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 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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New Writing: Private and Confidential

Violet Malice on the beach
Violet Malice
Fire doors and dressing gowns

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

The Raunch Review: Hot Book Review 3

Violet Malice has devoured yet another work of hot hot hot erotica this week. Carefully turning the pages on, every evening as June winds its way up and down, repeatedly, again and again, without fail. On the hunt for a bedtime read that feels like silk and sunshine and sucks like quicksand. Violet’s weekly adult book review attempts to answer that gurning question: can a good book ever be as smoking HOT as a good fuck?

Darling by Harriet Daimler
Darling by Harriet Daimler

Book title: Darling
Author: Harriet Daimler (Iris Owens)
First published: 1956

THE RAUNCH REVIEW: Violet’s Verdict

Quick synopsis: Gloria, a self-proclaimed ‘refrigerated cunt’ living in New York, is raped by a man with a bad leather jacket. This event turns her into a raging nymphomaniac. Obviously, it goes without saying that a total nympho is unable to satisfy her sexual desire. Ahem. The story tracks Gloria’s lust fueled journey of middling sex and frustration as well as her desperate hunt to find her rapist whom she wants to fuck and kill.

Front cover: A jolly front cover, which is wholly inappropriate. Like putting a cartoon horse on a book about hand, foot and mouth disease. The book is in no way jolly or throwaway. It is hardcore. Both in terms of the storyline and the frequent unquenchable sex that takes place between the covers. If I was designing the front cover I would go for a close-up of a bear trap in some woods with a pair of frilly knickers inside and the severed leg of some leather clad sex offender who has badly misjudged his prey.

Title: Again, wholly inappropriate. Darling suggests some flimsy book about nice sexy sex and nice sexy wives having nice sex and nice biscuits.  Most of the men that Gloria fucks call her ‘darling’ during intercourse, which is probably the reason for the pathetic title.

Best two-word phrase in the book: Sanitary fucking and/or indestructible erection. 

Best over use of a hyphen: Sea-and-sperm-drenched.

Best sentence/s in the book: Lots and lots of appalling erotic writing. Below are a few favourites –

His hopeful immense erection had wilted like a sick plant on his leg. 

I’m gonna dig so deep into your ass, you’ll taste my come on your tongue. 

You think this horse opera we carry on is love? 

He used her as he would a life-sized sponge with a few openings. 

His eyes were like milky white sperm. Probably his whole body filled with sperm up to the top of his head, and his prick his only exit. 

Sexual content: Legend has it that the founder of Olympia Press – the one and only – Maurice Girodias asked Daimler to “tone it down a bit love”. Apparently, he said that it wasn’t necessary for every page to be sexual. I’d like to read the original. In my book, there’s no such thing as too much hot sauce on one’s furry breakfast cereal.

The sex is well drawn and vivid. Hot and hungry. Funny and frenzied. It does tip over slightly into the world of fantasy, which is more often the case with sex books, because ultimately the aim is to turn up the gas on the sex cooker rather than tell a coherent and believable story. (Some bores might say that all good sex is fantasy. Or at least that fantasy makes better sex.)

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Overall conclusion: 8 out of 10. A must-read. Far from perfect but without doubt an unappreciated masterbeast. Starts off rocky but finds its feet. Feeds the hungry mouths as well as the mind. Very obviously written extremely quickly and as such would have benefited from more time wanking over it. Despite the difficult plotline, the book has multiple levels: (1) it can just be a good fuck book – some people think it’s a very explicit rape fantasy, (2) however I think there is a really challenging subtext about rape and sexual desire.

Gloria hunts down and kills her rapist – the man with the white eyes – and despite her questions to try and spark his recognition as she seduces and eventually kills him – that he has been to her flat before that he has felt her body before, he does not remember her. He treated her as an object. An orifice. She returns the favour.

Throughout the book there are some very powerful observations that are left there for the reader to steam past or ponder, whatever you desire. There’s a real art in that. You can lick the cream straight off the top or dig deeper into the trifle.

Titillation station: Thumbs up the wank bank!

Food for thought: Female writers of erotica are like hen’s tits. What agro-smut from the seemingly unassuming! I am pleased Iris Owens didn’t use a male pen name. I am pleased that the book is so unapologetic and frayed around the edges. I am pleased that Gloria kills the fucking a-hole in the end. I am pleased that the characters are all flawed and grotesque and thrash about the page. I am very pleased that this book exists.

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Poetry Shack, London

An evening of performance poetry and spoken word featuring:

Anne Pigalle
Donall Dempsey
Violet Malice
Robert Garnham

Also includes open mic.

Violet Malice

Suck It and See