Violet Malice has some hot smut cooking on the tarmac off the A-road by the Happy Shopper. Here is some writing. She has written. With you in mind. FYI the Raunch Review will return next week. Violet has been up in Edinburgh this week (hence the silence) watching the fringe pant.
They sleep together. All over the place. The two of them.
In her living room. On the kitchen table.
Inside the duvet cover like ghosts. All over his bed. And then spilled on the carpet.
Against the wash basin. One leg bristling. Under the shower.
On tip toes behind an old English Master. Constable.
In the cold glow of the fridge. By the pre-tossed salad. In his living room.
Up against frosted glass. Under a bare bulb that flickers and teases moths mouths most nights. In the rain. In the driving rain.
In the middle of 12 Angry Men.
Between the mast and the rigging. Shrimper. Mainsail. And Boom!
Underwater.
Following two hardly dressed hamburgers topped with glassy tomatoes sliced and extruding. Tickling the ivories. The back teeth and all 206 bones. The sternum and the stapes. Intermediate phalanges.
Driving through the rain. The driving rain.
Starting in Times New Roman and being found face down in TNT Battenberg. Bold. Italics. Tits underlined.
On the corner of Christopher Street and Howard’s End. Trails.
In the mirror. In the mind’s eye. This way and that. Tossed. The other way around. Bouncing off iris. Lids closed shut for the weekend.
At their house. On their pressed sheets. It will happen. Tea sandwiches and finger rings.
And then. In the afternoon sun. Twenty-days on. Rises one towering Dracula. Hot bloodied and sex eyed. Desperate for a crisp IPA in the shade of their exhaustion.
Violet Malice has been lounging full bollock in the sunshine, during the hottest parts of the day, cracking one off every hour or so: it’s the ruddy bloody holidays, yeah! This week she has been cherry picking a short story or two, lapping up all that delicious mind tapas. Committed to finding a bedtime read that gets those glands producing in excess of the average 1500ml of saliva per day, metaphorical legs wrapped right round your mandibular ramus. Violet’s weekly adult book review attempts to answer that chocolate flavoured question: can a good book ever be as Herman Count Van Rompuy as a good fuck?
Quick synopsis: Some sort of raging sex pervert has published a short story in a French newspaper and tells his girlfriend to buy a copy and read it on the train going from Paris to La Rochelle. The story – which is also being read by other people on the train – instructs her to reach orgasm between Niort and Surgères because presumably she’s bored of Slaughterhouse-Five. I know the feeling. Dishonourable discharge in a moving toilet.
Train travel: I am a big fan of the railway and masturbation (mutually exclusive, of course). The word train derives from the Latin trahere meaning “to pull, to draw”. A big engine relentlessly pulling off loads of carriages at speed through the countryside is a pretty sexy way to get from A(vignon) to B(rest). Plus the karzies are quite exciting – much like something from Jackson Pollock’s drip and shit period. There is some debate as to the origin of the intransitive verb masturbate. Some say it derives from some old shit meaning to “make yourself stupid” and/or “to disturb with the hand”. Following the invention of more or less everything, the hand has been made redundant.
I would also like to take issue with the making oneself stupid train of thought – I think our little friends serotonin, dopamine and oxytocin have tampered with the ball. You can’t make it taste that good if you don’t want us to eat it. And I certainly don’t come out of the other end stupid. The exact opposite. I find myself much better at exponentiation and domestic science (although I’m out of practice).
So, this short story piqued my interest. Mainly, because it’s very rare to find any sort of narrative written in the second person (you did this and you did that, you mother)! Sometimes (let me be clear, only in very limited sexual scenarios) we all like being told what to do. Obviously, I had to tie up the feminist in me beforehand and lock her in the room with the yellow wallpaper with some hard-backed political tomb to upset herself with. It’s a thrilling concept, to open up the daily newspaper and become part of somebody’s elaborate fantasy. Just like phone sex – there’s something desperately dirty about touching someone without touching them. A meeting in the dark recesses of the mind.
