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The Raunch Review: Book 32

I changed my broadband provider recently. I was forced into it, if you must know. The situation was pretty rough, I had to hang my head of the window to get a limp-wristed hand shank of a shit signal. Couldn’t bloody do anything. Total fucking ball ache. It takes the bastards about two years to sort out a separation (the big cut off) and then a remarriage to a new superfast supplier, and they act as though you should be grateful. They eventually managed to send an engineer round to finger my cables in the rain. Then, you’re off. The world suddenly seems less small, less content. 

So, here we go again. Violet’s sporadic adult book review looks at a ruddy bloody masterpiece of a dirty book. Something quite extraordinary between the covers. The aim, as always, is to attempt to answer that swollen question: can a good book ever be as memorable as a good fuck?

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Book title: Helen and Desire
Author: Alexander Trocchi
Introduction: Edwin Morgan
Publisher of this edition: Rebel Inc
Copyright: © Alexander Trocchi, 1954
First published: 1954
Photography: Peter Ross

THE RAUNCH REVIEW: Violet’s Verdict

Quick synopsis: The book recounts the sexual adventures in the cuming-of-age journey of 18-year-old Australian Helen Smith. It’s kind of like a diary, but not really. She basically makes a run for it from her father and goes on a sex rampage around the world. Driven by the unrelenting desire to have it off. 

Title: Says pretty much what’s in the tin. Meat and two veg. Helen and her desire are the main boner running through the book, so yeah. It’s widely acknowledged that Trocchi wrote the book in a week because he was skint, so he probably didn’t have much time for the title. Obviously, the name Helen immediately makes you think of Helen of Troy and all the shit that went down because of her face. 

Cover image: I am a big fan of this cover! Mainly because I reckon a load of people don’t even notice the pubes/bush at the bottom. The photo is a good choice because it screams masturbation and female desire/pleasure, which is both what this book is all about and something that needs to be celebrated/discussed more. I’ve spent quite a lot of time trying to work out whether it’s a man’s hand in the photo and I’m leaning towards, yes (because of the signet ring and the shape of the fingers). 

Best sentences in the story:

Occasionally, leaning the weight of his body on top of one of her arms, he released his grip with one hand, reached down, and clawed at the swelling white orb of one buttock which stuck out from the frilly lace of her knickers like the gleaming nob of a boiled egg from a tattered eggshell. 

Snaith fingered me under the table but I made him desist because I was anxious to get to Charleston as quickly as possible.

Simultaneously, my nerves registered the final ecstatic vibrations of the strong shaft which transfixed me. 

He sank on his big knees on the straw between the hot scissors of my legs and, guiding his member in with his fingers, he penetrated me, until his hard belly was at mine and his chest, under his sweatshirt, was riding on the firm ballbearings of my nipples. 

When a man is involved in the warm chrysalis of a woman, the confederacy of motion, the mutual seed pleasures, can take place on various axes. 

He raised her legs onto her stomach, opened her thighs like a bible and lowered his muscly front into the soft and shadowy cleft. 

Then his mouth quitted its task and there existed a lecherous rudder between my excited buttocks searching for the little studlike amethyst between them. 

The oily plump of white asparagus. 

She was a sweet bitch in the raw, gamey, sweaty, sweltering, bucking her beautiful arse like a serving-maid under a milkman. 

Two of them were not remarkable in any way, women merely, like taxis waiting, over a small drink, for whatever men might enter. 

The tremors in my wrists, flanks, and calves continued for some time under the sweet suffocation that I continued to experience beneath his spent weight.


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Overall sexual content: I think it’s really hot. Despite lots of reviews online saying that the sex is overcooked (it is true that the sentences are long and wordy), I don’t agree. Trocchi’s writing sucked me in/off and tickled my underneath. I suppose it could be a question of taste, like everything. 

The book blasts open with Helen having sex with a massive log on the beach. It’s pretty heady/steamy and creates a muggy atmosphere of the erotic, which is powerful. I certainly think something indescribable (that’s all I can manage) about desire is captured in this book. 

Overall conclusion: 9 out of 10.

Titillation station: As with the majority of dirty books, the storyline is almost redundant. It just strings the sex scenes together. I think that’s forgivable and almost valuable here, as it enables the reader to get lost in the sexy stuff without having to give a shit about the plot or what stuff is going down where. You can also feel a sense of urgency in the writing (polishing it off in a week is pretty good going), not only because it could do with another wave of editing, but also because Helen needs to be pleasured all the fucking time.  

