Is Covid Erotica Hot? We Read Some to Find Out.

Whenever a life-changing, once-in-a-lifetime (fingers crossed), earth-shattering event occurs, what do humans do? Well, apart from emptying stores of toilet paper because coddling their anus will somehow truly save them, they seem to turn towards X-rated content—be it making loads of it, watching loads of it, listening to loads of it, or even writing loads of it. 

Horny authors with a lot of time on their hands have been churning out one-handed pandemic-centric reads that capture the new reality we’ve found ourselves in. While it’s commendable that these erotic fiction authors have kept their productivity high even while the rest of us can hardly get out of bed, they’ve certainly given us more to do while we continue cuddling with ourselves in the said bed. A quick search on Wattpad, Amazon or Goodreads throws up several novellas to do with sexy times taking place between two or more people while stuck indoors, some drawing on classic porn tropes like walking into your naked stepsibling or getting it on with the hot stepmother, many conjuring the virus itself as the ultimate sex god, obviously depicted in varying hues of green. A lot of queer sex shows up too.

“I don’t think there’s anything explicitly sexy about the pandemic itself, but any extreme situation is going to bring about fascinating experiences to explore in terms of sexuality,” author Ian Snow told The Guardian. “Add in isolation, boredom, and plain physical need to the mix, and you’ve got a recipe for some pretty hot stories.” 

But can these authors truly find beauty in a world filled with disease and death? We tried to find out.

What’s it about?
Prolific erotica author Chuck Tingle’s COVID-edition story sees a “hardcore lesbian enounter” (that’s a bit exaggerated, imho) between the protagonist who keeps forgetting to wash her hands and “the physical manifestation of washing my hands”. No, literally. “The physical manifestation of washing my hands” is a character with “two enormous floating hands” and a “beautiful body dripping wet with a continuous supply or warm, soapy water.” 

One-handed read?
There’s a steamy-ish hospital sex scene that didn’t even remotely get me off but for those with quirofilia (a fetish for hands), it might lend a hand to their socially isolated wanks. Like Pornhub’s Scrubhub. This one comes with practical pandemic advice, and if you’re into that sort of thing, it’s worth the 15-minute read. If you come out of it satisfied or with a new schedule to amp that hand-washing, you can donate to a suggested charity or (sic) even one of your choice. Sweet.

Give it to me: Download the free PDF here.

What’s it about?
“Dr. Alexa Ashingtonford is a part of a crack team of scientists tasked with finding the cure to the devastating Coronavirus,” the Goodreads synopsis says. “Little did she know she would end up falling in love with it, in this steamy viral-erotica.” 

One-handed read?
Written by a certain M.J. Edwards, the book personifies the virus itself, and as the cover reveals, he shows up as a muscular man “covered in small, green bumps which sciencey people called spike proteins.” While I honestly don’t mind the humanising of the virus itself, I very much mind the terrible analogies here, especially the ones hinged around food. The writing is full of phrases like “nipple hardening like a tic tac”, while a coronavirus sample is described as popping “like a fresh bowl of Rice Krispies”. In another scene the protagonist is deprived of a “hot man-dog inside her lubricated pussy-bun”, while his tongue becomes “a chunk of microwaved fish”. Finally there’s another scene in which “Covid wrapped her up in his arms like she was the filling in a burrito”. I assumed the escapist premise would take me somewhere blissful but the only place the book is going to is the Bad Sex in Fiction awards.

Additionally, the description of Alexa having “huge boobies, a thicc ass and nice legs” makes it clear that Edwards—who claims to have written this to help pay the bills following her job loss—is yet another millennial trying to do Gen Z slang (and unironically at that) but only coming across as a boomer. However, while the book by itself is entirely skippable, it was hilarious reading its very polarised Goodreads reviews. A moment of silence for my comrades who took one for the team too. Sometimes, just the fact that a book is being hotly debated serves its purpose. A certain Cait wrote “I don't know whether to give this 5 stars or 1 star.” Us neither, Cait, us neither.

Edwards launched a sequel last December too—because anything could happen in 2020. But I’m still in recovery from the trauma the first one wreaked and couldn’t get myself to download a book whose cover looked like this:

Sorry.

Give it to me: The Kindle edition costs $1.05 (free if you subscribe to Amazon Kindle Unlimited), while the paperback costs $6.45. 

What’s it about?
A virginal Emma with a perfect body finds herself in the mansion of a playboy billionaire the day lockdown is announced. They have no choice but to remain indoors… and fuck a lot.

One-handed read?
The deflowering and subjugation of beautiful women by powerful brusque men has long been a staple of erotic fiction. You’d imagine that after years of subjecting ourselves to Christian Grey, we might finally have the good sense to demand more. But here we are yet again, with more than one Covid-centric book featuring a rich badboy who doesn’t quite get consent, hinging on the misplaced idea that women actually love to be owned. I do see the appeal in being locked in with a ridiculously hot guy with a cock “as big as my whole forearm”, especially because he’s stocked his mansion with enough food to last two people a full year (the idea of not having to stand in those supermarket queues itself is very hot). The writing is not appalling either, save phrases like “his hot seed”. But as a storyline, I’m kind of done with the jaded trope of the alpha male whose bank balance is as big as his dick. If you don’t mind that fantasy though, go for it.

Give it to me: The Kindle edition costs $3.11 (free if you subscribe to Amazon Kindle Unlimited), while the paperback costs $6.99. 

What’s it about?
Yet another virgin, this time separated from her college friends who are partying in dorms even as she finds herself locked up in her tiny studio. That is, until her punk rock-blaring hot downstairs neighbour comes knocking on her door with a plumbing issue.

One-handed read?
On many levels, the sex in this book just feels tame. And yet, maybe it was because I was so done with mediocre writing that by the time I got here, the book about a simple fantasy coming true seemed to make me fairly flustered. Maybe it’s because it got pandemic life beyond sex so real—the crushing loneliness that months of being cooped in has led to, the conflict we have in our heads every time we meet someone we want to hug (or in this case, go down on), the FOMO we feel while looking at other people on our Instagram raving. These simple shared experiences make you resonate with the protagonist, and elevate the basic sex when it gets there. Though the fantasy is more like a high-school musical, you come back from it with a warm feeling in your stomach. And if enthusiastic consent fires you off, that warm feeling can spread further south because there’s a lot of that in the book.

Give it to me: $3.08 for the Kindle edition you’ll find here (free if you subscribe to Amazon Kindle Unlimited).

What’s it about?
An unbelievable story involving a science student with big tits, a particle collider that doubles up as time machine, a cosmic orgasm, a virus that went through it to emerge as Count Covid in the nineteenth century, and our heroine’s quest to bring it/him back to present day but instead fucking it because “maybe I was always going to have Covid inside me anyway”.

One-handed read?
Yet another anthropomorphic take on the virus, this time-travelling story has been dissed as one of the several riding on the success of Kissing the Coronavirus. And it’s not equally bad; it’s actually far, far worse. The author tries to do present-day references real hard, with sugar baby, Only Fans, WAP and queefing making appearances. The writing is awful (“...her supervisor, a giant beefcake of a man with a handlebar mustache so full and luscious that you just couldn’t help but dream of riding it”) but the garbage plot and its casual misogyny just made my head hurt. This is not even the so-bad-it’s-good variety; it’s just so bad you will want to rinse your short-term memory with sanitizer.

Give it to me: Just don’t.

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