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Overall sexual content:It is massively titillating. In some ways, probably one of the most genuinely erotic pieces of writing I’ve ever read. The voyeurism element is nicely done but a bit annoying. The narrator refers to the fact that he wants to make the object of the story wet (his girlfriend), but also that the other women reading the newspaper at the same time should also be getting off. I suppose it’s a nice idea – some sort of train based wank party – but in reality my taste would be more along the lines of nobody else being in on the fantasy. But that’s probably because, contrary to popular belief, I am massively frigid and my internal organs contract even when just furtively beginning to think about logistics.
He says early on, “From this moment on, you will do everything I tell you to do”. What a lovely snuggly thing. I just hope she’s not on an off day or they haven’t broken-up from final edit to publication. He waxes lyrical about her having a good cum face. He says that most women have no sense of obvious abandonment, but that she – the woman he loves – betrays her cum face all the time during everyday non-sexual activities, such as looking around, eating penne and mountain biking.
Eventually he tells her and everyone else reading Le Monde to go to the bar car and buy a drink (either coffee or mineral water) and look around. This is supposed to be crackingly good bonk material, because obviously loads of people will be looking at each other wondering who SHE actually is, imagining the scores of knickers doing the breaststroke and all those hard-ons knock knock knocking against nylon.
Finally, he describes another woman who goes to the nearest toilet to masturbate. He describes her watching her own fingers disappear into her pussy in the mirror as she steadies herself (train movements as opposed to the thrashes of orgasm). The final few paragraphs I find terribly boring – he doesn’t describe the state of the toilet – which I think is a crucial detail. His description of this other woman wanking is so bloody boring that it near on shuts off the whole grid.
He climaxes with her almost crying out in ecstasy – desperate to shout YES, but afraid that the other people waiting for a shit and/or wank might hear. This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. I can barely type: disappointment. This is definitely not sexual fantasy material. I’m just spit balling here, but if this was my fantasy I would at least have her flooding the cubicle and then being plunged by the guard before you can say “look before you alight”.
Overall conclusion: 8 out of 10.
Titillation station: It did buckle my tracks for a bit. Mainly the first few station stops. Gets really boring towards the end, basically because the train slows down rather than speeds up. So I just got up and cleaned my oven, which I had been meaning to do for ages.
Food for thought: I think this dude might have been so worried about careering over that fine line between misogyny and fantasy, perineum and anus, that he fucking bottled it. It’s a real shame as it could have been the erotic equivalent of the Lake District (around number twelve of the seven wonders of the world). It’s also a shame that he more of less ignores everyone else on the train except the hot women. He’s waiting for her on the platform at the end – 100% confident that she has already gotten off.
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Violet Malice has been polishing off a wheel of cheese under the sheets with the help of a torch and a cordless vacuum. This week she has a curveball for you: surrealism + discussions about sexual intercourse. She has been quaking with laughter: throwing her head back all of a sudden in the midst of audible contractions of the diaphragm. Dedicated to finding a bedtime read that kisses the eyelids and holds on tight. Violet’s weekly adult book review attempts to answer that million-dollar question: can a good book ever be as unnerving as a good fuck?
Quick synopsis: Starting in 1928 a series of discussions took place between prominent members of the surrealist movement on the subject of sex. Co-founder of surrealism André Breton led the rather fruity roundtables, the transcripts of which are featured in this fantastic book. The erotic discussions are particularly interesting given the notoriety of the participants involved, the time in which the discussions took place (before any sort of sexual revolution), and the very obvious failure to arrive at any sort of conclusion or consensus on any aspect of sex or love.
Forty participants took part in twelve transcribed discussions, with the number of participants varying each time. Breton was the only person to attend all twelve. The participants included: Antonin Artaud; Louis Aragon; Max Ernst; Man Ray; Yves Tanguy; Maxime Alexandre; Jean Baldensperger; Jean Caupenne; Paul Eluard; Marcel Duhamel; Max Morise; Benjamin Péret; Raymond Queneau; Jacques Prévert; Pierre Unik and in several later sessions a tiny sample of notable women that some of the men were fucking.
