dirty books Archives - Page 4 of 6

7 October 202216 October 2022

The Raunch Review: Book 15

Violet Malice has been trying not to bite her tongue off when she thinks about you at night with her legs open. Dwelling on the look in your eyes when she knows you’re lying about not fancying that woman that works in the pizza place with the nice trousers (I mean tits). The one who talks to you with her eyes. The polite bitterness on your tongue in the morning when you want the intruder in your bed to love you and then fuck right off. She has been sitting in aluminium soaked coffee shops, looking at the floor tiles and contemplating the uncontemplatable. If only there was a way to turn the hands back and live life again knowing what she knows now. This week’s work of art is a book weak at the knees because of a meat truck collapsed on the great straining organ. A chest cavity hot and slick with slow roasted sex organs. It is a magnificent slip into romance. Violet’s weekly adult book review – as always – attempts to answer that padded envelope of a question: can a good book ever be as narcissistic and self-absorbed as a good fuck?

Book title: A Sport And A Pastime
Author: James Salter
Publisher of this edition: Picador
Copyright: © James Salter 1967
First published: 1967
Cover image: John Stezaker

THE RAUNCH REVIEW: Violet’s Verdict

Quick synopsis: An anonymous male narrator tells the story of a love affair between a handsome American man and a young French girl. The narrator watches them obsessively – seemingly wanting to be him and be balls deep in her – describing and fantasising about their rather magnolia day-to-day activities (eating out in nice restaurants) and their frequent unbridled sexual activities (eating out on pussy and cock burgers).

Title: A forgettable title really given that the book is considered a great American novel and received critical acclaim. The author should probably have gone with something more tangible like The College Drop-Out and The Cock Hungry Waitress or Sowing Wild Strawberries In Some Beautiful Wasteland. Given the intensity of the book – the title somewhat undermines the sentiment, which is obviously the point. Love and lust are just a sport and a pastime. What at first seems to be the best thing in the world, is actually a repeatable fantasy that explodes into nothingness as you move closer and closer together. It seems that as the fucking becomes more and more meaningful – lust and hunger transform into fear and the loss of self.

Cover image: The book focuses on the love affair between the two characters to the exclusion of all else – so the cover image works well. A good snog in the dark. A snog one leans into. A snog where you suddenly lose your trousers and your dignity. It could be all of our faces on that cover. A kiss frozen in time that mixes two separate beings into one moving mass of limbs.

Best sentence/s in the book:

She undoes his clothing and brings forth his prick, erect, pale as a heron in the dusk, both of them looking ahead at the road like any couple.

His sperm swims slowly inside her, oozing out between her legs.

Her cunt tastes sweet as fruit.

He comes like a bull.

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Overall sexual content: The book is beautiful. Like poetry. Full of poignant observations about the journey from lust to love and back again. The fear and failure that comes with falling in love. Poetry is perfect for this purpose as such enormous all-consuming feelings have evaded description since 1992. That’s what poetry and great literature are there for: to try and capture the total horse shit that is a life well lived.

There is lots and lots of sensual sex. Slow and wordless. Like the Sunday morning sun creeping across the covers. It is a very erotic book. The rhythm and backdrop of winter in France makes for a dizzy randy romance. The restless energy of youth and beauty. The coffee in condensation adorned cafes and the decadence of being hungry and then eating.

The dialogue between them is excruciating. He has bad French and she has bad English. They fumble along. Obsessed with each other’s bodies and how they feel inside each other. There is a very beautiful moment when they try to talk about anal, without actually naming it (because maybe naming it is too crass and might shatter the romance), and she asks whether it will hurt. He obviously says the equivalent of “No, up the arse is well pleasurable like eating semolina.” When eventually they do put it in the shit shute, it is breathtaking.

I did want more. A lot more. There is certainly lots of sex and it is described beautifully, but the sex itself is drawn very quickly as if half-asleep. I wanted protracted descriptions of their fucking. I wanted more trash in the poetry to make my eyes water. Pin pricks and teeth marks. I wanted a clearer view of their pleasure. For me there was a few too many roses and not enough gut bacteria. Turn the knob up to incinerate – that’s the book I want to read.

Overall conclusion: 8 out of 10.

Titillation station: A hot one handed read if you’re into a perfectly rounded turn of phrase and a plump glottal stop. A swell bit of writing porn. But not a head banger if you catch my drift.

Food for thought: The narrator is a nicely drawn voyeur. How much of their romance is his imagination is debatable, I’d say most of it. He obviously fancies the pants off the French girl, but is unable to act on his desires. If you stunt a pipe usually the fluids find their way out of another hole. I reckon this guy has a pretty vivid wank bank.

