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The Raunch Review: Book 31

Thank fuck we are out the other side. Twinkling lights and turkeys have never been my thing. Much too big a cavity to fill. All texture, no bite. Too much about how big your sack is, than real wholesome feelings like hope and love. Maybe it’s because winter is so bleak and cold, even with that big red beardy guy in it. Is there Santa-related fan fiction? I’ve always preferred being naughty anyway, which is something Father Christmas has always tried to beat out of me. Anyway, let’s get that big bucket of shit that is January out of the way. Then, we can start wearing a few less layers. 

For the first instalment of 2024, Violet’s monthly adult book review looks at a big cock tease of a dirty book. The aim, as always, is to attempt to answer that cracking question: can a good book ever be as thrilling as a good fuck?

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Book title: The Best American Erotica 1999
Editor: Susie Bright 
Publisher of this edition: TOUCHSTONE
Copyright: © Susie Bright 1999
First published: 1999
Cover design: Barbara M. Bachman

THE RAUNCH REVIEW: Violet’s Verdict

Quick synopsis: This is a compilation of dirty short stories from the 90s and it goes without saying that most of them are total dog shit (which is not necessarily a bad thing). There’s something about anthologies that fills me with terror. But amongst the dank dingleberries, there’s a dirty great melon hanging off a low branch in the form of some stonking fan fiction. Kelly McQuain has written a piece called Je t’aime, Batman, je t’adore, which is worth a butchers hook. Basically, Robin wants to fuck Bruce Wayne AKA bat-bollocks himself.

Title: I’m not going to pretend to know why the author chose to use French in the title. I couldn’t really give a rat’s arse. Maybe it’s because they think its more romantic or something, or maybe it’s because they are creatively limited. One can only speculate to ejaculate. Tu me comprends? 

Cover image: It looks like an anthology (basically, as though someone produced it using a broken fax machine). It tastes like an anthology. So, it must be a fucking anthology: full of shit by people that pay to be published. 

Best sentences in the story:

Only drawback is the difficulty in concealing the Bat-boners that pop up with increasing frequency. 

I began to rise, but froze when I noticed my Bat-chubber had created an embarrassing pup tent in my shorts. 

My costume ripped as his fingers gripped my ass and his Bat-cock pierced my Bat-hole. 

He pressed a chalky finger against my ass. 

His fingers floundered inside of me like a trout caught in a net.  

“Don’t swear, Robin. It reflects poorly on our image.”

My thighs tensed as yet another Bat-boner popped up, my shorts stretched so tight I could make out each engorged vein. 

“Eat my fat worm, little bird!” he grunted. 

I shot a huge wad beneath the dashboard. 

He was hard on crime. 

Alfred’s old, has only five hairs on his head, but still I got a chubber simply from being desired by a man. 


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Overall sexual content: A total laugh, as goes with the fan fiction territory, but surprisingly horn inducing. 

All that crass lusting after Batman is like a death slide, adrenalin fuelled and reminiscent of our own slippery internal erotic monologue when we let our lust moose loose aboot the hoose. It’s joyous to fantasise and be absorbed in the idea of someone. The storyline is very obviously pathetic (the Joker sends Batman a birthday card and the force for good have to work out what the bastard is planning, which in reality is not much). What the half-baked story tells us is that everyone in this game has some erotic shit of their own going on, which is why they are all there, playing their roles (the Joker wants to fuck Batman too, which is why he is trying to be bad, so that Batman will chase him down and hang off his Joker’s cock like Mount Sinai). 

Overall conclusion: 6 out of 10.

Titillation station: Nothing actually happens. It’s all in Robin’s imagination and he seems very happy with that. He steals Batman’s cape and wears it whilst he wanks himself off in the wardrobe mirror. He rubs himself up against Bruce in the last paragraph as they both straddle his Harley. The realm of fantasy is powerful and vital. It doesn’t need to end with them actually fucking, which would be disappointing indeed. There’s something special about Robin enjoying his own imagination and his own body. And, given that Batman comes across as a boring egotistical prick, it doesn’t feel like a bad thing that it never actually happens. 

