexuality. Not despite, but because.

We can see that she comes in all sorts of ways, both associated with, and disassociated with how one might think female human sexuality is imagined, or how (she thinks in her most frustrated moments) the male version of female sexuality is hoped to be.

She sometimes likes to watch a woman being taken from behind, sometimes she doesn’t. Sometimes she feels like she wants to fuck a whole rugby team, sometimes she wants to spend hours with a woman, just caressing. She likes to play, to think about and to read about, without having to do. She would like to sometimes share her fantasies, sometimes keep them quiet. She wants to feel safely in danger. She sometimes wants the touch of things, rather than people. Of fur, rather than skin. Her sexuality fleets and flits and fucks.

Since Deleuzian thought, the orgasm has been very problematic, since it is the genesis of sexual identity. She feels there is a lot of truth in this position (pardon the pun). Identity, whether it be womanhood or masculinity, straightness or gayness, a big bundle of assumptions in relation to how that person gets their orgasms, comes with it. She never knows what box to tick on those wretched Equal Opportunity Forms that you must fill in when applying for jobs or study. Sometimes she feels straight, sometimes she feels gay, sometimes she feels bisexual, sometimes she feels like a woman, a man, or inbetween.

She could select “prefer not to say.” She always felt that this would indicate some harmful closeted silence about her sexuality though and in fact, evidence pointed to the fact that this would be the most harmful box to tick. She would prefer to say.

In the space of those little boxes on the form, she was expected to disclose where and how she got her orgasms and it was categorically not possible for her to tick all the boxes.

You see, the site of her orgasms is part of how her identity is built and the things she is allowed to, or assumed to, desire.

This assumption is very important, since it allows the world to know her desire, and therefore, hopefully, tame it and control it, and to stop it causing any problems. Desire cannot be as Deleuze and Guattari had envisaged, as a wave or force that just wants, rather than wants, despite. The vision or image of the space of “despite,” or the gap to be filled, is a reflection of outmoded gender politics. It is only through untying sexual desire from pleasure and imaging a future of disruptive gender politics, ranging from eco-politics to the politics of reproduction, that we can give the orgasm back to the body.

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The future is well and positively imagined by philosophy. This is a strengthening thought. But what remains is the question of ethics: what do we do when problems arise?

What do we do when our newly imagined and futurist desire, our new and “untied” orgasms cause suffering to something (physical, emotional, psychological), a person, a thing, an animal, a sex robot?

In short, when we shed gender, when we shed sexuality and we shed spatial-temporal orgasmic assumptions, with identity fully disrupted, what would be an orgasmic version of ethics? Ought we not understand more about our own sexuality first and find its orgasmic ethic? While the laws of spaces of socalled radical sexuality, such as the Cap, such as libertine clubs and so on are well known, she suggests that the ethics, or that is, the experiences of men and women who fuck there, are not.

The reality of all this is played out at the Cap, with every round of applause with every male orgasm. Male ejaculation is celebrated explicitly, while the female orgasm is less obvious, either in terms of its genuineness, or its genesis. This seemed to match with her unrelenting feeling that identity was never right. This seemed to not be a problem, until it was coupled with judgment. It is the case that judgment gives us our current ethical framework for our desire; that is, that there is (apparently, so she is told) an ethical code associated with sexuality. The philosophical foundations of this (she is told) are solid and true.

The philosophers who wrote these foundations are (she is told) very clever, and solid and true. The God who breathed life into these words, knows well both her heart, and her clitoris. Spinoza was a clever man, Deleuze too. Her philosophers.

Lots of clever men have written her sexual ethics, so far.

You never told me, but I knew. I would feel her touch on you, as blatantly as I could see the imprints of my feet on the soaked sand. You never told me, but perhaps you thought I knew. I didn’t. Or, rather, I did, but only in the abstract. Stupid, I was, wantonly naïve. It took me ten minutes, once I decided to know. Social media can give us away, no matter how careful we are. Within ten minutes, I went from inanely thinking about my day, to contorting with hurt, jealousy, rage and affection on the floor of my apartment. Every swipe of my finger on the screen of my phone brought me another image reporting to me fullness of the potential of the softness I had felt with you in that beach hotel, but with another person. I don’t remember when I began to cry, much less when I decided it was not fair to tell you how I felt. What was to be gained from such an exchange, where was the kindness? Yet my heart was broken, anyway. Such a loss. The man I loved was again a married man. Another philosopher. The world seemed to be full of them.

Want to get down and dirty with sexual ethics? You can buy Fucking Law by Victoria Brooks here.

Victoria Brooks is a writer and researcher in the area of sexual ethics. She writes academic, non-fiction, creative non-fiction, fiction and media essays on the ethics and expression of queer women’s sexuality. Victoria has recently published Fucking Law, a creative non-fiction book on the power of women’s sexuality to create new regimes of ethics for Zero Books. In literary journals she has published on the power of erotica for Overland, on Bi-phobia for Paragon Press.

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