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Yahoo
26-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Yahoo
I don't want to live in a world that criminalises unconventional sex
I don't have a pension pot for my dotage, but long thought that if I fell on hard times I could start a sex cult. After all, I used to edit the Erotic Review magazine and am the proud owner of an antler-horn headdress. At least, that was the plan until the New York trial of OneTaste founder Nicole Daedone and her head of sales, Rachel Cherwitz, started this month. The glossy duo, who ran an alternative lifestyle company focused on women's erotic pleasure, are charged with conspiracy to commit forced labour after a number of adherents said that they were coerced into having sex with colleagues and potential investors. Details of the allegations were laid out in investigations by Bloomberg, then a BBC podcast and, most infamously, in Netflix's Orgasm Inc, which incorporated passages from diaries written by a former sales rep for the company, Ayries Blanck. For anyone who doesn't scour streaming services for lurid sex documentaries, a little explication may be required. I feel fairly qualified on the topic, as I flew to San Francisco in 2011 to interview Daedone about OneTaste and her book Slow Sex: the Art and Craft of the Female Orgasm. The author and CEO had garnered ideas from Tantra, Buddhism and yoga and crafted them into what she dubbed 'Orgasmic Meditation', or OMing for short. The practice was conceived as an antidote to the 'harder, faster!' school of male-centric sex and was focused on female anatomy and pleasure. So far, so laudable; but the practice was also highly unorthodox – or plain whackjob, depending on your outlook. In essence, it involved women removing their lower clothing and reclining on a nest of cushions, before their OMing partner (generally a man) stroked their intimate anatomy for 15 minutes in a prescribed manner. This tended to occur in a room filled with other nesting couples with the avowed intention to build enhanced capacity for pleasure. Daedone and one of her wing women explained all this to me in a coffee bar, while radiating the beatific glow of sexy cats who'd drunk all the cream. I felt a bit like I'd fallen down a time wormhole and ended up at Woodstock circa 1969. I found Daedone intelligent, persuasive and charismatic: characteristics that would lead to her downfall, as she stepped ever further into Sex-guru Land. She espoused her wish for OM classes to be taught 'like yoga' in gyms across the US and the UK, to which I replied that while the idea might fly in hippy-dippy California, I couldn't see Milton Keynes's WI discarding their knickers in a David Lloyd club. However, not long afterwards OneTaste opened a branch in London and a handful of erotically short-changed women I knew (mostly divorcees) signed up for classes. One was so enthused she flew out to California for more in-depth courses. They were far from being the only enthusiasts; in 2018 Daedone appeared on Gwynneth Paltrow's Goop podcast, making the zenith of OneTaste's social acceptability. Shortly after that, Bloomberg ran an exposé on the movement's business practices: some members had fallen into heavy debt after paying for courses and others had felt pressurised into sexual liaisons. It also transpired that OneTaste had paid Ayries Blanck (author of the Netflix diaries) $325,000 to settle a labour dispute. Then the FBI started their own investigation and it was widely reported that Daedone and Cherwitz were going to be charged with sex trafficking. I felt rather like I do when told a married couple who enthusiastically embraced swinging had suddenly filed for divorce: who would have thought it, apart from absolutely everyone? But I still found it hard to view the upfront, engaging Daedone as an evil sex slaver. Rarely has a person been more candid about their methodology and objectives; she was even transparent about her drive to monetise the practice. It was also hard to say practitioners had zero idea what they were getting into, since their first view of OneTaste involved half-naked women reaching orgasmic plateaus in a group setting. But Daedone may well have encouraged some obsessive and vulnerable devotees to sit at her feet, amidst the hardy. It's not hard to believe duty of care was woefully insufficient and that some members experienced severe regrets and trauma. Even so, I'm troubled by the court case. Especially now that (dramatic drum-roll) Ayries Blanck's diaries have been disallowed as evidence, after the defence team substantiated their claim they were faked. It transpired the hand-written journals were copied from a computer document years after the events described took place. Also that the computer file appears to have been edited by various interested parties, casting doubts on its authenticity. Furthermore, Blanck's sister Autymn was paid $25,000 by Netflix to present archival material on behalf of her sister. Another perturbing factor is the charge itself: 'conspiracy to commit forced labour', rather than 'forced labour'. The odd wording may be due to the fact complainants admit no force was exerted on them. They were free to stay or leave OneTaste, to live in a communal house or elsewhere, to take breaks and use their mobiles as they pleased. So, it seems to me that what's on trial might more properly be viewed as sway – the kind of charisma that makes people keen to do your bidding and seek approbation, or to feel outcast if that approval is