The Raunch Review: Book 5

Violet Malice has been bogged down with another paper based diet of erotica this week. She has found herself beating faster than usual and necking fluid from the cold tap. Dedicated to finding a bedtime read that blows the windows out and requires at least two fire engines to battle the blazing mons pubis. Violet’s weekly adult book review attempts to answer that dank and seedy question: can a good book ever be as honest as a good fuck?

Book title: Happiness Bastard
Author: Kirby Doyle
First published: 1968

THE RAUNCH REVIEW: Violet’s Verdict

Quick synopsis: Poet Kirby Doyle’s only published novel is a stream of consciousness, much like Jack Kerouac’s On the Road. Written on one massive piece of paper formed of lots of normal sized pieces of paper taped together. Obviously, the published version has pages – what a bore! According to the author the book was written on a trip that “my lover post-wife and I took to New York in 1959-1960.” Kirby is, one can only assume, the narrator Tully McSwine and his girlfriend is Dolly, who is needless to say always up for it. It goes without saying that the book is very ‘Beat Generation’ so very hard to follow, there’s no real plot line and the writing certainly reflects Kirby’s own struggle around that time with drug addiction, poverty and unhappy affairs of the ticker.

Front cover: Not the original printing by Essex House sadly. A really rubbish modern edition (2020) that looks like someone/Amazon has faxed it to Pluto and then it’s been photocopied and run over by a lorry full of shit. The front and back photos of the author are so grainy you have to be about two miles away for the pixels to come together.

Title: Bloody fantastic! A massive fan of the word bastard, both visually and orally. Swear words in titles are not utilised enough in my humble opinion. Much like my previous thoughts on Bondage Trash from last week, the two words Happiness Bastard writhe against each other. Kick each other in the bollocks. Like a bleach blonde oxymoron trying to get it on with Claude Lévi-Strauss.

Best two-word phrase/s in the book: A few to get you going:

liberal sphincter, sex heads, fat rubber, cellophaned taste, clinical pornography, genital windows, padlocked vagina, punctured prostitute, sadist cocksmen, gummy wad, electric paralysis, skin mag, urinatory fashion.

Best dialogue in the book: Like holding a mirror up to the queue in Greggs:

“Love! Ha, ha, love! I like that! Love my ass, you bastard! Why all you know of love is that it makes you twitch between your legs! Don’t talk to me of love, you walking erection!”

“I told this idiot that I couldn’t bear it when they airbrushed the cunt away in these skin mags, and he said it wasn’t airbrushed, only shaved and her cunt was too far under to see the slit. What kind of crap is that, I ask you? Makes me wonder if this infant has ever seen a twat at all. Ha!”

Phoning me in the middle of one icy winter afternoon to ask, “Have you any idea what Kitty’s doing right now?” and I, fearful of his hysteria and bewildered, answering, “No, what’s she doing now?” and he, like an over-intelligent schoolboy hot with the answer, “Sucking my cock, you son of a bitch… goodbye.”

“How would you like to take a flying fuck at a rolling donut?”

“I masturbate everyday. Eef I am eating a meal at night and remember that I have not masturbated I will stop my eating and masturbate then.”

Best sentence/s in the book: Some real meat on the bones here:

Dolly was the proud possessor of a remarkably elastic cunt, especially if the engagement was a particularly heated one (that is, when I was at my best).

All of them a bunch of sexual cripples, which they will sternly prove by fucking at the drop of a political sympathy.

Sliding the fingers of both hands into her cunt, which by this time was as easy as sliding into a bathtub full of vaseline, I could, by pulling the lips away from each other even more than the mechanics of her vaginal excitement had already done (as if I were trying to invert it), stretch her snatch out to an expansion where I could fit it over my face from eyebrows to chin like a hot meaty mask, and were it only detachable I could have marched in the Halloween parade.

When this seismic phenomenon threatened to scatter her in bloody bits and pieces about the room I slipped my forefinger into her ass and rammed it to the knuckle… O Good Ladies and Gentle Men, need I tell you that she came neigh unto shitting all over me?