Killer questions asked:
You find all the women you have had sexual relations assembled together, in a cafe for example, with the one you loved or believe to love standing apart. What do you do?
To what extent is the man aware of the woman’s orgasm?
When you make love, do you require certain specific external conditions to be fulfilled? Which ones?
What is your favourite age for a woman?
To what extent and how often can a man and a woman making love reach orgasm simultaneously?
Do you attach more importance to the man’s orgasm than the woman’s?
Would anyone allow themselves to be seen by a woman with suspicious stains on their trousers?
You have not made love for some time. How many times can you do it in one night (from nine in the evening to nine in the morning) and on each of the three following days? What is the maximum you’ve managed in twelve hours?
Apart from ejaculating in the vagina, mouth or anus, where do you like to ejaculate, in order of preference?
Have you never been attracted to any other animals?
Do you know where the clitoris is?
Since men have a cock between two balls, how is it that women have nothing between their breasts?
Notable responses:
JEAN BALDENSPERGER: You say that if a woman is dirty it doesn’t stop you feeling attracted to her. But I think that cleanliness is one of the basic requirements.
[…]
ANDRE BRETON: Naturally. But still it doesn’t seem to me impossible to love a woman who is dirty and stays dirty, since love has nothing to do with such material considerations. Stupidity in a woman, on the other hand, seems to me to be an intolerable defect. All that I wish is to love a woman enough to love her whether she’s clean or dirty.
[…]
JEAN BALDENSPERGER: Yes, but when you speak of love you are also thinking of going to bed with her. Would you agree to go to bed with a woman who was in a disgusting state?
ANDRE BRETON: Definitely.
JEAN BALDENSPERGER: I would not be able to make love with a woman whose arse was encrusted with shit.
ANDRE BRETON: That’s your affair. There are people who like that very much […]. I consider that Baldensperger is talking like a child. I don’t see any difference between the encrusted shit of a woman one loves and her eyes. […]
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JACQUES PREVERT: What do you think of a woman with a shaved sex?
ANDRE BRETON: Very beautiful, infinitely better. I have never seen it, but it must be magnificent.
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MAX ERNST: Not long ago I ejaculated in circumstances entirely contrary to my sexual constitution, physiologically and psychologically. In a dream I was buggering a man, and I awoke just at the point of greatest pleasure. As my excitement grew, I pictured all the complexes that might arise from the fact of coming through buggering a fully-clothed man sitting on my knee – as a matter of fact it was a very specific gentleman, whom I don’t wish to name. I continued, awake, until I ejaculated. This is a man who, in waking life, disgusts me physically, morally, and from every other point of view.
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ANDRE BRETON: Would you make love to a woman who had a period?
PIERRE NAVILLE: I’m not answering that.
PIERRE UNIK: Tanguy?
YVES TANGUY: I find it very pleasant.
ANDRE BRETON: Why?
YVES TANGUY: A matter of colour and smell.
ANDRE BRETON: Duhamel?
MARCEL DUHAMEL: I don’t like it because of the sanitary towels and all that.
ANDRE BRETON: Why do you dislike them so much?
MARCEL DUHAMEL: Because of the hospital associations – blood-stained towels and so on. Not that it always stops me making love with a woman.
ANDRE BRETON: Genbach?
JEAN GENBACH: A thing which vexes me is the fact that women urinate and defecate like men. I didn’t know until two years ago that women had periods. And then it disgusted me. I felt I’d been tricked.
ANDRE BRETON: But now that you know?
JEAN GENBACH: I don’t believe that a woman I love can have periods.
–
ANDRE BRETON: What do you think of pregnant women? MARCEL DUHAMEL: Absolutely disgusting. YVES TANGUY: I immediately think of Caesarian sections. PIERRE UNIK: I don’t like it at all. […] JACQUES PREVERT: It’s comical if she’s ugly, but it’s sad if she’s beautiful.
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ANDRE BRETON: And what of the possibility of a man and a woman having simultaneous orgasms? JEAN GENBACH: Until now I have always thought that when I embrace a woman she reaches orgasm when I want her to.