The French girl is described as poor, simple and working-class. She has bad breath and farts by accident. She is sexy and beautiful and insatiable. She does not fight against her love for him, but he fights against hers. He eventually gets killed in a motorcycle accident, so all ends well! She gets married and presumably has children because obviously that’s the only possible ending to a romance. The woman either pines away to nothing or she stays on the MOTHER fucking conveyor belt of privet hedged suburbia.

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1 October 2022

The Raunch Review: Book 14

Violet Malice has been digging out the knitwear and gently handling moth balls. The weather has taken a turn this week, from mild to nippy. It seems that September has burnt itself out and everyone’s legs and bottom cheeks have gone into hibernation. Violet has taken to reading late into the morning, under the covers with a steaming cup of tea and some nice biscuits (describing word rather than nice biscuits themselves which are not actually very nice). Sometimes staying in bed is the best we can do. This week’s reading material has been a bitter lid to lick. Like one of those massive tubs of yogurt with a handle that you buy because it makes sense fiscally, but which turns out to taste like absolute fucking shit. Not all books should be easy and soft, some books are better read pushed up against a load-bearing wall. Violet’s weekly adult book review attempts to answer that overpowering question: can a good book ever be as lip suckingly horrifying as a good fuck?

Book title: The Sluts
Author: Dennis Cooper
Publisher of this edition: Carroll & Graf Publishers
Copyright: © Dennis Cooper 2004
First published: Sections first appeared in various literary magazines
Cover photo: David Sprigle

THE RAUNCH REVIEW: Violet’s Verdict

Quick synopsis: The book is made up of a mishmash of reviews from the pages of a website for gay male escorts, message boards and emails. It focuses on the goings on of one particular escort and his sugar daddy, which escalates into a huge steaming paella of horrendously explicit sex practices, lies, fantasies and online posturing.

Title: The Sluts is a pretty wet nosed title, if you ask me, given the absolute depravity in the book. It probably should have been much more hardcore given that most of the activity in the book focuses on extreme S&M and online sex people obsessing over the thought of young twinks being bred and killed.

Cover image: Well lit! Gritty and raw, full frontal, exactly like the insides.

Best sentence/s in the book:

I would have sold my mother into slavery to bury my face in that ass and feel my tongue inside that warm, perfect body.

His years as a heavy bottom have damaged it beyond repair, but you could say the same thing about the Grand Canyon.

I recommend doing him with the lights on because you can stretch the elastic and look all the way into his beautiful, pulsing guts.

He had a reputation among the regulars at the bar as an arrogant creep who charged a ridiculously large fee ($350) to sit on men’s faces and masturbate.

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Overall sexual content: The book is full of extreme sex so it is very harrowing indeed. I had to have a breather on a number of occasions – particularly when towards the end, the young escort that is the focus of the book is castrated and raped, whilst been made to eat his own testicles.

The format and writing style captures the unrestrained and frightening depths of the online world – dark, unaccountable and anonymous. The narrator and every voice in the book is contradicted or exposed to be lying or withholding information, so the book begins to take on a fantasy of its own. Just when you feel as though something might be certain, everything is turned on its head and truth begins to dribble down your inside leg. Is anything true? Is anyone being serious? Is all this just a big collective wank fantasy?

Much like the incel forums of today, which advocate sexual violence against women, there is a monstrously real quality to the sentiments expressed in the book. And even if these individuals are just fantasising about murdering beautiful young escorts and getting off on it – is that in itself OK? What about free speech? If every response is an escalation, if we need harder and harder stimulus, where will it end? Death and destruction? The final curtain. La petite mort pulls itself back together and then snuffs out for good.

The online world has blown up the hornet’s nest of sex and debauchery and our ability to take on new identities and express extreme views to get a reaction. It has enabled us to get unrestricted access to anything we want. Enter conversations and be part of communities that we may not have had access to previously – but this can be positive and negative. Certainly, the book showcases the dangerous quicksand of message boards and online forums, which suck people in and pump violently until all that is left is bleached bones and a bucket of cum.

Overall conclusion: 6 out of 10.

Titillation station: Sawdust and celibacy.

Food for thought: Don’t get me wrong, there is certainly a place for S&M and serious kink. What a beautiful flinching portmanteau of sadism (the pleasure from inflicting pain) and masochism (the pleasure from receiving it). First spewed from those two great fucking writers: sadism comes from the French sadisme named after the Marquis de Sade and masochism from that old bastard English named after Leopold von Sacher-Masoch. The crucial thing about power and submission is the line really. Between perineum and arsehole. The space between the collar. The perspiration between pleasure and pain. Life and death. Fantasy and reality. Art and literature. Anticipation and… At what point do the seams come open and the doors fall off.

We are all shaped by power dynamics. Sex is about power. Sometimes the powerful want to get on their carpet burned fucking knees and dine out on shit and vice versa. But I would suggest that pain and abuse without trust becomes a whole different beast when it makes that leap into the real world.