Food for thought: I used to have an awful boss back in the day and I had a very interesting erotic dream about him that involved the reverse cowgirl during my interview for the position. I have pondered on it many a night as to why my mind went there, particularly as he was unappealing to me viz-a-viz intercourse. I reckon it’s simply because I could take his trousers down without actually taking his trousers down, if you know what I mean.  

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The Raunch Review: Book 24

Greetings from the middle of February.  Are you ready for a thriller?

I have been swelling. Like a jaundice Soufflé aux épinards. I looked in the mirror one rusty morning and was pretty bowled over. I had grown at least two feet and still had the remnants of the night before on my face. I had juiced a man’s prostate. He had a lot in the trap, if you catch my drift. I suspect he hadn’t let the pigeons out in a while. They were all breaking their necks to get into the fresh air. It’s nice to feel close to someone sometimes. Like right up in their mechanism. Anyway, Violet’s weekly adult book review has dropped and it’s a hard-boiled bollock of a thriller. The aim, as always, is to attempt to answer that pregnant question: can a good book ever be as brain-dead as a good fuck?

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Book title: In The Cut
Author: Susanna Moore
Publisher of this edition: Weidenfeld & Nicolson
Copyright: © Susanna Moore 1995
First published: 1995
Cover image: Emilio Brizzi / Millennium Images, UK

THE RAUNCH REVIEW: Violet’s Verdict

Quick synopsis:  In The Cut is a gut wrenching thriller, which follows the comings and goings, and inner workings, of an English teacher at New York University who becomes sexually involved with a policeman investigating the brutal murders of a number of women in the area. 

Title: This one has multiple levels of meaning. The murders all involve women being butchered with blades. Our narrator, Frannie, is also studying New York street slang, which unsurprisingly is very derogatory in nature.  Being ‘in the cut’ is used by several characters to mean ‘in the vagina’.  

Cover image: A close-up of a side profile looking backwards. It is a loaded look, make-up laden and sexual, vulnerable and yet defiant. Certainly, women in this book are being hunted and brutalised. They are the target of hatred even though they don’t necessarily realise it yet. 

Best sentence/s in the book:

“My dick’s so sweet, it’ll give you cavities.”

The cunt was fucking everything that walked. 

I, who refused for years to let my husband in Paris realize his life’s ambition of photographing a scorpion in my vagina. 

“You know, all you really need is two tits, a hole and a heartbeat.”

He doesn’t talk about sex the way some men do, wanting to go over it, wanting to hear the woman describe what it was like, how she hadn’t been able to wipe herself for a week. 

“I loved her so much I used to eat her every night.”

She had a meaty, fat pussy. 

He turned me around and bent me over the desk, yanking my skirt around my waist, and pulled aside my underpants and pushed his fingers, fingers, all his fingers inside me. 

“The only way I could tell he’d come was that he’d look at his watch.”

I was suddenly ashamed, ashamed that there would be an odor, or that his cock would have shit on it, and I could not look. 

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Overall sexual content: The book is full of sex. It is a thriller in more ways than one. Raw, stinking and writhing about the page on the knife edge between lust and hate. It is not an erotic book for me – in the sense that the brutality and general malice that accompanies all the sexual scenarios dribbles through and makes the sex repulsive. Sex is made into something dangerous and frightening, something violent and isolating. It is clap cold, like a body on a slab. 

Aside from the undercurrent of violence that permeates this thriller and annihilates the majority of the titillating aspects, the sex is fantastically well drawn. It feels authentic and desperate and real. Who said that erotica has to encourage positive sexual feelings? Maybe it can make us shrivel up and dry.  

Overall conclusion: 10 out of 10!!!!

Titillation station: It is titillating to a very small degree. The sexual passages are detailed and arousing. That is part of its power. Sex has got a lot to do with the power dynamic, whichever way you position it. And the feelings we have about sex are complex and hard to comprehend. 

