My Son, the Pornographer

WC 1039

My Son, the Pornographer

By Jack Rawlins

My name is Izzy Swartz. I’m a columnist for Pheromone Magazine, a slick (some say sick) publication dedicated to erotica. My pen name is Pappou Eros; that’s Greek, I think, for Granddaddy Love. (My associates call me Pop-Pop Porn.)
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I had worked at Pheromone for six months when Silky Cacoon, the owner, editor and publisher called me into her office for a chat, i.e. ass chewing.

“Damn it, Pappou,” she exploded, “I expect a monthly column from you by the twentieth of the month preceding publication. When I call after you’ve missed your deadline--which is always-- I get the same lame excuse, ‘Woe is me! I’m having trouble finding a premise.’

“Buddy, the woe is l mine. I’m the editor who has to fill the space with copy from a bunch of procrastinators like you who keep me hanging until our printer threatens to take a sabbatical unless I get things under control.

“And what the hell do you mean ‘trouble finding a premise?’ You know our premise, for God’s sake: hot sex, steamy sex, titillating sex, sex, sex!

“You know why writers hate editors? Because writers like you---yes like you, Pappou--make us mean, that’s why.”

“I don’t know, Chief. The older I get the tougher it is to write dirty.”

“Oh, here we go again. Damn it, I’m not asking you to write dirty; I’m asking for erotica.”

“There’s not much difference, Boss.”

“Oh yes there is. You should know that by now.”

“You’re right, Chief. I know the difference. Erotica uses nicer words.”

“Please, skip the philosophical dissing of the genre. And Pappou, please stop calling me Boss or Chief. Call me Silky. Oh, hell! Call me anything. Just get me your column by tomorrow --- which I point out, is already a week late.”

“By the way, do you have a title for it?”

“Yes. ‘A French Tickler Is Not a Parisian Comic.’”

“And the theme is?”

“Sex toys.”

“And your message?”

“Millions are wasted on unnecessary gadgets to enhance doing what comes naturally.”

“Okay. Sounds like you already have it in your head. Write it—by tomorrow. Or else.”

“Or else what, Silky?”

“Pappou, did you ever consider another line of work? If you haven’t you should. You had better let your writer’s woe be gone, or you will be.”

After our little chat, I wrote the column. Silky and the editorial review committee loved it and she let her lovely face full of grace shine on me again.

But I was troubled. I couldn’t tell Silky the truth…the reason behind my procrastination. It was my mother. Mother gave me writer’s constipation. I couldn’t pass a coherent thought without strain. When I finally got it out, I worried what she would think of it and me.

As a writer, I wanted recognition and response. I got the recognition albeit with my pseudonym. Response I got plenty of in my hate mail. But I also needed approval. At forty-one, I was divorced, the father of two young adults, and respected by my peers. Yet, I still wanted my momma to be proud of me. She was not.

When I told her I was going to be a columnist for Pheromone Magazine she went on a bagel and blintz blitz and gained six pounds in six weeks. She said it was my fault she was nibbling her way down the road to early obesity and premature death.

Every time I called she wailed, “Oh, it’s my son the pornographer. My son the Harvard grad who graduated cum laude so he could write dirty stories. My son who should be talking about suing people, not about people screwing.

“Your poor father-- who should rest in peace-- must be spinning with aggravation.”

I think what bothered her most was that she could not brag about my line of work. She said, “When I play bridge it’s always, My son Irving, the attorney; My son Morris, the doctor; My son Herbert, the realtor…blah, blah, brag, brag, brag. What can I say? My son Izzy, the pornographer?”

“Momma,” I explained, “I don’t write pornography. I write erotica.”’

“Okay, Mr. Smarty pants,” she says, “What is pornography about? Sex. What is erotica about? Sex. So why quibble? You write dirty stuff.”

I knew she read every word I ever wrote. Some of it was pretty strong, and it embarrassed me to think about her reading it.

Finally, I realized, the only way I could get her approval was to change jobs. So I started looking. Editors all wanted to see my clippings. They liked my writer’s voice and light touch when dealing with the serious topic of sexuality, but they doubted my ability to switch venues.

I continued to struggle with my personal issues, but motivated by the need to pay alimony and to support my life-style, I produced my monthly column. And then, I got a major break.

I did a column titled, “Long Johns as an Aphrodisiac; Open the Trap Door to Turn up the Heat.” It was reprinted many times, bounced about among bloggers, and cited by therapists with a sense of humor. Overnight, I became a minor celebrity.

When her friends talked about Pappou Eros with the same respect accorded Oprah, Dr. Phil and Dr. Ruth-- Momma began to soften.

In December she became an ardent supporter. That’s when I was awarded the semi-serious Golden Phallus as columnist of the year at Pheromone Magazine.

At last Momma had a bragging platform: “My son Izzy, the writer, received this year’s Golden Phallus Award. It’s no Oscar, mind you, but you should see already how nice it looks on his mantel.”


Okay, so I’m a momma’s boy. When I earned her approval, I left my writer’s woe behind me. At the same time, I earned Silky’s approval. She and I are engaged to be married.

Our romance came on like a tsunami. It struck us one night in her condo. We were discussing our editorial calendar over a few martinis, when something triggered our old debate about pornography versus erotica.

Suddenly--which was her style--she said,”Let’s cut all this philosophical crap. Ravish me.”

So I did.

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