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JACQUES PREVERT: My earliest sexual memories concern children of my own age who were interest in nothing but their sexual organs. I was the same age. At the age of seven I was shocked by a little girl, the sister of one of my friends, who had fallen over backwards. I could see that she didn’t have a sex like me. I concluded that she was disabled. I could no longer bear to see her. She disgusted me. Later she went blind.
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Overall sexual content:I don’t want to have it off with any of these people. And I did before reading this book. I am a super fan of some of the surrealist massive: Max Ernst, Man Ray, Yves Tanguy, Paul Eluard, Benjamin Péret, and Raymond Queneau, to name but a few. It’s common knowledge that the surrealists were misogynistic cunts who objectified and suffocated women (metaphorically speaking – in the sense that they held back and/or diminished the extremely talented female artists of the time, who they were usually fucking), but I suppose I hadn’t fully appreciated the depth and breadth of their big dick problems. They are all complete fucking a-holes – with one or two exceptions (Louis Aragon is about the only one that I would give head to now, so I should probably review his short erotic novel Irene’s Cunt next week).
The book is jammed full of misogyny, homophobia, racism, peacocking (Paul Eluard insists he’s had sex with between 500 and 1,000 women, which might be true, except that the estimate is so wide, you fucking knob jockey) and shameful ignorance. André Breton threatens to leave at one point if several of the participants don’t stop trying to “promote” homosexuality. The surrealists were hoping to instigate honest and open discussions about sex, but seem totally blind to the possibility that belittling each other about their responses might be counter productive and that talking about sex might be quite a delicate and difficult thing to do. When asked what it means to love a woman, they are all flummoxed. I can’t possibly give a definition like that “at the drop of a hat”, says Benjamin Péret. It seems that these GREAT WHITE MALE writers are not so good with words after all.
Overall conclusion: 5 out of 10.
Titillation station: Although strictly not erotica, it did have one or two moments. Some passages of description that appeared starkly honest and that focused on sexual responses did lick the soaking wick down the mine shaft.
Food for thought: Most of the participants hail love as the greatest thing life has to offer and go on and on about only ever having sex with women that they are in love with. It is a very romantic ideal and seems to fit with the surrealist preoccupation with the unconscious and the dream state. Obviously, women are part of that fantasy – what with not being allowed to have periods and that, and magically having an orgasm whenever the man wishes it so. It’s a shame that the aim to revolutionise the human experience and harness the power of the uncanny did not seep into the bedroom and entice the backward looking arseholes of these great artists to relax just a bit.
I just have to give the last word to MR BRETON: I attributed my impotence to the mauve wallpaper in the room – I’ve always found the colour mauve particularly unbearable.
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Violet Malice has been sweating like an Alsatian in a chip pan fire, so that you can find ruddy bloody good reads. She has been loitering between patches of shade and licking way too many Feasts (the ice cream variety). Dedicated to finding a bedtime read that kicks like a sawn off and hoses down the steaming nag after it throws its shoes off during the final furlong. Violet’s weekly adult book review attempts to answer that hairy question: can a good book ever be as delicate as a good fuck?
Edition 69
Book title: Edition 69 Authors: Jindřich Štyrský, Vítězslav Nezval, František Halas First published: 1931 Translator: Jed Slast
THE RAUNCH REVIEW: Violet’s Verdict
Quick synopsis: A collection of English translations of three Czech masters of erotic literature (and members of the surrealist movement). The stories and poems were originally published in the 1930s in a six volume imprint called Edition 69 (the print run was only 69 copies and 69 is the best number yeah) launched by Jindřich Štyrský. The series was of very limited run and never available for sale. Copies were distributed only to friends and collectors due to the extreme nature of the content! Think seXXXually explicit photomontage with images sourced from German and French pornography plus some of the best fucking poetry ever written.