Food for thought: It is one of the best books ever written, in my puffed up opinion. It captures something important, something that exists and walks around with us. The female characters are also flawed. The narrator suspects that the policeman she is fucking is a bad man, but she keeps having it off with him anyway. It paints female sexual desire on the page in a brash and real way, as present and obvious. Over the top of that is daubed the aggressive and predatory sexual desire of the male characters, who hold powerful positions in society that are supposed to protect us. The policeman’s hat and the policeman’s badge. His hand cuffs and his arrest warrants. Particularly, it illustrates the use of sex as a weapon and the culture amongst men that can dehumanise the object of their desires. Maybe because they have become too responsible for their own lives. 

Nobody can ignore when reading this book – and probably why it was reissued in 2021 – the parallels with the real culture of misogyny in the police force. The devastating atrocities that have happened in recent memory in full view. The way women are described and the way sex is achieved in this book is pumped full of disgust and one-upMANship. 

I won’t ruin the end. Or tell you how it turns out. Except that it is devastating and close to the nerve to acknowledge that a policeman cutting women’s nipples off and eventually using them as chum, and that person being very confident that he will get away with it, is not shocking and it should be. 

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The Raunch Review: Book 22

We are nearly at the big red door onto virgin territory. Imagine what exciting shit is out there. I’m so insatiable that I actually started my 2023 pocket diary already. What a terrible bitch! Patience doesn’t exist anymore, remember. Everything is binge binge binge until there’s nothing left, but emptiness and wrappers. So we might as well get on with it. Get reading. Those dicks won’t suck themselves, as my mum always says. Violet’s weekly adult book review attempts to answer that carrot-nosed question: can a good book ever be as naughty/nice as a good fuck?

Book title: Portnoy’s Complaint
Author: Philip Roth
Publisher of this edition: Vintage UK, Random House
Copyright: © Philip Roth 1967, 1968, 1969
First published: 1969
Cover art: Daido Moriyama

THE RAUNCH REVIEW: Violet’s Verdict

Quick synopsis:  The novel is written in the form of a lengthy sexually explicit monologue by the main character Alexander Portnoy to his psychoanalyst. Portnoy details his ongoing inability to enjoy his sexual conquests, which become more and more extreme. He also likes masturbating or sweating his onions, and I mean loads, like tens of times a day. 

Title: The book centres on exploring the fuck bangs that never end in catharsis. It begins with a clinical definition of “Portnoy’s Complaint,” which is said to be a disorder that wages war between ethical impulses and perverse sexual desire. The definition is provided by Portnoy’s psychoanalyst, who states that he believes the symptoms, supposedly displayed by the main character, are linked to the mother-child relationship. 

Cover image: A naughty look up some fishnet tights. Sexy up-skirting yeah. Like an erotic kaleidoscope of bunched thighs and folds leading you in. The feeling here is that she’s game, whoever the bird is with the legs, given that this type of tights are said to be exclusively worn by sluts.    

Best sentence/s in the book:

Then came adolescence – half my waking life spent locked behind the bathroom door, firing my wad down the toilet bowl, or into soiled clothes in the laundry hamper, or splat, up against the medicine-chest mirror, before which I stood in my dropped drawers so I could see how it looked coming out.

Nonetheless, it would seem that I never forgave her: in the weeks following our false alarm, she came to seem to me boringly predictable in conversation, and about as desirable as blubber in bed. 

“Come, Big Boy, come,” screamed the maddened piece of liver that, in my own insanity, I bought one afternoon at a butcher shop and, believe it or not, violated behind a billboard on the way to a bar mitzvah lesson. 

Did I mention that when I was fifteen I took it out of my pants and whacked off on the 107 bus from New York? 

Once in the morning (in an overgrown field near the lake shore) we had sexual congress, and then that afternoon, on a dirt road somewhere in the mountains of central Vermont, she said “Oh, Alex, pull over, now – I want you to come in my mouth,” and so she blew me, and with the top down!