Food for thought: Helen has sex with some navy seal whilst he is flying a light aircraft over a wide expanse of water. He manages to multitask, but sadly Trocchi doesn’t describe the flaps coming down and the screech from the tires. I suppose everything leads there in the end: once you’ve done it on a train toilet and upstairs on a double decker and with some well-hung king or other, the sky is the limit. 

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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 29

I bought some body mist the other day, for obvious reasons, I was smelling particularly fruity and didn’t have access to cleaning facilities. This bottled stuff is supposed to smell like ripe plums and electrical wiring, for that, and I quote, ‘unexpected and yet reassuring’ odour. Now, I’m pretty broad minded but what the hell?! What does that even mean? I haven’t been able to think about anything else since. Stepping in dog shit is unexpected and appalling.  Catching a whiff of bacon and onions frying is reassuring, especially if you’re hungry. But what exactly is unexpected and yet reassuring, a lottery win or maybe food poisoning. I sniff myself and I am reassured. 

Violet’s weekly (give or take) adult book review looks at a hairy hand grenade of a pocket rocket. The aim, as always, is to attempt to answer that stupid arse question: can a good book ever be as comforting as a good fuck?

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Book title: I’m For Hire: The Memoirs of a Prostitute 
Author: Marie Therese
Introduction: Robert Kramer
Publisher of this edition: Brandon House
Copyright: © Brandon House 1966
First published: 1966
Cover image: Unknown 

THE RAUNCH REVIEW: Violet’s Verdict

Quick synopsis: A French prostitute called Janet tells us all about her sexual activities with lots of different men and women, on both sides of the conflict. She finds herself flitting from pillar to post peddling her fleshy treats, pursued by lovers, pimps and the fats. 

Title: Capitalism and the body collide, yeah. In a time when women had to do anything and everything to survive and thrive. That included a serious wedge of the filthy paper money stuff for a serious wedge up the arse by a power hungry cock swinging uniform with a fragile body hidden inside. 

Cover image: Sultry lady plus French flag and a swastika. In other words French prostitute shags members of the Nazi party. 

Best sentences in the book:

There was one who shot off while he was putting on his rubber. 

And I still had a guy on my belly who hadn’t finished coming. 

To get out of sleeping with him, I had a doctor fix me up with a paper saying I had something wrong with my plumbing and had to lay off for a while. 

I had to suck him off, keep his gismo in my mouth, spit it back into his mouth, and wind up by poking the handle of a toothbrush up his asshole. 

My cunt was numb. 

Since he was a Nazi and kept yattering about that fuck-in-the-ass Hitler, I was afraid to ask him for dough. 

Well, Suzanne goes to find some butter, sticks a wad in her pussy, calls the Pekinese and has him get down to work licking her clean. 

The officer pulled him close and squeezed the kid’s head between his thighs and pushed it against his belly as if he were fucking him three feet deep in the mouth. 

Since the old guy kept sticking his finger in her pussy to feel if there were any results, I had to keep spitting the whole time so the old shit-in-his-pants would think she was coming like a broken water main. 

An old bucket-cunt veteran from the Rue Saint-Denis did her best to comfort me. 

Whenever I was pregnant I’d haul out the scraper. 

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Overall sexual content: Disappointing and not in a good way. 

The sex is briefly described and although there are some funny metaphors the writing lacks pizzazz. The premise promises a lot but fails to deliver any sort of satisfaction. It feels rushed and unfulfilling, which maybe is the point.  

Overall conclusion: 4 out of 10.

Titillation station: I wanted her to fuck Hitler, but alas she doesn’t even get her teeth into a member of the Gestapo. She avoids high ranking officers. She fucks on both sides of the lines and doesn’t make much of it. She falls in love pretty quickly with her various pimps, which again is lazy and cliched. She fucks women for pleasure, which is promising, but all details are lacking. 

Food for thought: I was hoping that this book would be a tour de force from a prostitute that laid out the Nazis, one by one. Took some power back. Trampled on some hard dicks in prick heels. I feel as though the historical context was just used to sucker in readers and that actually the content is poor and forgettable. 

Uniforms are sexy. Power is sexy. Sadly. War is all about the abuse of power. Sex is about power. Paying for sex is about power. Maybe it would have been better written from the third person, as a voyeur to all that action. 

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The Raunch Review: Book 28

I just had the old helium balloon treatment. It was that time of year again: my birthday. Poppers (of the party variety) were pulled. Fluorescent fizzy drinks and icecream dribbled down throats and filled up bellies, right to the top. Some people thought I was older than it says on my records, which I took as a compliment. Age is a good thing after all. Everything  tastes better with age, including my third runway and the small strip of bacon between the brown wire and the pink switch. Nobody blew me (my candles out), or crowned my wobbly jelly with squirty squirt squirt cream, so overall it could have been better. 