This edition, published by Twisted Spoon Press in 2020, features a selection of erotic writing by Štyrský, Nezval, and Halas, as well as Štyrský’s artwork and an essay by psychoanalyst Bohuslav Brouk, which ends beautifully: As each person comes into the world at the end of an umbilical cord only inevitably to become dust, let us find pleasure in everything our abilities allow us.
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Sexual Nocturne by Vítězslav Nezval: A short story about a man recalling his early sexual experiences, particularly masturbating in public and his first taste of penetrative sex with a woman in a brothel.
Highlights from the text of Sexual Nocturne:
I was fifteen years old, that is, at the age a woman’s face is what a boy notices most. We want to be loved, and the eyes play the greatest role in this. Head after head insinuate themselves into our fantasies.
I was unable to form a clear picture of what a pussy looked like. I just supposed it was a very big hole, large enough to take the willy of a fifth former.
I said FUCK to myself over and over as I shambled along the footpaths with an unflagging erection.
During school vacation my grandfather came for a visit and gave me a one-crown piece. I used it at the stationer’s to buy a porcelain doll with a rubber hat. It could be filled with water, and when the hat was pressed down it peed. I sent it to the object of my adoration.
The word FUCK is diamond-hard, translucent, a classic.
Saying the word SYPHILIS made me delirious. It was a newly illuminated word: WOMAN.
Her hand removed my pants. I plunged into her cunt which was so unexpected and so singularly proportional. I dared not move. This was entirely different to the practiced hand under the cloak opposite the promenade. Her vagina engulfed me in a hot nonexistence. I was fucking. I was fucking and I spurted into her cunt, which itself was somehow moving like a slug.
One of Štyrský’s illustrations for Sexual Nocturne:
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Thyrsos by František Halas: The book contains eleven erotic poems by Halas. Looking at the state of his metaphors, one can only assume that Mr Halas knew how to pleasure a woman. Two poems that poked me in the eye:
The Taste of Love
To have all vulvas spread open wide and to kiss that warm alley they harbor to taste a thousandfold yet never plunge inside that familiar rose splayed to your ardour
Incomparable beauty of the mons that ancient routine has you disdainfully vexed it isn’t love when on her breasts you lie prone and grind her lovely flowering sex
The extended clit gently massage
take a long swig of that vaginal wine
drink until drunk on that rare vintage
more pungent in taste than any aged vine
We’re gifted a tongue not only for speech
its key unlocks delight elsewise hidden
when lubricious spasms convulse a breach
adeptly slip your fingers all the way in
Pucker your lips in the shade of her pubis let the mucous dew her petals of rose the touch of your lips driving her delirious until her rapturous skin blissfully glows
To have all vulvas spread open wide then to stay there and sleep to taste a thousandfold yet never plunge inside only to suckle tenderly and deep
Sound Advice
In a pussy’s sweet folds
be sure to keep in mind
next door is another hole
for your finger to find
Gently push it in good lightly massage the breasts and at once your waning wood will become stiff as a mast
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Emilie Comes To Me In A Dream by Jindřich Štyrský:The original colophon reads that the book “should be kept in a secure location and out of the reach of minors”. This is a story of recollection, which centres on the narrator’s obsessive memories of Emilie. Explicit memories that melt into other women in a surreal dreamscape.
Highlights from the text of Emilie Comes To Me In A Dream:
The heavens sleep, and somewhere behind the hedge a woman sculpted from raw meat awaits you. Will you feed her ice?
You will feel an intense fear lest they come crashing down onto the pavement, a fear similar to the pleasure you felt in childhood at your first convulsive erection and the terror you felt when your sister taught you to masturbate with her tiny alabaster hand.
Any man who has enjoyed the salty taste of Cecil’s twat would sell his rings, friends, morals, everything to sate that monster hidden under the little pink skirt.
I saw her sex swell and spill out from her womb, increasing in size until it overflowed the bed and extended over the floor like lava filling up my room. I quickly got up and ran from the house like a madman. I stopped in the middle of a deserted town square. When I looked back, Marta’s vulva, resembling a giant, monumental tear of unnatural colour, was surging out my window.