Her favorite line of English prose is a masterpiece: “Fuck my pussy, Fuckface, till I faint.” 

You put your dick some place and moved it back and forth and stuff came out the front. 

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Overall sexual content: I wouldn’t say it’s a sexy read. Obviously this guy has issues and therefore lots of the dick based detail is centred on him wanking off in unusual and risky situations. He spends a lot of time pretending to his family that he has diarrhoea so that he can masturbate in the toilet, whilst his mum and dad frantically bang on the door begging him not to flush.  

Surprisingly, our main character does manage to have actual sex with lots of women, but most of it is disrespectfully described. He wants to have dirty sex with sluts basically, so that he can fuck them and get them to do whatever his fat controller fancies in that particular moment. Because don’t forget, he is tilting his sword at windmills with no hope of actually being satisfied. 

Overall conclusion: 6 out of 10.

Titillation station: I had high hopes for this well-respected wad of filth, but was sadly frustrated. No bristling or flinching whatsoever. The equivalent of a badly defrosted fish finger sandwich, which tastes like glass on the way down. 

Food for thought: It’s interesting that Roth used the old therapist/patient relationship as the basis for the book. A confession of sorts of a young man’s inner most desires and thoughts, no holes barred. Full frontal honesty or at least his version of how he wants to come across. Mr Roth is making us into smug voyeurs of sorts, like when people watch Embarrassing Bodies on telly with a bucket of popcorn to make themselves feel better about the shit they’ve got creeping about under their clothes. 

The most memorable bit in the book is when Alex masturbates with a piece of raw liver that his family then cooks and eats that evening. He sits there with them and eats it as well I might add. They have no idea why they get a mouth full of crusty wire pubes. Luckily, the book ends with him not being able to get it up anymore. Thank fuck! 

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The Raunch Review: Book 21

Violet Malice has become obsessed with the popular idiom COLD TURKEY given it’s that time of year again. It’s a multifaceted bird when you start thinking about it. You get the feeling that no body likes COLD TURKEY and in actual fact it might be pretty unbearable. Those grey pieces of dry sand-paper in-between two cold slices of bread with a bit of cranberry lube to help it get down the pipes. Drowning in a house full of shit gifts and torn-up wrapping paper. The internet says that the opposite of COLD TURKEY is HOT TORTOISE because they take their time and are pretty tasty. It’s shocking that the classic Xmas bird has such a bad rep when we consider that it’s the bird with the most generous cavity. As an example of just how gargantuan the storage possibilities, in the olden days (Xmas 2011), Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall stuffed nine other birds into a turkey’s orifice: a goose, a duck, a mallard, a guinea fowl, a chicken, a pheasant, a partridge in a pear tree, a working class pigeon and finally, a little pink woodcock. The question is, in this cruel world we live in: why do turkeys exist if no one actually likes them? If chickens do it better in terms of thigh and breast, why do we let the old turkey crown keep coming on the kitchen table for Christmas? Sadly, the answers to these questions might evade us forever. Now back to business, Violet’s weekly adult book review attempts to answer that neon question: can a good book ever be as costly as a good fuck?

Book title: The Enormous Bed
Author: Henry Jones
Publisher of this edition: K & G Publications
Copyright: © Brandon House 1967
First published: 1967
Cover art: Doesn’t say

THE RAUNCH REVIEW: Violet’s Verdict

Quick synopsis:  A posh guy called Henry – who is convinced he’s a pretty good shag – tells us some anecdotes about his life, and by life I mean his sex life. The book basically details the ins and outs of this guy’s sexual pursuits. 

Title: I suppose it’s a poetic nod to the shrieking mattress. The spring loaded playground of the playboy. A bed is not for sleeping in after all. Or at least that’s what I asked for in Bensons For Beds: a bed for fucking, no sleeping allowed under any circumstances. All the guy gave me was a funny look. 

Cover image: One of the trashiest covers I’ve come across so far. Crumpled swags of red velvet suggest luxury and passion. The naked big breasted woman with no eyes in the top right looks like she’s imprisoned in some sort of bed cage. If she was smiling, I might think differently. But her servitude gives me the willies and suggests that this is a man’s book. 