Prance she would and tend to domestic trivialities nakedly… cook a full meal in the raw… breasts dangling over the bubbling spaghetti… the cruel lewdness of her pubic hairs level with the salad… while with a feigned tone of “modern liberality” she threw out maddening little comments: “I so think it’s wonderful not wearing clothes… so free… let the air into every little pore… so much more natural, don’t you think?” then turn and show me her buttocks as she bent to the bottom rack of the refrigerator seeking vegetables.

She kept what she liked to think of as a secret list of ex-lovers that she sadly enjoyed showing only to people with whom she stoutly refused (I suspect out of fear of making her come) to go to bed with, like me.

Had an applesauce sandwich for breakfast and a glass of wine too; great, cheap, vinegary wino-type wine that when you puke comes bubbl’n out yer nose and stings a bit.

I’m not finished yet: Obviously poets make the best writers:

Dolly turned to him and milked a little snake juice from the tits of her tongue.

A cock in the hand is worth two in the bush.

I sodomised the landlady’s cat in lieu of rent… she got her thing out of it… the landlady… not the cat…

I’ve not had such a good time since dear dead Grandma used to puke on the linoleum and let us kids skate in it.

The girls were all very homely and intellectually aggressive in a vacuum-packed sort of a way.

The party was boiling when we arrived, strange-looking people bulging from the windows.

My belated old grey-haired muff of a mother used to have a in tomb in her womb. My daddy told me so.

Buy Violet’s chapbook. One lucky person that purchases Violet’s chapbook AND signs up to the mailing list by 18th July 2022 will also receive the warm copy of Happiness Bastard by Kirby Doyle (see picture above, the actual copy), which includes Violet’s page markers. Winner selected at random. Mailing list sign-up here. Buy chapbook here.

Sexual content: It’s not really a sex book per say. Essex House came forward to publish it because no one else would take it on apparently. As such the sex is there but it’s not the main cut and thrust as it were. That aside, the descriptions of sex are funny rather than titillating, which is equally as enjoyable. Sex after all, should be great fun.

Given the desperate nature of the book – the drug abuse and poverty – the tone is hard and bitter tasting but jovial. The sex is tainted by an explicit hatred of women, which sees our frustrated and angry narrator sing the praises of masturbation over sexual intercourse. And later on we find him insisting that the sex will be better because he’s full of hatred. Our unhappy narrator also very much enjoys dressing women up as helplessly insatiable cum sluts. The guy is just down on life – but thankfully whilst he’s down there…

Overall conclusion: 5 out of 10.

Titillation station: Absolutely nothing stirring in the bushes. No foxes. No dogs. Not even a cormorant in a Mackintosh pushing blue marbles into a towel.

Food for thought: Shame about the writing style – stream of consciousness is a big turn off for me. It feels as though it’s close to greatness, mainly because poets that write novels understand the importance of a well crafted image, but sadly it gets lost in all the chaos and sloppy Giuseppe. The book wrestles with language – and kicks against the everyday detritus/injustice/loneliness of life – there’s a beauty in that.

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2 June 2022

The Raunch Review: Erotica Book 2

Violet Malice takes a second bite of the cherry. On the hunt for a HOT and STIMULATING bedtime read. Violet has consumed another work of erotica this week. As she attempts to answer that yearning question: can a good book ever be as unputdownable as a good fuck?

Erotica: Screen on top of a GB flag — Screen

Book title: Screen
Author: Barry N. Malzberg
First published: 1970

THE RAUNCH REVIEW: Violet’s Verdict

Quick synopsis: An everyday office pawn called Martin, who works for the New York City Welfare Department, goes to the cinema to get off. He steps right through the screen and is transformed into a film star who gets lots and lots of hot sex action. In just one weekend he finds himself married to Sophia Loren, romping with Elizabeth Taylor in a budget hotel after they escape from a half-cut Richard Burton and seduced reluctantly by Brigitte Bardot. He then decides to put it to the test: is real-life sex with an average woman better than his masturbatory escape hatch? The answer obviously (1. the author is a man; 2. who also happens to have worked in the NYC Welfare Department in real-life) is a resounding NO. The book ends with him fucking Doris Day, just so you know.

