Can An Irishwoman Write Erotica? Honestly, now, lads.

There is a long and noble tradition of artistic output in my home country, which is odd since we’re shaped kind of like a teddy bear, if you look at us a certain way. Probably the most revered book to come out of Ireland is Ulysses, which was infamous at its release for its explicit sexual content, most of which centred around the repetition of the word ‘yes’ (which, as a proponent of enthusiastic consent, I can get behind).

Unfortunately Ulysses is shite, so as an Irish writer of erotica, I’m struggling to find a role model who demonstrates to me that a nation who grew up watching Bosco and drinking weak, milky tea in the rain can produce blisteringly hot sex scenes.

Seemingly I’m not the only one with this problem, as our greatest recent contribution to both sex and humour has to be the hashtag phenomenon Irish Shades of Grey. I leave you with a sampling of the best tweets, and a link to buy the book, published last year, if (like me) you fear never being able to look a Mikado in the face again.

Some day, I will consider this issue in a more serious fashion. Over a cup of tea and possibly even a Mikado.

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