withdrawn. Many people will have had a boss, partner, parent or even religious leader who had this power over them. It can feel deeply unethical and people who have been in thrall to such personalities often bitterly regret their choices. But they will also likely find that other followers still lionise and defend that mesmerising figure. Daedone walks to court flanked by women supporters. Whatever your view on OneTaste, their alleged misdemeanours pale beside those of other high-profile cases going on in NYC at the moment: Sean 'Diddy' Combs trial for sex trafficking and Harvey Weinstein's appeal against rape and assault convictions. Isn't it possible that Daedone and Cherwitz are careless kooks and egomaniacs, not sex offenders? And that if they are found guilty, we may enter a world where no one takes personal responsibility for questionable choices. One where the state feels free to criminalise unconventional sex. If so, that is not a world I want to live in. Broaden your horizons with award-winning British journalism. 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Telegraph
07-03-2025
- General
- Telegraph
I hate smacking but I know why ‘reasonable punishment' law still exists
When my late mother turned 60, my four siblings and I made a mockumentary based on our 'deprived' childhood as a taskforce for the cruel publican and workhouse overseer, Hazel Pelling. It featured scenes of us dragging branches from local woods, clearing brambles, hauling coal, scything grass, doing laundry. You get the picture. But the footage that made us laugh most were scenes where my big sister dressed up as mum, bent me and my little sister over her lap, and smacked our bottoms. My mother was the kindest woman on the planet, with an innate tenderness for children, but even she – back in the antediluvian 1970s – thought it appropriate to punish naughty children with a swift, smart smack on the rump. Aimed to startle, not hurt. This only happened when you had done something so bad (like starting a fight in the back of the car) that she sorrowfully explained there was no other recourse. I really do believe that old chestnut that it hurt her more than it hurt us. Yet my own sons, when told about the wicked ways of the past, yelped: 'you should have called Childline!' Does being smacked as a child linger long in the psyche? Put it like this: the main arena where I've encountered smacking in adult life was during my Erotic Review years, when I encountered various males who eagerly sought corporal punishment from obliging dominatrices. The fact they want to re-enact the brutality of their prep school and boarding years did nothing to reassure me that the practice leaves no mental scars. Although CP has, at least, given us the late Christopher Hitchens's delicious observation that there's no Englishman's name which isn't improved by the insertion of the word 'spanker' between his Christian and surname. He's right. Just try it with almost any male politician. George 'Spanker' Osborne, for a random example. The debate over smacking is, of course, far from over. The Royal College of Paediatrics and Child Health have just called for England's lawmakers to ensure this form of punishment is outlawed. Although almost all child behavioural experts believe no form of physical chastisement is ever justified, our law currently stops short of an outright ban and a parent is allowed to argue, if they've struck their child, that the smack was 'reasonable punishment'. I abhor all acts of violence against children, but I can see why the British law retains this caveat. Because I'm ashamed that I have, in a few moments of extremis, smacked my children. It felt like a failure at the time and an even greater failing now, while they don't even remember it. One occasion was when my then three-year-old, who was what people nervously call 'hyperactive', rushed into the road into the path of a car despite me yelling frantically at him to stop. I was so terrified by this near-death moment, and so determined for it not to happen again, that I found myself striking his hand with a massive 'NO!'. I was observed by other parents. And then came my gibbering apologies at everyone, including my son. The other moment involved my older son throwing a rock at his brother's head; they were 5 and 1 at the time. I lost control in both instances because I was so shocked. I hugely regret it and the knowledge I'd done it out of fear and frustration left me determined never to smack them again. But I don't think I'd have done anyone a service by clogging up our courts and jail system. Or acted as a deterrent to the seriously violent parents who indisputably exist. What my household all remember far more clearly is the time I went full feral and bit my older son. No, there was not a full moon, turning me into a bristling werewoman. I'd just watched my older boy bite his younger brother very hard despite endless lecturing about this being beyond the pale. So I instinctively grabbed his arm to show him how frightening the gesture could be, leaving saliva on his woolly jumper. But now it's gone down in family legend as the moment mummy should have been dragged off by men in white coats. Even writing these words, I fear that someone may report me to social services. (Goodbye, free world!). But the actual truth of the matter is that my boys are plotting to recreate this epic family scene on celluloid for my own 60th in three years time. We all survived it and feel wiser for the realisation that peace and love is ALWAYS the answer.
