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publishers of D. H. Lawrence and James Joyce are correct to bemoan the chilling effect this has had on including sexuality in “serious” (i.e., non-pornographic) fiction. But they miss another crucial point. Because the censors are even more afraid of well-written porn than they are of expletive-ridden drivel, publishers shy away from pornographic manuscripts that are too literary because in the past, this has incurred the wrath of the authorities. The dearth of good writing in porn is at least as tragic as the dearth of sex in literature. It persists despite the fact that literary quality is now considered to be one sort of social value that may rescue a work from being declared obscene and vulnerable to being confiscated and destroyed, at least in this country.
    The task of creating high-quality pornography is a challenge worthy of any talented writer. It just isn’t that easy to get a reader hopelessly and unforgettably aroused. I am not talking about the auto-erotic Pavlovian response that some of us have developed to the repetition of certain key words. I am talking about phrases that stay with the reader, images that come back in the middle of a work day and make her blush, a book that she will want to read again and won’t loan to her friends because she knows she’ll never get it back—not a disposable paperback she can toss into the garbage without remembering if she ever read it or not.
    Sadly, a lot of the new lesbian porn (brave as it is) flunks what Dorothy Allison calls “the wet test.” When you are writing for free, which most of the contributors to the lesbian-owned sex magazines are, it’s difficult to take enough time to transform a rough draft into an effective piece of stimulation. But there’s another problem that all the money in the world won’t solve, and that’s the fact that many lesbian pornographers just aren’t brave enough. I suspect that many of us aren’t writing about what really gets us wet. We’re writing about what we think should get us wet. Or we’re writing about what we did last weekend, which might have been very nice then, thank you, but doesn’t stretch the imagination. Journal entries make lousy fiction.
    â€œFeminist erotica” that presents a simplistic view of lesbian sex as two women in love in a bed who embody all the good things the patriarchy is trying to destroy isn’t very sexy. This stuff reads as if it were written by dutiful daughters who are trying to persuade Mom that lesbian sex isn’t dirty, and we really are good girls, after all. It isn’t challenging or stirring enough. The auto-erotically inclined lesbian reader deserves more bang for her buck. And Mom is never going to believe that nice girls put their hands in other girls’ panties, anyway. It’s much more inspiring for an aspiring pornographer to dispense with wearing her panties, or wear them on her head. Lesbian writers have got to loosen up, drop our drawers, spread our cheeks, stick out our tongues, get nasty.
    Women—especially lesbians—exist under conditions that make us frightened to step out of line, frightened to challenge the status quo, almost unable to imagine what bold and brassy, peacock creatures we could be if we were free. Lesbian culture is impoverished. And if we are ever going to be free, we must have a vision of that woman of the future, including her ideas about what “sexy” means and looks like, and what “pleasure” is, and what it’s worth.
    Sex may seem like a trivial part of a radical, futuristic vision, but if we are not safe to indulge in this playful, vulnerable, and necessary activity, pleasure ourselves and the others who fascinate us, how safe can a society be for women? A world that guaranteed food, shelter, medical care, full employment, literacy, day care, civil rights and democracy, but denied us sexual license, would make us nothing but well-fed