Guy New York is a bestselling erotica author and publisher with more than 25 titles to his name. With two full length novels, numerous short works, and a thousand free stories on his blog Quickies in New York, his books have been widely read and occasionally burned.
The last few months have seen some big changes and some wonderful memories. I moved to two days a week at my office so I can focus mostly on writing, and I’m halfway through two new novels: Beertown and The Oyster Hunters.
I got Piper a TENS unit for her birthday, we went out for some fancy drinks, and of course ate a whole ton of oysters. And I even got to see some snow up north over the holidays. All in all it’s been good changes even if they come with their own stresses.
Here are photos from the last month or so that kind of sum up what I’ve been doing.
Playboy got a lot of press a while back when they announced they would no longer be featuring nudes in the magazine. Some people praised them, some criticized, and many more simply ignored it as uninteresting in a time when intern porn is so copious as to be almost boring.
Here’s what bothers me about it: I hate when organizations choose to stop instead of improve. I know there are plenty of reasons for the decisions (magazine sales in China sounds like the most plausible excuse) but a part of me wishes they had taken another direction instead.
If you want to stand out in a crowded market, do it better. For years Playboy featured some of the most notable photographers in the world. Mixed in with good writing, decent journalism, and some beautiful advertising, the magazine occasionally looked nearly as classy as they pretended to be. But the main work, the photographs they featured every month, just got worse and worse. Not only did the airbrushing make the images feel less real, but the quality simply got bad.
So, instead of banishing their nude photos with claims of “we can’t compete with porn” why not just do it better? They’ve featured Herb Ritts, Mapplethorpe, Helmut Newton, and Richard Avedon in the past, and there are just as many, if not more, brilliant photographers today taking actual sexy photos. There are artists turning out work that is compelling, boundary pushing, and beautiful. Why not use them? Why not introduce us to new artists and new models? Why not simply try harder?
It’s a shame Playboy decided to become like everyone else instead of asking what the next step might look like. It’s a shame they decided to water themselves down instead of stepping up and taking a risk.
“Quickies in New York is a delightful original content Tumblr… The blog is a real gem. Bravo!”
—Violet Blue, Forbes Web Celeb,
It’s out! After a couple of long hard weeks, The Complete Quickies in New York is finally available as one giant, sexy, print book. It’s 814 pages long and weighs in at 2.2lbs, so make sure your back is in good shape before picking it up.
All the details are on the Amazon page, including my author note, so all I’ll say is I’m incredibly proud of the book. Blogging often feels like a pointless endeavor, so after seven years it’s incredibly gratifying to have all of my work in one place, printed on real paper, and available in two days.
As always, I’d really appreciate a review of the book if you have the time. They make all the difference.
Thanks again for all your love and support.
Everyone should take a turn writing smut. Not just any smut, but honest smut. If every single one of you wrote down the most honest, filthy, soul-bearing pages of porn you could muster, the world would be a better place.
Here’s what it would look like if we all took the time to do it: We’d have a world where all of us know what we like, know how we want it, and know who we want it with. We’d have a world where people are fully capable of distinguishing fantasy from reality, and we’d have a world where all of us would know how to communicate our wants and desires to our partners because we’ve already done it a thousand times.
We would bust open every myth about “male and female sexuality” in a matter of weeks, and might finally start with a blank page when we climbed into bed instead of outdated expectations and assumptions. We’d no longer need to assume anything, because we could ask and we could answer. If the whole world wrote honestly about what we want we’d save marriages, end wars, vanquish rape culture, and have a whole lot more fun.
You don’t have to share it. You don’t have to publish it. You don’t need to leave it on the bed for your partners to read when they lie down, and you don’t need to read it at open mics around the world. But just imagine if we gave ourselves the room to feel exactly as we feel? Imagine if we let ourselves want exactly what we want? And imagine if we learned to say yes and no without fear or shame.
If everyone wrote some horribly filthy smut on occasion, we might just save the world.
I recently came across this article on Cultura Inquieta about the photographer Hugues Erre, whose work I hadn’t seen before. It’s beautiful art, both the sexy things and the non, and it was a pleasure to be introduced to it.
One of the things that’s always drawn me in as a writer and a lover of photography is the very normal details that I find erotic. For me at least, being able to relate in some way to an image or a story makes it all the more appealing, so stories of millionaires, images of fashion models in penthouse apartments, and other fantasy tales are usually less appealing.
But on occasion, a great photographer captures or a look or a glimpse of something that draws me in. A normal every day action suddenly is erotic based purely on capturing the right moment. It’s something I struggle do to in my writing, and always love when I see in a photo.
When it comes to all things old and dirty, I wonder if we often simply give ourselves permission to enjoy them without the same judgement we otherwise reserve for more contemporary pieces of explicit art.