Violet’s weekly (give or take) adult book review looks at another hunk of steaming meat and it’s an oozing pyramid of hot fluids. The aim, as always, is to attempt to answer that stuffed crust framed question: can a good book ever be as buoyant as a good fuck?

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Book title: Wetlands
Author: Charlotte Roche
Translator: Tim Mohr
Publisher of this edition: Fourth Estate
Copyright: © Charlotte Roche 2008
First published: 2008
Cover photo: ballyscanlon / Getty Images

THE RAUNCH REVIEW: Violet’s Verdict

Quick synopsis: Helen is in hospital having arse surgery (haemorrhoids) and she is just 18 years old. So, the question on everyone’s lips (top lips): is what the hell has she been doing with her arse? Well, you are about to find out. The book goes into intricate details on exactly what she has been doing down there, and needless to say she’s been pretty rough with it. In the meantime, she is trying to get her parents back together by being in the hospital as long as possible, which involves her gouging her own wounded rectum by sitting on the metal brake attached to the wheels of her hospital bed. 

Title: Wetlands are distinct ecosystems that are saturated with water. Helen is obsessed with bodily fluids, particularly discharge from her vagina. She is always daubing fluids everywhere, this includes wiping her slit and crack all over toilet seats, and leaving homemade tampons in unusual places where people will find them.  I reckon that this is the link to the title, as the term is not used at all during the book. I kept my eye out for it.  

Cover image: Half an avocado, length ways. A nice view of the stone. Helen grows avocados, which is pretty difficult. The stone needs to be treated in a particular way to get it to sprout (I’m an expert, having sprouted over 50 of my own avo stones for pleasure). The stones actually go very slimy before they germinate. Obviously, Helen puts them up her cunt. She’s been sterilized, so she treats these avocado stones like her babies. 

Best sentence/s in the book:

The thought of anal incontinence worries me. 

I’ve experimented with long periods of not washing my pussy. 

For me, the smell of plain old shit or piss is better than the disgusting perfumes people buy. 

I dip my finger into my pussy and dab a little slime behind my earlobes. 

Like another thing I get a kick out of: when I’m alone in the bathtub and I have to fart, I try to get the air bubbles to glide up between my pussy lips. 

I root round like a squirrel down there, and just as I’m falling asleep I have the impression there’s a log of crap poking out of my ass. 

I’m appalled at my own asshole – or rather, what’s left of it. 

I really like to smell and eat my smegma. 

Sometimes it’s like cottage cheese, other times like olive oil, depending on how long it’s been since I washed. 

I’d love to eat a pizza with sperm from five different guys on it. 

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Overall sexual content: There are some hot bits. There’s a bit where she describes masturbating, which is erotic. But sadly most of the sex stuff is more funny or grotesque than sexy. I mean, she uses the word slime to describe pussy juice, which is pretty hideous. 

Helen visits this fella who shaves her. It has the potential to be titillating. But it’s just not. Possibly because the central character is so strange. She takes great pleasure in doing stuff that most people would never want to do, even within the realms of fetish. For example, she eats someone’s sick because it has undigested drugs in it and feeds her own tears to this nurse she fancies by carefully pouring them into individual grapes that she has stuffed with a cashew nut. What the fuck, as they say??

Overall conclusion: 2 out of 10.

Titillation station: It’s not sexy. It’s fucking boring, really. When someone just spews out the most extreme thing they can think of to get a reaction,  it quickly gets pretty mundane. The whole way through it just feels like the author is trying to win the Guinness World Record for the most shocking/obscene/disgusting book and that makes it insincere and farcical. What happens is that nothing feels authentic or relatable. It is all an exercise in fake tits and teeth. I suppose it could be a parody or something, of the modern young woman, but if it is then there’s no pay off. 

Food for thought: This book is a tough one for me. It’s explicit, big tick. But, the problem is that it is gratuitous.  

It’s so easy to be gross. I can think of a million horrible things, but what’s the point. Especially when we are all so unshockable now, why not try something genuine? However boring that might be, it would be less boring than this horse shit. 

People are massive on avocados. Smashed. Sliced. Creamed. All smoothied up. The cover alone probably got all those avocado-on-toast people going. 

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The Raunch Review: Book 27

A red throbbing sausage sits next to a pickled egg. The sausage is pretty bloody chuffed at its luck. It’s not everyday that pickled eggs are properly appreciated in a main meal plate-based context. Some people think they’re better than pickled eggs. Scoffing them in the street on the way back from the chippy. Tonguing the dry sphere of yolk after four pints of diesel oil down the Bucket of Blood (a real pub in Hayle). EAT more pickled eggs. Otherwise they won’t exist. Yeah. 

