Her outdoors: `Then there's the Brazilian bikini wax - like the Comet
Independent, The (London), Mar 25, 2001 by Rowan Pelling

After four years' hard slog at the coalface of eroticism, I have been paid a tribute by my porno colleagues working on the deeper, richer seams of filth. The new publisher of Penthouse magazine wrote to me this week and asked whether I would consider disrobing for "a sizeable sum of money". Consider? I'd consider doing anything for a sizeable sum of money. My only problem is that my notion of "sizeable" could differ wildly from Penthouse's. Annie Blinkhorn, my assistant editor, with her customary pragmatism, said that it would be interesting to know my market value. I disagreed. What would be interesting was the price I put on myself. Just how low would I go?

It reminded me of a game I used to play when I worked in Hamleys' Christmas grotto, 15 years ago. I would stand at the top of the fifth- floor escalator with another teen-elf nymphet, Pippa, and we would rate every man who appeared according to how much we would have to be paid to sleep with him. Richard Branson bobbed up once and smashed through the million-pound barrier. (Which is where the film Indecent Proposal falls down: Robert Redford is a small bunch of fivers, compared to most shoppers.)

It seemed that my price would depend on what Penthouse demanded of me. I flicked through the latest issue, the first since the arrival of a new management regime. For those of you not on the porn grapevine, Penthouse has recently passed through the hands of several publishers including Northern & Shell, the new owners of the Daily Express (who, in the view of the founder of Penthouse, Bob Guccione, managed the considerable feat of taking his porn mag downmarket). The current incarnation sticks firmly to traditional top-shelf guidelines. There are plenty of big bosoms and pseudo-lesbians. The girls are pretty in a big-haired way and some poses are mildly inventive. There's one where a girl sits back in a chair with her legs in the air as if in a gynaecologist's stirrups, while attempting to pull both stockings off with her teeth. Annie and I had a go at that one on the office sofa and found it a surprisingly hard pose to hold, quite apart from the havoc it wreaked with our nylons.
 

With all this in mind, I started to count the cost of the hidden extras that my fee would have to cover. First, there are the months of work with a yoga teacher to ensure I'm supple enough to do all the poses. Then there's the Brazilian bikini wax (like the Comet sale, everything must go) which requires a pain and indignity supplement, and the holiday in Mauritius for the requisite deep golden tan. There's the make-up artist, to make me look 20, and the personal stylist, to steer me round Ann Summers, and the "fluffer" to make sure my nipples are erect by judicious use of ice cubes (though Chris Peachment in my office says he'll do this for free). When you add to this the implants I'll need so my breasts jut out at the requisite perky 90o-angle to my body, the "sizeable sum" will have to be at least six figures, I'm telling you.

There's no way that I can negotiate such a fee without the help of a professional, which is why I'm drafting a letter to my literary agent, David Godwin. It's true that David's an erudite sort of chap who's more accustomed to dealing with Faber & Faber than Penthouse but, to hell with it, at the end of the day it's just another deal. With luck he can bring Playboy into the frame and throw in a visit to Heff's mansion. I'm just asking him to stipulate two things: no bottoms, no animals. I may have my price, but I still have my pride.

Rowan Pelling is editor of "The Erotic Review"