So you thought writing hard-core pornography was an easy way to earn a living? You remembered your adolescence and those turgid paperbacks in which the vocabulary was strictly four-letter, the plot rambling and forgotten halfway through the book, and the characters’ names changed periodically as though some of the chapters were lifted bodily from other books? You always suspected that these novels were the first literature produced entirely by computer? Well, you were wrong.

Yes, Virginia, there are real humans turning out such classics as Teacher Gets Taught, High School for Nymphos, and Dating Daddy. Names, of course, are changed to protect the guilty. The big porn publishers in New York and California like to hint that their stable (apt term, that) of writers includes a few serious authors who choose to relax with occasional well-written fantasies, which are ascribed to such fictional creators as “Rod Strong,” “Fanny Fawn,” and “I.M. Willing.”

Although amateurs are encouraged to contribute their manuscripts—the publishers enjoy deflowering new writers as much as their fictional characters enjoy deflowering each other—there are rules. Hard-core pornography is a discipline. You can’t just let it all hang out. One of the biggest porn publishers in New York advises new authors that they should write about “interesting characters in highly erotic situations.” The main character must be female, since the books are geared toward the male market. As this publisher helpfully advises new writers in his pamphlet, “Perhaps the theme could be a sexual problem of some sort which is being experienced by the main character and other characters; and the denouement a solution to that problem.”

The “problem” or “solution” need not be sociologically examined; pornography is no longer scrutinized by judges for “redeeming social value.” The day is past when the first chapter of every such book discussed science, the development of social mores, and the dangers inherent in the Puritan ethic, only to lasciviate over improbable sexual encounters for the next 20 chapters. Nowadays they get down and dirty right away.

The above-mentioned New York publisher also kindly outlines acceptable “problems”: “Incest—this sexual fantasy can involve any combination of family members . . . Nymphos . . . Age Differentiations . . . Career Girls—stories involving the heroine in a career setting (e.g. teacher, nurse, secretary, model . . . the possibilities are endless) . . . ” Not quite endless. Female career stereotypes live on in pornography; the publisher is not interested in the sexual exploits of oversexed lady truck drivers or executives. If these books are a good indication of what men consider sexy, then feminism is doomed. If, on the other hand, women construction workers are as alluring to men as feminists say they should be, the word hasn’t gotten to porn publishers. “Virgins—the sexual initiation of a teenage girl leading to the emergence of a nympho . . . Straying Spouse . . . Swapping . . . Orgies . . . Domination—this should mainly be of psychological nature; although mild bondage and discipline are acceptable.”

If you’re thinking that these categories exhaust the possibilities, you’re wrong. Morality lives (at least with this publisher). “We cannot consider the following themes: male homosexuality, excretion, child molestation, bestiality, violent sado-masochism, murder as part of a sex act.” Finally, “All characters involved sexually must be at least fifteen years of age.” The largest publisher in California is less prudish. Manuscripts featuring male homosexuality are happily accepted. (But science fiction, mystery, and satire of any sort are barred.)

Interracial sex is also prohibited. (Would you want your son to marry a colored boy?) There seems to be no objection to interspecies sex. Novels must have “a minimum of 50 percent erotic action. (We prefer evenly spaced, five-to-ten-page sex scenes.)” They must also contain four-letter words in dialogue and narrative. (“Never use medical, anatomical, or euphemistic terms.”) Keep it simple, stupid. And enclose a stamped, self-addressed envelope.

The result of all this careful screening is a typically thin (150-page) volume with a crude but suggestive line drawing on the cover. On page one, the female lead is described, and her passionate desires hinted at. By page three, she begins a ten-page intimate encounter with a total stranger. Curious friends and neighbors then proceed to drop in (m the busy couple, followed by mailmen, peddlers, and meter-readers. By page 75, the plot is abandoned, and the remainder of the book consists of unrelated sexual incidents lovingly, if confusingly, described. Heroines are all large-breasted, sexually uncontrolled, slightly masochistic, and foul-mouthed. Heroes all well-endowed, supremely confident, slightly sadistic, and foul-mouthed.

Judging from the paltry $500 fee paid the average author, there might be some justice in the popular conception of the writers as strange introverts moldering in garrets. No such stereotype holds for the publishers, though. Clean, modern offices, with a young and pretty receptionist who smiles sweetly at you and inquires about your specialty. If you can answer her without embarrassment, you’re in. “Most of our editors and paid readers are women,” boasts one managing editor. “They’re more articulate, and open to new ideas.” You watch several lady typists replying to hopeful inquiries, and preparing reader reports. “This writer doesn’t have enough explicit action. His people talk too much before getting down to business.” Signed “Maryanne.” “The hero (or the writer) is too much of a prig. He doesn’t even know how to do it.” Signed Susan. The ultimate rejection slip.

“You’d think that every sickie in the world would be sending us reeking, slimy manuscripts,” says the editor. “Actually, most of them are too tame. Or repetitious, unimaginative. They can’t seem to get the juiciest of their fantasies on paper. Maybe they’re still ashamed of their thoughts.” I can’t imagine why.