Best sentence/s in the book:

We were locked utterly in need, a self-destroying monster, jerking as one. 

I was close to the hot top of all my striving. 

Finally she seemed to go mad and worked herself desperately, while I redoubled my onslaught until, in a double rear of our bucking bodies, the long drawn thread of my being poured free into her. 

It was more like a foam-rubber playground than a place for sleeping.

Utterly exhausted, our one body hunched on itself like a weary worm. 

There was plenty of room to swing a blonde and my thoughts were already turning in that direction. 

The pink expanse of quilt quivered.  

“I want,” I said, “to go to bed with you very badly.”

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Overall sexual content: Pretty steamy. The book is majority sex, which is how I like my pork pies, lots of meat and not much jelly. But I wouldn’t necessarily say that the sex is hot. The main problem is that the guy can write. And I mean he can write properly. A poet in the rough. Apparently, an author and critic in his own right, John Coleman joins the battalion of serious writers that chose to disguise themselves when they penned a dirty book for cash. 

I reckon the book would have been more randy if the main character had been more likeable (Henry is so posh and arrogant that you can’t help but despise him and his mega dicked ego). This guy thinks he can bed any/everyone with a pulse and given that he’s telling the story, that’s exactly what he does. He gets seduced and used for sex all the time by these insatiable big titted bitches, which is obviously pretty fucking terrible and exhausting for him. BOOHOO!

Overall conclusion: 7 out of 10.

Titillation station: The Guardian did an article some years ago saying that the book contains some of the best sex scenes ever written. I would beg to differ on that. The sex scenes are OK – when 17 year old Henry gets seduced by the headmaster’s wife, or when Henry gets a job ‘servicing’ a young woman. But they are hardly memorable. I don’t think my breathing changed at all whilst reading them, so you know… all quiet on the M62. 

Food for thought: I don’t get on with books that paint women as sexual aggressors all the time. I don’t find that sort of shit erotic. There is an undercurrent of dislike and one-upmanship in that sort of thinking that really gets my goat. And my goat likes to have lots of nice warm milky sex. 

At one point Henry calls one of his friends a professional skirt chaser that kind of sums it up for me. Hopefully all these men are dead now. 

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The Raunch Review: Book 16

Violet Malice has been preoccupied with painted ladies and crotch flies this week. Wondering why buttons are sometimes used instead of zips. Is it a class thing? Does the skin get between the teeth? So, you’re down there, wahey, and you suddenly feel some really hard buttons when you weren’t expecting them to be there, and you’ve got to style it out. It’s hard to undo buttons with your teeth, right? Violet has been out of touch recently. Squirreled away in the South looking like Mona Lisa during a hurried 69. She has been wide awake staring at her mons veneris and trying to complete it. This week’s pulp paperback is a pocket rocket of a read. All skirt and no knickers. A book with a mission to make us all a little bit more dilated. Violet’s weekly adult book review – without frills – attempts to answer that disarming question: can a good book ever be as mouthy and uneducated as a good fuck?

Book title: Orality ’70
Author: Richard E. Geis
Publisher of this edition: Barclay House
Copyright: © Barclay House 1969
First published: 1969

THE RAUNCH REVIEW: Violet’s Verdict

Quick synopsis: The book is made up of a series of interviews with supposedly real people about their sex lives and experiences, with a particular focus on oral sex: the mouth. The book is described on the cover as a psycho-sex study and is very reminiscent of Eve Ensler’s The Vagina Monologues in its honesty, however there is one big difference in that the author does enter (literally) some of the stories. It is because of this and the author’s notoriety as a cult writer that I suspect that this is a work of fiction posing as non-fiction. I Googled it and nothing on the book is out there, not even a spunky review or synopsis. All I know for sure is that this book is a follow-up to Geis’ other book Orality ’69, written the year prior, and which also presents supposed first-hand experiences of sex. I have not been able to get hold of a second- or even third-hand copy of Orality ’69, so we will have to make do with the sequel on its own (ideally, I would have reviewed both books together, like the overbearing CEfuckingO that I am). 

