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 20

Violet Malice has been worrying about the cost of living and the sharp increase in the price of salad cream. It’s like they don’t think we’ll notice. It’s £3.29 in ASDA. Like what the total fuck! How is that even possible. The main ingredients are water, vinegar and plastic. As a comparison, you can buy 32 pork mini eggs just a few aisles away for a tight £3.50. Insanity. Or you can get Dr Oetker’s extra strong black food colouring for £1.50, but one unsatisfied customer said that it comes out “kind of grey”. It seems that living comfortably might be the Christmas wish on most of our lips. Having enough warm socks to make a draft excluder and some proper non-scented candles to light up the dark. There are around 20 calories in a tablespoon of semen and sadly very little nutritional value, just so you know. On the other hand, there are around 42 calories per fluid ounce in pussy juice. Sexy. How to stay hot when it’s arctic out there? There she blows, Violet’s weekly adult book review attempts to answer that hangry question: can a good book ever be as thick and saucy as a good fuck?

Book title: Candy
Authors: Terry Southern and Mason Hoffenberg
Publisher of this edition: Bloomsbury
Copyright: © Terry Southern and Mason Hoffenberg 1958, 1959, 1962, 1964
First published: 1958
Cover art: Doesn’t say

THE RAUNCH REVIEW: Violet’s Verdict

Quick synopsis:  Eighteen year-old Candy is drop dead gorgeous, so much so that every man she comes into contact with wants to fuck her. The book presents a landslide of farcical sexual encounters, which all involve the naïve young woman being pressured into sex and then something disastrous happens mid-shag. 

Title: The main focus of the book is a woman called Candy. Pretty straightforward. Everyone wants candy. 

Cover image: Nice er… typeface. Pink and curvy. I must say the cover is pretty trashy and childish. I was ashamed to spread the covers on public transport as an experienced reader of quality filth. The illustration of a young woman in just her bra is probably an accurate reflection of the content inside. Pretty damn pathetic. 

Best sentence/s in the book:

She still wasn’t sure she might not be dealing with some kind of raving, anal-erotic maniac. 

You will notice that I have caused my member to become stout and rigid – as though it were in the so-called state of ‘erection’. 

“Here’s a credential for you, momma!” said the police officer in the back seat with her, and he tore open his fly and forced her hand inside. 

“Like salami wouldn’t melt in your mouth!”

He was keeping his eyes trained on the scalloped V, beneath which pulsed Candy’s precious little lamp-pit. 

“Not so distasteful, I daresay, as your fat clit!” 

“Perfect! Her tubes are perfect!” 

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Overall sexual content: Awful. All of the sex is repulsive and ridiculous. A bad tasting combination. The whole book centres on aggressive male desire (so men being helpless sex beasts in the face of young beauty) and the subservience of women, whose bashful desire is seemingly only activated by being needed/wanted by men. 

Candy is forced into sex by her father’s identical twin, a gynaecologist, a hunchback who wants to steal all her money, and a philosopher, not to mention all of the other characters who try to cop a feel (police officers, a psychiatrist, etc etc). The book cums to a big end with a pretty monumental sex scene. A building is struck by lightening and begins to fall apart, which forces her cunt onto the erect penis of a man covered in mud. A statue falls down and becomes impaled in her arsehole as she begins rocking backwards and forwards on this guy’s cock, who she suddenly recognises as her father. 

Overall conclusion: 2 out of 10.

Titillation station: There are a few sexy bits. But on the whole the book is totally ridiculous and vile. Everything withered up and died. One of the quotes on the back of the book says ‘Sex, after this event, will never be the same,’ and I kind of agree, it totally put me off sex with men. Sexual desire presented as a desperate, violent, uncontrollable and selfish sick dog is the anthesis of sexy. Sadly, there are too many real-life examples of this sort of behaviour for the book to be funny. 

Food for thought: Both of the writers (who originally wrote the novel under the pseudonym Maxwell Keaton) freely admitted writing this book just for the money and were flabbergasted when people reviewing the book said that Candy was a satire on Candide. Terry Southern said, “It’s as if you vomit in the gutter and everybody starts saying it’s the greatest new art form, so you go back to see it, and, by God, you have to agree.” 

The raging success of this book is a real shocker. To go down the hell hole of presenting a woman as so desirable that all men will basically rape her – even if you try and present it in a farcical way – is just deplorable. And the fact that Candy is so gullible and so desperate to please, makes it even worse. Female beauty exists to be tarnished and enjoyed at all costs it seems. And male power, physical and well as societal, makes this possible. Everyone that comes to Candy’s rescue tries to get into her knickers, like a run of horrifying dominoes. Because grateful is exactly how you want them. 

In 2006, Playboy Magazine placed Candy at number 22 in its list of the “25 Sexiest Novels Ever Written,” I wonder what sort of fucking prick compiled that list. It seems I might have lost my sense of humour. 