Later I placed an aquarium in the window. In it I cultivated a golden-haired vulva and a magnificent penis specimen with a blue eye and delicate veins on its temples.
Two of Štyrský’s photomontages for Emilie Comes To Me In A Dream:
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Overall sexual content:If there is one thing in the world that I love, it is obviously… without doubt… surrealist Czechoslovakian literature! They knew how to shag up a sentence. Grab syntax and decency by the gonads and ride them roughshod all the way home. So I already have the hook in my mouth on this one. Štyrský was the artistic partner of the phenomenal Toyen, just so you know! What ruddy bloody sort of special magic was happening in that tiny part of the world at that moment in time.
Lots of the text in this book focuses on the act of giving female pleasure. All books should obsess over this. There are a few slides into huge monstrous vulvas that want to consume everything in their path, but I suppose female sexuality can be frightening, maybe. The endless orgasms that stretch and strain into infinity. Oh the pressure.
The illustrations and art are fabulous, funny and explicit all at the same time. And as highlighted previously, were cut out with scissors from some rather racy porno mags. Glue all over the place. Up the back of the TV.
Overall conclusion: 8 out of 10.
Titillation station: Hot as hell. The pink rabbit’s nose was twitching.
Food for thought: And finally. To finish you off. The Czech word for fuck is mrdat, which originally meant to move back and forth, or wag.
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Violet Malice has been bogged down with another paper based diet of erotica this week. She has found herself beating faster than usual and necking fluid from the cold tap. Dedicated to finding a bedtime read that blows the windows out and requires at least two fire engines to battle the blazing mons pubis. Violet’s weekly adult book review attempts to answer that dank and seedy question: can a good book ever be as honest as a good fuck?
Happiness Bastard by Kirby Doyle
Book title: Happiness Bastard Author:Kirby Doyle First published: 1968
THE RAUNCH REVIEW: Violet’s Verdict
Quick synopsis: Poet Kirby Doyle’s only published novel is a stream of consciousness, much like Jack Kerouac’s On the Road. Written on one massive piece of paper formed of lots of normal sized pieces of paper taped together. Obviously, the published version has pages – what a bore! According to the author the book was written on a trip that “my lover post-wife and I took to New York in 1959-1960.” Kirby is, one can only assume, the narrator Tully McSwine and his girlfriend is Dolly, who is needless to say always up for it. It goes without saying that the book is very ‘Beat Generation’ so very hard to follow, there’s no real plot line and the writing certainly reflects Kirby’s own struggle around that time with drug addiction, poverty and unhappy affairs of the ticker.
Front cover: Not the original printing by Essex House sadly. A really rubbish modern edition (2020) that looks like someone/Amazon has faxed it to Pluto and then it’s been photocopied and run over by a lorry full of shit. The front and back photos of the author are so grainy you have to be about two miles away for the pixels to come together.
Title: Bloody fantastic! A massive fan of the word bastard, both visually and orally. Swear words in titles are not utilised enough in my humble opinion. Much like my previous thoughts on Bondage Trash from last week, the two words Happiness Bastard writhe against each other. Kick each other in the bollocks. Like a bleach blonde oxymoron trying to get it on with Claude Lévi-Strauss.
Best two-word phrase/s in the book: A few to get you going:
liberal sphincter, sex heads, fat rubber, cellophaned taste, clinical pornography, genital windows, padlocked vagina, punctured prostitute, sadist cocksmen, gummy wad, electric paralysis, skin mag, urinatory fashion.
Best dialogue in the book: Like holding a mirror up to the queue in Greggs:
“Love! Ha, ha, love! I like that! Love my ass, you bastard! Why all you know of love is that it makes you twitch between your legs! Don’t talk to me of love, you walking erection!”
“I told this idiot that I couldn’t bear it when they airbrushed the cunt away in these skin mags, and he said it wasn’t airbrushed, only shaved and her cunt was too far under to see the slit. What kind of crap is that, I ask you? Makes me wonder if this infant has ever seen a twat at all. Ha!”