Telegraph
03-03-2025
- Entertainment
- Telegraph
Playboy has finally remembered what men like – slim, beautiful women
Erotica doesn't lend itself well to ideological agendas. The more you try to police sexual literature, art and fantasies, and impose your personal politics upon them, the less sexy they become. So, I'm not surprised to learn that the 'woke' version of Playboy – relaunched in 2019 with an eye on the MeToo movement – has bitten the dust. The revamped zero-nudity version of the mag involved photospreads of plus-size singer Lizzo and gender non-conforming pop star Halsey, while Playboy bunnies were rechristened 'brand ambassadors'. They followed in the bunny-prints of the first transgender playmate, Ines Rau, who debuted in 2017 following Hugh Hefner's death. The progressive millennial editorial team, two women and one gay man, declared: 'Today, we strive to be more inclusive, stretching and redefining tired and frankly sexist definitions of beauty, arousal and eroticism.' Intrepid but hubristic, when you consider the fact sexuality inevitably erupts volcanically from any form of suppression: religious, political, cultural or just the passing tyranny of the gender police. Consider the great mass of historical erotica, stretching from fertility symbols like the super-buxom Venus of Willendorf and well-endowed Adonis of Zschernitz, to the explicit brothel murals of Pompey, through to Thomas Rowlandson's bawdy etchings and onwards to the first Playboy, published in December 1953, with Marilyn Monroe on the cover. The remarkable thing is how consistent expressions of human lust tend to be. This was brought home to me most vividly when I was editor of the Erotic Review magazine and had to host a London screening of short explicit movies from the start of the 20th century – released to cinemas as The Good Old Naughty Days (2002). The films' cast consisted of virile off-duty film crew and comely Parisian prostitutes, coupling in positions and scenarios that remained popular a century later. Never has the expression 'there's nothing new under the sun' seemed more apt. The fact is most erotica involves an idealised view of the human figure. For all the recent cultural assertions of queer identity, gay male erotica (the second largest body of smut after the straight variety) remains remarkably consistent over centuries in its fetishisation of beautiful young bodies, defined musculature and prominent genitals. Many such images of St Sebastian in classical art still induce sharp intakes of breath, like Guido Reni's almost absurdly sensual version in Genoa (beloved by Oscar Wilde). The same sexual conservatism can be observed in fantasies favoured by lesbians. I was interested to note, when piling through Gillian Anderson's recent compilation of women's sexual fantasies, Want, that a disproportionate number of gay and non-binary women confessed to being turned on by imagining themselves impregnated by straight men and then lactating (apparently this fetish is known as 'hucow', or human cow): a scenario straight out of The Handmaid's Tale. Evolutionary biologists would say we are primed to respond to certain signifiers of health and fertility in our erotic daydreams, despite the moralisers scolding us for wrong think. Which is why perfectly rational women of my acquaintance, aged 50-70, openly lust after straight hunk Leo Woodall, 28-year-old star of the new Bridget Jones movie. It's also why straight women keep claiming they want potential love interests to be sensitive, feminist allies, then swoon all over SAS types instead. It certainly explains why imposing modern, multi-gender identity politics on Playboy centrefolds didn't turn out to be an epic success story. Admitting defeat, the 2025 relaunch of Playboy aims itself squarely at the unreconstructed conservative male demographic, bringing back Barbie-proportioned figures and unabashed nudity in the form of cover girl Lori Harvey and Playmate of the year, model Gillian Nation (as naked centrefold). Nature is quoted as saying, 'I like a masculine guy. I'm very feminine, so I appreciate the contrast.' It's all straight from the Donald Trump play book. I won't be part of the readership as my personal kink is imaginative, literary erotica involving intense flirtation, like an X-rated screwball comedy. But I wouldn't dream of imposing my taste on anyone else: there's nothing less sexy than tyranny.
Telegraph
06-02-2025
- Entertainment
- Telegraph
Now not even Lego is safe from today's gender obsessed loonies
I've been going to I loved connecting electric circuits to make a tiny light bulb come on: thrilling entertainment in the power-restricted dolour of the 1970s. Three decades later I took my own children, who were excited to discover, courtesy of an infrared camera mapping visitors by bodily warmth, that their mum was so frozen she was practically the living dead. I marched home triumphant to my thermostat-restricting husband and told him it had been 'scientifically proven' that I was colder than the great mass of humanity. What I never visited this historic institution for, was enlightenment about queer identity or gender fluidity. Kenneth Williams, David Bowie and Jan Morris did that job excellently in the 1970s and countless thinkers and celebrities have taken up the baton since. But someone at the Science Museum still believed it imperative to instigate a self-guided tour that alerts visitors to 'stories of queer communities, experiences and identities'. This might make sense if the remit was reminding people of the inhumane way that geniuses, such as Alan Turing, were once treated purely on the grounds of their sexuality. But, no, the Gender and Sexuality Network at the Science Museum, who devised the queer tour Apparently, the Danish plastic bricks adds weight to the 'heteronormative' notion that there are only two sexes, because the protruding nodules can be seen as male, while the 'bottom of the brick with holes to receive the [nodules] is female, and the process of the two sides being put together is called mating'. Forgive me, I did not write this gargantuan tosh and I'd happily incarcerate those who did for crimes against meaning and poor old science. One unexpected offshoot of viewing the world through these queer-tinted glasses is that they've rendered my house totally obscene. For years, I worried that my shelves were smutty because of the books and magazines I hoarded when editing the Erotic Review. Now, I gather that's a minor issue compared to the teetering towers of filth on every surface in every room (yes, my 20-year-old and his dad still build Lego). Wherever you look there are crazed, copulating bricks making the Lego mini figure with two backs. I must admit it makes some sense of the fact that every time I clear away a great pile of bricks, more appear in their place. It's not only Lego that's had the queer-eye-for-the-straight-exhibit makeover. The museum's tour also steers you to a Spitfire. Not for the sublime engineering and roar of its Rolls-Royce Merlin engine, but because one exceptionally brave fighter pilot (then POW), the racing driver Robert Marshall Cowell, transitioned in his 30s, becoming Roberta. There are other egregious examples, but just repeating this guff makes me want to run amok with a woman-normative rolling pin. You'd think the Science Museum would have learnt its lesson in 2023 when a cabinet titled 'Boy or Girl', citing transition as a 'hero's journey' and displaying chest-binding equipment and an imitation penis,