A few months ago there was an article on the Huffington Post about the Victorian erotica artist Franz von Bayros. It was titled “19th-Century Lesbian Erotica Is A Truly Salacious Treat (NSFW),” which is a hell of a string of keywords. And while I wouldn’t consider the HuffPo to be an especially conservative news outlet (okay, not sure I would call it a news outlet at all) it was interesting to see them publishing fairly explicit illustrations.
No one will fault you for reading Anais Nin on the train, and a Helmut Newton print on your wall will get your a far different response than a screen shot from Brazzers. And yes, clearly there are different levels of erotic art, and I don’t mean to lump the old in with the old and the new in with the new simply for the sake of division. But I do suspect that age has a lot to do with how comfortable we are with dirty things. (Possibly in fifty years our contemporary porn will have the same vintage nostalgic feel that an old stag film does today.) Maybe it’s because it wasn’t made for us, and that lets us feel removed from it, or maybe it’s simply that it’s no longer culturally positioned as obscene.
Whatever the reasons, I’m always happy to see erotic art make an appearance in mainstream culture. I just hope that we might also be willing to accept the new along with the old. It may be easier to enjoy something we view as quaint (even if we still think it’s hot) but our willingness to talk about what turns us on and what type of explicit content we like to consume is hugely important in creating a safer and more fun world.
I got my proof copy in for the Complete QNY, and my god is it a big book. It comes in at 806 pages and in a 5×8 book it makes for quit the brick. Amazon had some trouble printing it as you can see in the spine, so I have to make some choices about how to move ahead. I’m currently working on a new cover (I want to showcase a wider range of photos from TDG) and editing the interior.
I still haven’t counted the actual number of stories in the book, but I suspect it’s close to 1,000. Which means I have a lot of nit-picky work to do in order to get it ready for the masses. Luckily I like that sort of thing.
Walking the High Line, we fuck everywhere.
The bench over there with the couple watching us as they kissed through shielded hands; the wall beneath the hotel, in a shadow perfectly placed to give us minutes of biting thrusts; the elevator that somehow doesn’t open until someone calls it down; each one was a new story.
As we walk back through the village, the stories are the same. We climbed into a loft we can barely see from the streets and fucked on their oversized bed as the dog growled through the closed door. In the stairways to the bar that never opens, I knelt on the chipped stone and buried my mouth between her thighs as she smiled at the few tourists who paused to stare.
In the park it’s under arches, against trees, and in the boats that bob like apples in the shallow pond. We pass rooftops with perfect views, museums designed for clandestine blowjobs, and tiny apartments where I tied her to brick walls as we whipped pleasure into perfection.
Hand in hand, we walk and walk, looking up and down, as the images fill our heads. Some days we walk for hours, the stories spilling from our lips before we pour ourselves onto a bench, and I wrap her in my arms and hold her forever.
Fucking in the East Village is very different from fucking on the Upper West Side.
The first time I fucked in the village I was drunk and jealous, and we tore at each other’s bodies and hearts with a slightly innocent anger that lead to amazing sex. It was dirty and tender and we both knew that in just a few hours we’d be lying across someone else’s lap.
At 81st and Columbus it was a tryst that felt completely wrong, and so hot I could barely contain myself. It wasn’t supposed to happen and we both knew it as much as we tried to forget. I got lost in her red curls, and she turned his picture down on the bedside table.
The West Village reminds me of our three bodies in the shower, on the long couch by the exposed brick wall, and finally up in the loft without a window. You watched us, and it was my first taste of another man. We laughed as we struggled with something completely new, and he fucked you like a happy puppy as I held your hair.
The Upper East Side is blowjobs in central park and horrible food. We always found the worst places to eat and since we couldn’t fuck in the apartment we managed everywhere else. It often felt like an obligation that was better relived in a story than experienced at the time, but I loved you more than I could ever express with my body.
When I’m fucking under the shadow of the Williamsburg Bridge my body is made of water and I always see the sun rise.
This morning in New York four hundred cab drivers yelled fuck you out their windows before eight am.
Two and a half thousand NYU students jerked themselves off before getting out of bed, and twelve senior citizens had sex in the shower propping themselves up on accessibility chairs and hand rails. Seven hundred people woke up with come in their hair and three hundred dogs peed on the floor at the prospect of going out into the snow.
Forty-seven-thousand-three-hundred and sixty two people had morning sex, and nearly half of them closed their eyes and thought of someone else just before they came. Nine hundred boys spied on their sisters getting dressed for school, and three hundred teachers tried not to think of their students as they touched themselves in the shower.
This morning in New York a million cups of coffee were made, along with three hundred thousand egg and cheese sandwiches and seventy five thousand chai lattes. Nineteen people had anal sex for the first time and only four of them cried. As the snow started to fall, seven thousand New Yorkers tried–and failed–to call in sick, and at exactly 8:15 two thirds of the cats in the city were still sleeping.
Just as the sun was coming up, twenty-six people fucked on yoga mats and one hundred and sixty three people hit snooze for the seventh time.
This morning in New York three thousand people said I love you for the first time, and three thousand people said goodbye.