Title: Does what it says on the tin. The book came out in 1970 and was a follow-up to Orality ’69 so I presume ’70 refers to the year. Orality is a good word for the job, as it means both the act of verbally communicating (so the interview style of content) and the act of focusing one’s sexual energy on the mouth. So, open wide and swallow it. 

Cover image: N/A. Obviously, scientific books need to look serious. It goes without saying that you can’t whack a big cock on the front of some journal about the metabolic system, it’s just not on. The warning: ADULTS ONLY, is a nice touch. Makes me want to read it. Like when I’m tempted to drink apricot shampoo because it says not for human consumption. Puts the idea straight into my silly little head. 

Best sentence/s in the book:

My wife is a cocksucker!

Her boss commented, “She’s built like the old brick shithouse.” 

I could see the wet pink peanut that was her clitoris between folds of parted flesh. 

Donny and Sammy blew dried peas at her cunt with plastic straws. 

He fumbled her blouse open, got her bra off and “went sort of ape”.

While she licked Sammy’s prick clean of her husband’s shit, Donny stuck a finger in her ass, pulled it out and made her lick that clean, too. 

“With ass it’s mostly tight right at the opening, that’s where you get the feeling from, except if the girl has a load of shit – if she has to take a crap when you plug in – then you get an extra feeling.”

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Overall sexual content: An incredible book. It’s a riot of heady but poignant sex like those trashy magazines that suck you in with outrageous headlines. The mix of people featured is spot on: the boss and his secretary who is also his sex slave; the alcoholic nympho who has never had an orgasm (which feels like it should be an oxymoron to me); the guy who got half his cock shot off and as such has rerouted his pleasure so successfully that he is an undisputed Olympian of eating pussy; a lesbian couple who are obsessed with 69; a senior hetero couple who manage to overcome their sheepishness and go down on each other for the first time after decades of marriage; and the woman hater who is exploding with bile and projected guilt. 

The personal accounts – which could be true – are really touching as well as incredibly erotic. They cover current sexual preferences as well as the person’s sexual history. Any sort of psychoanalysis feels like a bit of a stretch – especially as in a few instances the author ends up being sucked off by the person he is interviewing, which makes a mockery of any sort of authority. But still, I think there is value in trying to understand where inhibitions or preferences might come from, and through sharing personal experiences understand our shared humanity and that we are not alone in our desires.  

Geis is pushing for a more liberal and tolerant society. He is sex positive and calls out the laws in the United States at that time, the government bodies and the church groups that stood in the way of sexual self-expression and freedom. He tells people to think about it. To decide for themselves whether the people presented in this book should be punished (legally and therefore not for pleasure) for their behaviour. 

Overall conclusion: 7 out of 10.

Titillation station: Hot as a chip pan fire in Tenerife. Shortness of breath. Fireworks with loud bangs. Animated before quickly becoming irrational. This is a keeper. To be placed in an accessible position on the under the bed bookshelf right next to the trunk of sex toys. 

Food for thought: Everyone always thinks it’s about sticking it in. Penetration this, penetration that, but in truth it’s not about that stuff at all. Sexy sex and intimacy and pleasure are so much more than nuts and bolts.  It is refreshing to read a good book arguing the corner for something different. For something exposing, gloriously open, and generous. To be the giver of pleasure and to receive pleasure from giving is a beautiful thing. 

I particularly like the bit where the married couple in their 50s decide one evening out-of-the-blue (pun intended) to have oral sex for the first time. He says to her: “I’m going to eat you tonight,” and she replies delightfully “It’s about time.” The detailed description of them giving each other head is exquisite, especially when he locates her clit and gets turned on by her thrashing about in the pillows. She then returns the favour and manages to stop herself from vomiting all over his stomach. Now that’s true love, surely.  

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