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22 September 202222 September 2022

The Raunch Review: Book 13

Violet Malice has been off the radar for a week. Mainly because there were 32 lasagnas in the fridge that needed eating up and no one else fit enough for the job. Violet can really put it away when she wants to, just saying. Aside from the deep pasta trough of mid-September, Violet has also been consuming reading materials with gusto. Sadly, this latest book was like sucking on a used Johnny and then somehow finding it wrapped around the bilge pump of the rumpy pumpy section of the four seasons chamber orchestra. If Violet wasn’t so committed to the integrity of this unflinching review then the book at issue would have been thrown out of the window into a waiting dog’s arse. Or most likely it would have been placed in the Ramsgate library LARGE PRINT aisle even though it wasn’t from there and as such would have totally collapsed the shelving system. Satire. Violet’s weekly adult book review – yet again – attempts to answer that technical question: can a good book ever be as pop-eyed and yellow as a good fuck?

Book title: Dead Babies
Author: Martin Amis
Publisher of this edition: Vintage UK, Random House
Copyright: © Martin Amis 1975
First published: 1975
Cover illustration: Sebastian Helling

THE RAUNCH REVIEW: Violet’s Verdict

Quick synopsis: A group of posh people, who are neither likeable nor particularly like each other, are in some big house and some American people arrive for the weekend. They have lots of drugs and sex organs. Obviously, it degrades.

Title: Don’t care. Characters refer to dead babies a few times but I really couldn’t be arsed to try and work out what the hell was being alluded to, sometimes you know the pay-off is not going to be worth the effort. I suspect that it relates to some ridiculous view that the vile characters in the book have that everyone else in the world is an idiot and should shut the fuck up and eat dead babies or something pathetic like that, much like the satirical suggestion pushed by Jonathan Swift that the Irish should eat their own children when things get tight. Satire = well intelligent.

Cover image: Pretty budget if you ask me. Someone got paid to drag a few clouds across a turquoise sky and lob in a few wobbly eggs/disco biscuits. The font – technically known as totally shagged – obviously suggests some sort of narcotics abuse given the inconsistency and overhang of the lettering. They should have spelt Martin’s name wrong – that would have been funny.

Best sentence/s in the book:

“You look absolutely extraordinary. Like a sex cubicle.”

Andy had had a coltish, alcoholic erection.

“Heard about The Body Bar in Santa Barbara? No? Hell of a fuckin place. The waiters and waitresses are nude, natch – and you get fucked there for the cover charge. But you hear the gimmicks? You can have cuntcubes in your drinks. I mean it. And not just flavoured with cunt. Real juice in the cubes. They got… yeah, they got tit soda, cock cocktails, pit popsicles… Oh, yeah, and icecream that tastes of ass. Hell of a place.”

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Overall sexual content: I had this joke in the olden days: I went to bed with Martin Amis and was underwhelmed. Sometimes I said disappointed instead of underwhelmed depending on my mood. Well, Martin, I let you under the covers again and I started feeling agitated by your sour tongue and your massive ego. You can write Martin – but you’re much less good at it than you think you are.

The sex is pretty awful. Much promised and nothing delivered. I’m well aware that that is what the book is supposed to be out – lots of drug taking and floppy cocks, but it’s all a bit too fucking boring for my liking. All the characters are vile and all their interactions are pointless so it’s really hard to wade through all the treacly prose of a literary male having a circle jerk with himself.

The married sex is the best – and I never thought I’d ever say that – but even then he makes it proper cringe. All small talk and back rubs. All bacon rashers for breakfast and flustered fussy fingering of orifices.

I was hoping that everyone would die in the end – for the best – but only one person did which was so fucking incredibly boring. Lots of the characters tried to commit suicide but failed. There’s something about such a hopeless load of raw untreated shit that feels incredibly lazy and arrogant – it’s not satire if it has nothing to say. Yes, we are all morons with mouths and arseholes but what’s your fucking point Martin, you old sod.

Overall conclusion: 1 out of 10.

Titillation station: Not in anyway even slightly sexy. Even the sex words that I know and love lost there kick and gnash. We are all dead. And just as one of the abysmal characters chimes, sex has become a mere bodily function like shitting. Hooray! Maybe satire can’t be sexy? Maybe satire has to be impotent?

Food for thought: There isn’t any. I don’t like food or thinking anymore.

A quick fact about Martin Amis: he acknowledged during an interview once that sex scenes in novels are always terrible. Dear, oh fucking dear! Maybe, how about, I’m just thinking, maybe, just maybe, have a go at writing a good sex scene then Martin you lazy fucking cunt. Presuming you’ve had one. Or can imagine a good one. Because that’s supposed to be your fucking purpose right – imagining things that us vacant cretins might learn something from.