Violet’s weekly adult book review looks at a short story in this instalment and it’s a subtle hand grenade. Akin to a handsome piece of man meat hiding behind some net curtains. The aim, as always, is to attempt to answer that ball boiling question: can a good book ever be as spineless as a good fuck?

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Book title: Who Do You Think You Are?
Author: Alice Munro
Publisher of this edition: Vintage
Copyright: © Alice Munro 2021
First published: 1978
Cover photo: Ernst Haas / Getty Images

THE RAUNCH REVIEW: Violet’s Verdict

Quick synopsis: Wild Swans is the short story under the microscope. It’s a extra strong mint of a story. Quick and nose bleed inducing. A woman travels to Toronto on the train by herself for the first time. Her friend gives her some advice about who to watch out for, so she doesn’t get into any trouble. And then, as the big metal shaft pulls out, a man asks if she wouldn’t mind if he sits next to her. That’s when it happens. The so-called minister fingers her without consent, whilst the train hurtles towards its destination, as she stares out of the fucking dirty window. 

Title: It’s an interesting choice. Swans are wild, it goes without saying, so why isn’t it just called swans? A short story makes every word count, right. It’s an exercise in economy. Wasted words isn’t a thing, especially by a Nobel Prize winning master of the short story. So, wild must be necessary. Swans are magnificent birds. Words that come to mind when I think about swans: the heart shapes that they do with their necks, white, aggressive, virginal, massive wing span, mate for life (i.e. they don’t shag around). 

Cover image: Love a wood panelled room. Not a particularly memorable cover image. More or less everything else would have been better. 

Best sentence/s in the book:

He drove the old hearse all over the country, looking for women. 

She had a considerable longing to be somebody’s object. Pounded, pleasured, reduced, exhausted. 

The hand began, over the next several miles, the most delicate, the most timid, pressures and investigations. Not asleep. Or if he was, his hand wasn’t. 

Spongy tissues, inflamed membranes, tormented nerve-ends, shameful smells; humiliation. 

His hand, that she wouldn’t ever have wanted to hold, that she wouldn’t have squeezed back, his stubborn patient hand was able, after all, to get the ferns to rustle and the streams to flow, to waken a sly luxuriance. 

A stranger’s hand, or root vegetables or humble kitchen tools that people tell jokes about; the world is tumbling with innocent-seeming objects ready to declare themselves, slippery and obliging. 

His perversely appealing lack of handsomeness. 

They glided into suburbs where bedsheets, and towels used to wipe up intimate stains, flapped leeringly on the clotheslines, where even the children seemed to be frolicking lewdly in the schoolyards, and the very truckdrivers stopped at the railway crossings must be thrusting their thumbs gleefully into curled hands. 

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Overall sexual content: The story is challenging given that the woman does not consent to the sexual activity. She freezes when she feels something like a hand and tries to work out whether it actually is the weight of a hand or not. She even thinks he might be asleep. He has made sure that his newspaper overlaps her coat so that his hand is invisible. 

What actually happens is couched in metaphor and the woman is unsure of her feelings. It seems to happen in slow-mo – watching the countryside flash by and feeling something alien down there. The weight of the unspoken. Not altogether against it. But not totally for it, either. The narrator says that she could have shifted the newspaper or removed her coat, implying that she chose not to, that somehow she is complicit. 

Overall conclusion: 8 out of 10.

Titillation station: It is sexy, to a degree. Maybe not full burn, but it is nervously drawn in a way that is reminiscent of young fumbling first sexual experiences and the conversations that are had in our own heads. This does not make it right, what happens. And the story does not firmly push the reader either way on this. It is intricately balanced. The titillation comes from the underlying feeling that the woman enjoys what happens, immensely. That she wants it. But that’s a hard swallow, today. It is abuse. Not saying no is never a green light. 

Food for thought: The narrator frequently describes his hand: the hand did this and that hand did that, almost like the man had no control over the hand or that it alone is responsible. 

The man tells the woman, when he first sits down next to her, that he saw some Canadian geese on a pond the other day, and when he took another look there were some swans in amongst the geese. A flock of swans. He said it looked lovely and that he’d never seen anything like it. There’s nothing like the banality of men talking to women they don’t know. Lovely is probably the worst word in the English language. Much like nice. I’m not really sure what this guy is saying to her. Maybe it’s “I’m a nice man because I like birds. I’m not a threat. Please don’t raise the alarm when I invade your body.” 

As an aside, trains are hot. They feature in lots of sex metaphors. Is there any research on why I wonder? Aside from the phallus shaped carriages, pushing and pulling, blah blah blah, penis.

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