Front cover: Nice. Arty. Tits. Plus cinema ticket. (I suspect the author might like melons: a large slice of the book is focused on what you can do with a pair of tits and a match-fit tongue.)

Best two-word phrase in the book: Turgid genitals and/or directorial scrotum.

Best sentence in the book: (Please note the book is full of very very very long sentences.) And yet it does not stop there; this is Elizabeth Taylor and for her I carry on the longest sustained orgasm I have ever had in my life; far, far longer than the ten or twenty-second specials which I have managed for Sophia; it is as if the mysterious hidden triggers are blocked inside me on OPEN and I hang at the very crest of it for an incredible, for an almost frightening extension of time, feeling that because this is Elizabeth Taylor herself this time, I may literally never stop coming and my hands reach again for the remote hugeness of her breasts and I subside finally, breaking upon her, all sobs and shouts, mingled in the warm sheltering spaces of the room.

I also very much liked some part sentences including: I tried to listen to the spang of urine in the bowl; and throw my load all the way into her.

Sexual content: Packed with back-to-back fucking. The erotic descriptions are fantastic and funny. However, I do have a boner to pick! Our floored narrator is forever complaining about having to have sex with beautiful actresses. He paints women as horrifying sexual predators. Stunning women hideously jealous of each other. Most of the bonking he has is to placate these monsters. Obviously, this is his fantasy so he must like that sort of thing, but it does continue that worrying trend of men resenting and being threatened by women’s sexuality.

The bitterness/hatred really does jar in the end – our Martin does appear to really detest women. And like wanking. In equal measure. This is brought into sharp relief when he sets up a few out-of-office sessions with a real-life woman that also works at the NYC government department, who he cruelly describes to himself and the reader. He has sex with this 3D woman more out of boredom and because he can rather due to a genuine desire to feel someone else’s breath on his head. It is in this part of the book that the narrator betrays himself as wholegrain mustard misogynist outside the possible kink of his ruminating on Hollywood’s screen sirens.

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Overall conclusion: 7 out of 10. Fucking fantastic book. Brilliant writer of erotica. Despite the massive issues: the misogyny and the lazy fall back to weak man being hunted down by a pack of insatiable women, who just want to lie back and be fucked. Please note not all women want this. Not all women are greedy and selfish. It is not comfortable to be presented with the views of a narrator however flawed who vehemently dislikes and resents women, particularly women he finds attractive. The rules say that if you like someone, you should be nice to them.

Titillation station: Four fingered sausage roll (lubricated)

Food for thought: Finally, an interesting book given the rise in porn addiction and society’s obsession with the motion picture. Our collective loneliness and frustration. Maybe we should all give up on real-life sex. It’s much less stressful, less effort, less unpredictable and less risky to turn inwards and let the person that knows us most intimately give us exactly what we want. Ourselves. The question is how much of our sexual fantasies are within our control? Or how much cum does it take to satisfy a tractor?

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24 May 202226 May 2022

The Raunch Review: Sex Book 1

Violet Malice has decided to review erotica. Not dirty books. Erotic literature. There is a difference. Erotic literature is supposed to have some literary merit. Violet is going in search of a HOT and STIMULATING bedtime read. And will also, obviously, be assessing the level of titillation achieved, in order to answer that yearning question: can a good book ever be as exciting as a good fuck?

Used copy of book being reviewed: The Girl Beneath the Lion — The Girl Beneath the Lion

Book title: The Girl Beneath The Lion
Author: Andre Pieyre de Mandiargues
Translator: Richard Howard
First published: 1959

Back cover blurb that caught Violet’s attention: Few novelists have been able to catch the essence of a woman’s erotic impulses with quite such truth and poetic feeling, nor in a prose of such distinction. Violet’s response to this was, “yeh fucking right, we’ll just see about that.”

THE RAUNCH REVIEW: Violet’s Verdict

Quick synopsis: A young virgin called Vanina (nice, one letter off vagina) gets all horned up on holiday in Sardinia and tells this dude who she sees staring at her on the beach to do a few things in order to eventually have it off with her in some woods one evening. She never allows him to speak, which is actually quite a good strategy to not get disappointed by someone’s personality.

