Velvet Tongue: Winter 2014

Velvet Tongue is Ernesto Sarezale’s erotic literary salon in the heart of London, held in a red-curtained basement beneath a bustling Shoreditch sports bar. Patrick Cash went to investigate the night.

Ernesto Sarezale – all images by John Abdn

I think the attraction of Velvet Tongue is in its vital and necessary expression of what you’ve been told, in most areas of polite society, shouldn’t be said. Sex wires us, it writhes through us and ties our brains to the world and to each other: so why don’t we talk about it more? But if someone you met in a bar was to start talking about their innermost fantasies, cumming on the face, the size of the dicks she wants, voyeurism, ‘both their lips kissed at the same time’ or their big cucumber, you’re taught to get these alarm bells ringing. This person is way too open about sex, they really should be avoided.

Amy Acre

But there’s never any avoiding of the sex subject at Velvet Tongue, and judging by the packed crowd down in the basement of Bar Kick, there’s a hell of a lot of people out there who feel we should be more open about sex. With the female-only featured readers in the first half we were treated to a celebration and emancipation of female sexuality through the pure charisma and witty wordplay of the fabulous Amy Acre, and the sensual sentences of the truly velvet-tongued Open Minds.

Open Minds

And whether you were gay, straight, male or female, you couldn’t help but appreciate the full-on earthiness but also plaintive poignancy of Nairobi Thompson’s ode to discovering that the best dick she wanted was not the biggest, but the dick that loved her most and only her.

Nairobi Thompson

And of course the boys entertained with their own tales of carnal exploration and delight later in the evening, from brilliant host Ernesto Sarezale‘s sonnet, to René L’Amour’s conception of sex and mourning’s sometime interconnectedness, and even little old me got up onstage to ask why some boys are obsessed with ‘cumming on the face’ and whether it’s really got anything to do with sex at all.


René L’Amour

Me (Pat Cash)

These were only some of the highlights amongst a heady, involving evening that had us laughing, licking, touching, seeing, believing and enjoying sex with its doers and speakers. Nights that celebrate the sexual and bedroom antics, seeking to remove any shame from its speaking, are becoming more present on London’s literary scene and incorporating all types of sex, straight or gay, into their discourse. And, like sex itself, we’re entirely up for it.



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