I’ll Edit Your Erotica — On Demand

If the prose doesn’t make you blush, perhaps my rock-bottom rates will.

I can’t actually remember my first gig. I’ve corrected the spelling of ‘clitoris’ more times than I can count. I’ve rescued errant G-spots, settling them into more anatomically correct locations. And I’ve suggested time and again that at least a hint of foreplay would help.

I didn’t set out to become a cut-rate smut editor, but now that I am, I have to admit I kind of love it. So does my cat: I spent the first $80 I earned editing erotica on fancy vet-approved food for him.

I’d signed up for Fiverr, an online marketplace for services, after deciding to to pursue full-time the writing career I’d been building steadily for years. I had abandoned my sensible day job at a non-profit and moved from a bustling metropolis to freezing, foggy and financially viable Scotland. A freelance blog that served as my bible suggested outsourcing tasks you didn’t have time for to Fiverr, which allows sellers to hawk their wares for $5 and $5 only.

The site’s name is something of a misnomer — these days, you can charge between $10 to $20 more to deliver in 24 hours. (A surprising number of people want their smut edited with a speedy turnaround.) And people can order multiple gigs. I set my rates at $5 per 2,000 words, which means that my clients usually need to order at least two jobs. Once I hit the jackpot with 120,000 words of historical erotica — despite my best efforts, I doubt the author made that money back.

Fiverr appealed to my inherent laziness because you don’t have to bid on people’s projects, you just set up your stall and wait for the gigs to roll in. So in 2014, with my bank account at an all-time low after making the jump to full-time freelance writing, I joined. I don’t advertise it on social media because, up until now, I haven’t wanted to admit what I’m doing outside of a scotch-fuelled, ‘see-how-quirky-I-am’ anecdote. It isn’t art, you see. I’m not helping bring forth the new David Foster Wallace or Paul Auster like some literary doula. I’m correcting the location of the G-spot in one 5,000-word ‘novella,’ which will be sold on Amazon for 99 cents.

The rest of the time, I’m an arts critic balancing highbrow culture with a love of internet web series and the Jurassic World franchise. I write about feminism and LGBT issues, and I review Booker Prize-winning novels for prestigious literary magazines. For a while, I put an anonymized version of my resumé on Fiverr’s site, although I doubt anyone believed it. Why would someone who had worked for the BBC offer their editorial services for $5 a go?

And why was I?

Well, I was desperate, and it was better than temping. I hate office environments and smart suits, and I can never navigate all the unspoken professional mores of a corporate environment. Plus, working at home is a lot easier on my mental health — I can edit in my pajamas with a jumbo-sized box of Prozac and no one’s the wiser. Picking up Fiverr gigs seemed like a quick fix, one I wouldn’t have to rely on for long, just until my next freelance cheque cleared.

I wasn’t expecting to enjoy it this much. It turns out I love editing, and the flicker of voyeuristic pleasure that comes from peeking into other people’s sexual fantasies doesn’t hurt.

There’s always been a sleazier side to my career. I literally have an MA in sex — Sexual Dissidence and Cultural Change, if you’re going to get technical — and once you’ve sat through a seminar on leather daddies, you know you’re not in Kansas/Metaphysical Poetry anymore. I’ve reviewed sex toys for a living and written for Cosmo, and last year I interviewed a series of gay porn stars for an article, in which I discussed the power structures of the flip-fuck and told my favorite joke about fisting, which can’t be reproduced here because it relies on a very specific hand gesture. In the weirdest way, this is the job that I’m most qualified for.

I have a literary precedent — Anais Nin wrote erotica for $2 a page, a fact I cling to when I haven’t had a pitch accepted all week and need to take extra Fiverr gigs. While the stuff I’m editing isn’t exactly her level (think Molly Bloom’s monologue on a bad day), I am at least performing a vital service. There’s nothing more depressing than imagining someone jerking off to poorly punctuated pornography.

I think the reason I’m ashamed of this little sideline isn’t the subject matter — it’s the pay. Ironically, it pays more reliably than a lot of my freelance work. When major publications are three months late paying a $500 invoice, taking a job for $50 that you know is going to pay within three weeks becomes an attractive option. It helps that I’m fast — as a rule, my hourly rate skews above minimum wage. And it’s rarely a challenging job. Nothing I’ve edited is going to make a Best Erotica of 2015 anthology, let alone make it to Kindle. If I was being brutally honest I’d advise most of my clients to give up and just have a wank, but if I don’t take their money, someone else will. Free market economics, baby.

My most common editorial notes are as follows:

• That’s not where the clitoris is
• That’s not what the clitoris is
• Yeah, this really isn’t as 100% autobiographical as you’re claiming, is it?
• Most women don’t come from having their nipples played with, especially not for a grand total of two seconds
• That’s not consensual sex, that’s rape
• No, seriously. Google ‘consent culture’ and re-write the whole thing with that in mind
• That’s not going to fit. It isn’t flattery, it’s physics.

These days, Fiverr gigs are an occasional supplement to my income, rather than something I rely upon. But if I want to ever own that swanky riverside apartment I’ve been eyeing, maybe I shouldn’t be too hasty. I’d correct a lot of clitoral misspellings for a mezzanine.