Front cover: WTF? A badly photoshopped pic of some random dude. The book is about a young girl’s sexual awakening! Who in their right mind chose to represent this by putting some haughty looking middle-class looking male slapped up the front in a turtleneck. On the plus side, a shite front cover makes me more interested to know what’s under the covers. Wink. Wink. Stink. Stink.

Best two-word phrase in the book: Couldn’t decide between musky melons and faecal zone. But I do like to have my erotica caked and eaten.

Comments on the title: Our Vanina fantasizes about having sex with a lion and the general vibe is that she’s into S&M and being dominated by a violent animal/man.

Best sentence in the book: It is not absolutely necessary that he love me; it is not even indispensable that he have a soul, that he be inhabited by a kind of seagull.

Sexual content: Bit sparse. But refreshingly strange. On page 80/1 there is an interesting passage about a man in a cheese shed that rubs cream cheese up Vanina’s thighs as some sort of skincare routine. She is 8 years old at this point so it’s unsavoury to say the least. The main sex bit on page 104 onwards is pretty boring – metaphors such as burning rod of iron and grand statements after the fact such as the limits of her self-hood dropped away are pretty rubbish and sentimental. But I suppose it’s an accurate depiction of a man imagining what a woman’s fantasies might be.

For proper sexual content buy Violet’s chapbook Tinder Bender: https://violetmalice.com/product/chapbook-tinder-bender/

Overall conclusion: 3 out of 10. None of this rings true. Very reductive. Boring erotica. No sexy describing words or hot lust action. Just overly sentimental horse shit – too much detail about nature and the sea which is obviously a metaphor for stupidity – with no actual pay off. Overuse of the word love – which is a total burn off – because love obviously is all a young girl cares about.

Titillation station: Two fingers down (dissatisfied)

Food for thought: He does end it in a very surprising way. After they’ve had it off, you learn very abruptly that her parents were killed by a violent bunch of young men and that she witnessed all of this as well as her mother been raped by these men. She then runs away from her so-called ‘lover’ and leaves Italy without ever wanting to know his name.

Finally, I have a problem with erotica that paints kinks as always linked to damage. I think this book should have been about the guy on the cover having it off with a fridge. I would have enjoyed that more. Stick to what you blow.

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14 May 202214 May 2022

Like a Sex Cactus in the Desert

Growing growing growing groan!
Moaning moaning moaning mown!

It seems that no one wants to have sex with me anymore. This is quite a hard dick to swallow given that sex and sex-related activities are up there in the top quartile of stuff I like to fill myself/my time with, alongside consuming various foodstuffs from jars on sunny balconies in company.

Statistically speaking it seems that everyone would prefer not to have it off with me, which is totally cool. But you know, it can get on ones tits. Physical contact and intimacy are important for my wellbeing. I know this because my body starts calling out to people in the street. I have to carry it away kicking and screaming and then try to distract it by going on a 50 mile cycling tour of the South Downs. My latex shorts riding up my arse for hours on end, relentlessly driving further and further into my large intestine, is about as good as it gets for me.

I wonder whether anyone else does this too. I make eyes at the other helmeted streaks of muscle careering up and down, and in and out, of the ribbons of tarmac but they don’t notice me. Maybe it’s because I have a heavy bike and a wigwam full of condoms. Let’s be clear – I’m not trying to make a move on the Armstrong set – obviously I totally would – but in this example I’m merely trying for verbal intercourse. Not fly fishing.

Not overthinking overthinking is the problem here. Automatically my brain starts writhing around in the shit swelling up on everything that’s wrong with me. What I could change. Starts comparing myself to other people. Starts thinking that maybe my whole face and body is a total shit show as well as my barbed personality. Can you get a face, brain and tit transplant package deal? I’m trying to stop going down on myself all the time, but it’s really difficult when no one else is going down on me. I know, deep inside, that ultimately no one will want to have reasonably sexy time with me if my face looks like a slapped horses arse all the time from my negative thoughts that have been totally wanked off by all that capitalism in my coffee crema.

Maybe watch Violet’s latest poetry video to make her feel better: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lWhwV6a8MQI