Phoning me in the middle of one icy winter afternoon to ask, “Have you any idea what Kitty’s doing right now?” and I, fearful of his hysteria and bewildered, answering, “No, what’s she doing now?” and he, like an over-intelligent schoolboy hot with the answer, “Sucking my cock, you son of a bitch… goodbye.”
“How would you like to take a flying fuck at a rolling donut?”
“I masturbate everyday. Eef I am eating a meal at night and remember that I have not masturbated I will stop my eating and masturbate then.”
Best sentence/s in the book: Some real meat on the bones here:
Dolly was the proud possessor of a remarkably elastic cunt, especially if the engagement was a particularly heated one (that is, when I was at my best).
All of them a bunch of sexual cripples, which they will sternly prove by fucking at the drop of a political sympathy.
Sliding the fingers of both hands into her cunt, which by this time was as easy as sliding into a bathtub full of vaseline, I could, by pulling the lips away from each other even more than the mechanics of her vaginal excitement had already done (as if I were trying to invert it), stretch her snatch out to an expansion where I could fit it over my face from eyebrows to chin like a hot meaty mask, and were it only detachable I could have marched in the Halloween parade.
When this seismic phenomenon threatened to scatter her in bloody bits and pieces about the room I slipped my forefinger into her ass and rammed it to the knuckle… O Good Ladies and Gentle Men, need I tell you that she came neigh unto shitting all over me?
Prance she would and tend to domestic trivialities nakedly… cook a full meal in the raw… breasts dangling over the bubbling spaghetti… the cruel lewdness of her pubic hairs level with the salad… while with a feigned tone of “modern liberality” she threw out maddening little comments: “I so think it’s wonderful not wearing clothes… so free… let the air into every little pore… so much more natural, don’t you think?” then turn and show me her buttocks as she bent to the bottom rack of the refrigerator seeking vegetables.
She kept what she liked to think of as a secret list of ex-lovers that she sadly enjoyed showing only to people with whom she stoutly refused (I suspect out of fear of making her come) to go to bed with, like me.
Had an applesauce sandwich for breakfast and a glass of wine too; great, cheap, vinegary wino-type wine that when you puke comes bubbl’n out yer nose and stings a bit.
I’m not finished yet: Obviously poets make the best writers:
Dolly turned to him and milked a little snake juice from the tits of her tongue.
A cock in the hand is worth two in the bush.
I sodomised the landlady’s cat in lieu of rent… she got her thing out of it… the landlady… not the cat…
I’ve not had such a good time since dear dead Grandma used to puke on the linoleum and let us kids skate in it.
The girls were all very homely and intellectually aggressive in a vacuum-packed sort of a way.
The party was boiling when we arrived, strange-looking people bulging from the windows.
My belated old grey-haired muff of a mother used to have a in tomb in her womb. My daddy told me so.
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Sexual content:It’s not really a sex book per say. Essex House came forward to publish it because no one else would take it on apparently. As such the sex is there but it’s not the main cut and thrust as it were. That aside, the descriptions of sex are funny rather than titillating, which is equally as enjoyable. Sex after all, should be great fun.
Given the desperate nature of the book – the drug abuse and poverty – the tone is hard and bitter tasting but jovial. The sex is tainted by an explicit hatred of women, which sees our frustrated and angry narrator sing the praises of masturbation over sexual intercourse. And later on we find him insisting that the sex will be better because he’s full of hatred. Our unhappy narrator also very much enjoys dressing women up as helplessly insatiable cum sluts. The guy is just down on life – but thankfully whilst he’s down there…
Overall conclusion: 5 out of 10.
Titillation station: Absolutely nothing stirring in the bushes. No foxes. No dogs. Not even a cormorant in a Mackintosh pushing blue marbles into a towel.
Food for thought: Shame about the writing style – stream of consciousness is a big turn off for me. It feels as though it’s close to greatness, mainly because poets that write novels understand the importance of a well crafted image, but sadly it gets lost in all the chaos and sloppy Giuseppe. The book wrestles with language – and kicks against the everyday detritus/injustice/loneliness of life – there’s a beauty in that.
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