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The Raunch Review: Book 19

Violet Malice has been hard at it. Don’t expect her to back down anytime soon. Sometimes the best things are worth waiting for, like when you queue for two hours for the salad buffet at Pizza Hut and it’s all over dressed and limp around the lips. Some educated people have been saying this book review is a bag of severed dicks and that it should be wiped from the internet like dog shit off a bushy moustache. There are other people that say Violet is choosing the wrong books, you know the valueless pulpy sacks of shit that are not worth the paper they are printed on. They say that maybe she should review the great sex classics written by the inventors of titillation like Henry Miller and all the other bloated big-dicked misogynists that have their heads so far up their own arses that they can’t piss straight. Violet thinks all those people can go fuck themselves. Write your own blog you lazy twats. She’s fine with no one reading any of this – you know what, it’s probably best. So here we go, Violet’s weekly adult book review dives into the 70s this week in an attempt to answer that unadulterated question: can a good book ever be as dishonest as a good fuck?

Book title: Confessions of a Housewife!?*!
Author: Jonathan May
Publisher of this edition: Sphere Books
Copyright: © Jonathan May 1976
First published: 1976
Cover photo: Doesn’t say

THE RAUNCH REVIEW: Violet’s Verdict

Quick synopsis:  Jonny meets an older woman in a taxi and ends up going home with her. When the horny widow wins a six-week holiday on a spot the ball competition, Jonny finds himself standing in as the ‘housewife’ for her three children. Needless to say, chaos ensues. 

Title: One of the infamous confessions’ books from the 70s, the titles of which all begin the same and focus on the sordid confessions of certain archetypes. This book is particularly playful in that it places the hapless male in the thankless and hopefully totally redundant role of the housewife. 

Cover image: The rogue male is wearing just an apron and drying the dishes, how terrifying. Some hot blonde has got her bare arse all over the surfaces, which obviously turns all our stomachs. Hygiene is a keystone to keeping house. He looks pretty pleased with himself. Like housework is well easy and fun, which is obviously not fucking true. He’s not taking this seriously I suspect, which makes me angry.  

Best sentence/s in the book:

I help the lovely lady on with her flimsy tight black lacy knickers, pulling them carefully up over her long firm thighs, and pressing them into her pussy pelmet so that they nestle snugly in place. 

For a moment I think of that awful bit in Jaws, when the naked bird who’s just had it away, finally has it off by the shark. 

My veal vibrator is rocking and rolling like Chuck Berry with the wind behind him. 

The lady gets her morning tit-bit, and I slide down and give a demonstration of what a cunning linguist I am. 

The first time wasn’t easy, with her lying there like a dead polar bear, and me working away like a docker on overtime. 

The velvet vacuum cleaner is going full force.

By reaching all the way round her, my nimble right hand can manage a bit of extra massage on her booster button. 

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Overall sexual content: Well, well, well. I’m going to shock you now and say that the sex bits are pretty good. Light-hearted, funny and yes, actually, pretty thrilling. The Jonny character is an arrogant cad, but the careful nuance of the writing also makes him a bit of a loser, so it actually works really well. So rather than being a big turn-off, which is what I expected from a sleazy male focused dirty book from the 70s, it was actually a blast. 

Although there are countless motions towards aggressive female desire, the humour and ridicule of the main character make any such comments harmless and part of the overall power struggle inherent to all sexual dynamics. There is great humour in the lies we tell ourselves and the positions we put ourselves in when the curtains are drawn. 

Overall conclusion: 5 out of 10.

Titillation station: A riot really. A great quickie with some laugh out loud moments and no room for any deep thinking. Sometimes that’s exactly what the doctor orders. A momentary escape from reality. 

Food for thought: A prolific and respected sci-fi writer in his own right, Laurence James moonlighted as Jonathan May to write a large helping of this sleaze series. It’s hard to know exactly who they were intended for – my guess is probably men because of the humour and the male focused kink (our Jonny wants to and eventually does have sex with the 17-year-old daughter), but I could be wrong. It seems that pseudonyms helped to save the ‘straight’ writer from any bad shit that might come of writing naughty things. 

Our narrator Jonny calls his prick Edgar, which is actually very funny. It helps to give his cock a life of its own.  There’s no dark undertone to this, but this personification of the genitals does give our protagonist the ability to distance himself from his dick’s behaviour, which is not progress. That way leads to the horror of not being accountable for our actions. Letting ourselves off the meat hook for the good, the bad and the ugly. 

The book is a right laugh, and I really was pleasantly surprised. When I picked the book up, I took a deep breath and steeled myself against what I suspected would be a hornet’s nest of offensive tripe. But I was wrong. These books are a bit of fun. Not to be taken seriously. I mean – of course – they are not the best thing every written, but equally they are far from the worst. It’s actually very hard to write funny. I would gladly have a burrow in the rest of the series when I fancy getting the old laughing tackle out for some gagging. 

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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?

Front cover of Dead Babies by Martin Amis

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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The Raunch Review: Book 10

Violet Malice with a beard

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?

Pulp paperback by Ed Martin

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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Violet Malice

Suck It and See