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23 August 202223 August 2022

The Raunch Review: Book 10

Violet Malice has been reading pulpy paperbacks like nobody’s business this week. Beware of the sex robot. She has been ruminating on the use of keelhauling in the olden days and wondering whether taking the width instead of the length as punishment would be shameful. If you were unlucky enough to survive, of course. On the look out for a bedtime read that gets the sweat glands firing and the deep oval grape getting eaten. Violet’s weekly adult book review attempts to answer that multifaceted question: can a good book ever be as liquid as a good fuck?

Book title: Frankenstein ’69
Author: Ed Martin
Publisher of this edition: The Olympia Press
Copyright: © Ed Martin 1969
Publication date of this edition: 1972
Cover photo: Giles Lagarde

THE RAUNCH REVIEW: Violet’s Verdict

Quick synopsis: A castle-dwelling scientist Ygor and his insatiable wife Hortense (how do you make a whore tense?) conduct sex research on two students. Meanwhile, Ygor finally succeeds in bringing to life three beautiful virgins, constructed from metal pipes and screw bits, otherwise known as Frankensteinesses. The rub comes in the shape of a higher power: Appalled by the fact that one of Ygor’s students has become pregnant, while her virginity remains in tact, which means that she will give birth to an amphibian, the king of the mermaids orders two of his randiest stooges to go and ‘unpregnant’ her. Then it all kicks off – as one might expect.

Title: The title is pretty good – it certainly piqued my interest – even though it doesn’t really fit with the story. Yes – the mad scientist creates some robot sex humans but they are not really human or at least they are not made from human body parts like Frankenstein’s monster. Although Ygor and his wife do find themselves disgusted by their creations, and have to runaway on several occasions, because the sex robots won’t stop having sex with them or each other. It’s likely the title was given to Ed Martin before he’d started writing.

The ’69 aspect presumably relates to the year it was written. Although I like to think it refers to all the long flowery descriptions of oral hygiene and sexy root canals littering the pages. I think at least 83% of the book is dedicated to the art of facetime or facedowntime. Like right down there. Up the guts.

Cover image: Beautiful. Iconic. What’s not to like? Although, she could be in a morgue or on a butcher’s slab. And the necklace – from far away – could look like her head has been sewn on. Much like Frankenstein’s creature. But he was a hideous amalgam of corpses remember. Not a rosebud about to be introduced to a force 5 (Beaufort scale, yeah).

Best sentence/s in the book:

“I’d love to screw something up your asshole and ram it in and out until you come like a fucking fountain.”

“If his nuts got any higher he might, as they say a bit coarsely, spray his fuck.”

“Hey, big-tits, swim over here and suck my cock.”

“You keep that up, baby, and I’m going to come off in your hand.”

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Overall sexual content: The BEST book I have ever read!

Not only is the sex amazing and glorious and poetically written, but it’s funny and warm and sticky and celebratory.

All of the characters love sex. All of the genitals receive a great deal of attention – literal and metaphorical. The mermaids have cocks and pussies and everybody gets off all of the time. Relentlessly. Gratuitously.

I’ve never read sex writing as good as this! I don’t know what else to say.

Even the bits about beastiality – when one of the mermaids has sex with a horse – are fucking ace-in-the-hole. Or when the virgin fucks herself with a log because she’s that way inclined.

Overall conclusion: 9.9 out of 10.

Titillation station: Liquid decadence has never felt this good. It used to smell like a hungry rainforest and now it smells like a sweaty man with a frothing mouth organ. I’m talking chocolate habanero (Scoville scale, alright).

Food for thought: This book is like if Shakespeare wrote some porn and wasn’t such a hairy conservative arsecrack, i.e. the dialogue and the description are fucking outstanding. As an example – because I can tell you’re doubting me – here are a few gems:

go ahead cook your tits —— (this had me literally pissing the bed)

a kind of relaxed mid-afternoon casual spontaneous prolonged fuck in the garden ———- (Jesus couldn’t have strung it out better)

they call the king of the mermaids a different term of formal address throughout the book, including: Your Quivering Prostate; His Permanent Erection; Centurion of Cuntjuice; Rector of Rectums; The Gaping Shaved Pussy; Master of the Triple Come; you get the picture…

What a gloriously fun book! The fantastical element – the mermaids and shit – is perfectly balanced in order to allow the reader to dip their toe into the deep dark pool of perversion without being pulled under. The virgin sex robot dolls element enables the writer to present sex from an entirely innocent and curious perspective without again careering into anything uncomfortable. And it makes for some great comedy:

Carole [the brunette sex robot] was still stretched out on the table. She had her pussy peeled down and was trying to fish inside for loose wires. “Someone has just got to fix my pussy,” she wails. And then later on she astutely observes: “Oh look, I’m getting the shit fucked out of me!”

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13 August 202213 August 2022

New Writing: Private and Confidential

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.

Watch Violet’s poem about icecream!