“Reclaiming” negative language has become a very big part of empowerment these days. If a derogatory term, whether racist or sexist, can be inverted into a code word of belonging, it loses its power. Now, rather than recoiling, strong women happily identify with “bitchery.” Or you can pick your own repurposed ethnic or homophobic slur. In “Hot ‘n’ Throbbing,” Paula Vogel decides a whole media can be reclaimed. In her disturbing mash note to erotica, she suggests porn could be a powerful emasculating tool, rather than a pervasive method of denigrating women.

When “Hot ‘n’ Throbbing” was first produced, some feminists went into a froth. A heroine who writes for the XXX movies seemed a bit too Camille Paglia for the faithful. But, as with her “Baltimore Waltz,” mindsets have caught up with Paula Vogel. These days, women intent on getting fit take stripper classes, burlesque’s pointy eyebrow is up all over the country, and the secret of the “porn stash” is now well out of the sock-drawer. Blame the internet, perhaps, but it’s difficult to maintain “battlestations” when your Web browser tells you how to “enhance your manhood” every six seconds.

As with any succes de scandale, the second (or umpteenth) time around isn’t quite as exciting. Ms. Vogel’s 1990 slap-in-the-face to the anti-obscenity crusaders hasn’t got quite the snap it once did, perhaps because the Signature Theater’s production doesn’t fire on all farcical thrusters. Instead, this production chooses to concentrate on the characters beneath the splashy controversy. Ms. Vogel doesn’t have to be provocative to write a good play, and this sturdy production draws attention to her craft and generosity.

Charlene (Lisa Emery) is a champion of self-improvement. She has escaped an abusive marriage to Clyde (Elias Koteas), gotten an education, and now supports herself and her children by writing steamy movies. Though the “voices in her head” (Rebecca Wisocky and Tom Nelis) stalk sexily around her living room speaking her dialogue, there’s nothing very hot about her 40-page deadline coming due. Charlene’s kids, fractious, Lolitaesque Leslie Ann (Suli Holum) and weedy Calvin (Matthew Stadelman) give their mom a lot of guff over her job, but the balance in the house between Charlene’s real and imaginary offspring seems rather stable.

When Clyde explodes through the front door, though, Charlene’s control starts to fracture along familiar fault lines. Her mix of resolve (she shoots and wounds him) and submission (she dresses the wound, gives him coffee, and winds up having a drink with him) rings depressingly true. Her new job has undermined Clyde’s usual relationship to sex, and he wants to exact either revenge or comfort from his ex-wife. Desire doesn’t just confine itself to the page, and a scene that starts out with Charlene’s “throbbing” dialogue eventually slides into horror-movie territory.

The piece must build on a believable, complex relationship between Clyde and Charlene, and neither actor disappoints. Somehow, in a drunken, bloody, capering performance, Mr. Koteas establishes himself as an endearing fellow, charming despite what we know of him. If we can’t stand against him, how could the frazzled Charlene? Best of all, Ms. Emery disappears into Charlene – we may want to shake her for her ambivalence, but it’s a vagueness brilliantly portrayed.

Director Les Waters amps up the sensuality by deploying Ms. Wisocky and Ms. Holum throughout. For a play about the difference between a man’s “porn” and a woman’s “erotica,” they play awfully close to the border, only really succeeding in the first scene. Ms. Wisocky, frankly, could be used better. Her crazy eyed prowl through the house seems aimless, in need of a bit. At one marvelous moment, she pops up from behind the couch to caution Charlene against weakness, only to bob out of sight again. Used in small doses, she’s hilarious.

Much of the production’s workmanlike literalism can be laid at set designer Mark Wendland’s door. Though he gets kudos for finding some truly hideous late 1980s furniture – when did we think those deflated couches with the flip-over cushions were okay? – he doesn’t find a credible way to push its reality. His only nod to the weird, half-light reality is to let Ms. Wisocky move the walls around. A large, featureless wall goes back on a bit of a slant, the staircase shoves upstage a few feet. But the stage picture barely changes, and all Robert Wierzel’s red lights can’t turn it into something it isn’t.

Everyone, or at least everyone in Charlene’s house, fantasizes about things that are bad for them. Calvin might be unhealthily obsessed with his sister’s development, Leslie Ann looks like she’s in for a bad adolescence, and even Charlene seems haunted by her ex-husband’s body. If this were a perfect production, the humor would be sharper, and the sexuality more startling. But as a slower paced contemplation on the prices of fantasy, it does finally make it to the money shot.

Until May 1 (555 W. 42nd Street, between Tenth & Eleventh Avenues, 212-352-3101).