Review of "The Killer Wore Leather" by Laura Antoniou

The Killer Wore Leather is the kind of book that makes my job so much more difficult. A critic wants something to criticize, after all. But here, alas, I cannot find a nit to pick, and with no glaringly obvious flaws to target, three quarters of my juiciest potential vocabulary goes begging; that vast, delightful repertory of tin-god invective, hoity-toity hyperbole, bald-faced condescension and snot-nosed snark that makes a reviewer’s life worth living. I can’t use any of it! At this rate my vitriol’s going to dry up and spoil on the shelf.

 

Oh, come to think of it, I do have one eentsy complaint about The Killer Wore Leather; it ends. (Sincerest apologies for the spoiler.) The book’s 402 pages (or their electronic equivalent) breeze by with such engaging alacrity, that I found myself in the mild throes of literary postpartum let-down when it was over—surest symptom of an enjoyable read if there ever was one. To be sure, I could have lingered quite happily in Antoniou’s world for another thousand pages—easy!—danced all night and still have stayed for more. The ending itself is perfectly satisfying given what comes before; a murder is committed, investigated and solved just as in countless other genre outings, but the proceedings here are described with so much panache, observed so astutely, with such sympathetic realism and detail, good humor, and—dare one say it?—love, that we’re left wanting more of these subtly-drawn characters and their intriguing interactions.

 

The Killer Wore Leather coopts the staid convention of the cozy mystery, and turns it on its head, not merely updating the genre to the age of Twitter and Facebook, but brilliantly transmogrifying it to the realm of contemporary cosplay and kink. Of course, masked balls and costume parties have been a traditional mainstay of cozy mystery for more than a century, though seldom fielding the kind of huge, diverse, colorful ensemble-cast Antoniou directs with such seeming effortlessness here. (The only thing coming close in recent decades might be Margaret Frazer’s 1987 who-done-it, Murder at the War (published by St. Martin’s under the pseudonym Mary Monica Pulver), which features a Cecil B. DeMille-sized cast in medieval garb at the Society for Creative Anachronism’s big real-life annual gathering in Pennsylvania.)  Antoniou sets her story at a weekend confab of leather-lifestyle enthusiasts, some 3,000 costumed kinksters crowded into a downtown New York City hotel for the annual Mr. and Mrs. Global Leather (and Bootblack) competition. When a previous title-holder is found dead in his suite, there’s more than enough motive to go around—everybody, it seems, hated the guy—and more suspicious black leather accessories taken into evidence than forensics can possibly analyze before the conventioneers, including potential suspects, head for home on Monday. So, there’s a race against time, bringing its own built-in element of suspense; thousands of possible disguises with a would-be red herring in leather, latex, rubber or fur behind each one, and the bewildering vagaries of personal and organizational politics, virtually impenetrable to an outsider. It’s an absolutely ingenious premise for a police procedural, and Antoniou follows through on this set-up with dazzling deftness, never missing a beat or a nuance, never once letting the reader down.   

 

Anybody who’s ever dabbled in cosplay or been involved in one of those broad, ever-evolving shared-special-interest groups, clubs or organizations, will immediately recognize some of these characters; the long-suffering event organizer, trying to put on a good show along with a pleasant face for every needy, self-centered whiner no matter how trivial their demands; the bossy, slightly overweight, non-fool-suffering, hyper-efficient head-volunteer who dreams, in her rare off moments, of being dominated by just the right guy; the clueless PC do-gooder, always advocating for some new imagined minority, whether they want her to or not; the dignified and deeply-respected grand dame who becomes a major bitch behind closed doors; the catty, perpetually bemused “I’m so above all this” intellectual-snob-cum-petty-minded sniper; the ever-petulant “I could do a better job than him or her” malcontents; the lost souls and broken outsiders with no other place to hang out; the quietly perceptive, if often invisible, volunteers (in this case. a pair of ultra-hip gender-bending Dromeos, the gofers Boy Jack and Boi Jack), with continually streaming color commentary on whatever’s going on; the mostly nameless, faceless servants and service people, who see everything and only need to be asked to reveal the most mind-blowing of secrets. Antoniou has their numbers and writes them all to a tee; the cadres and cliques; us-versus-them staid traditionalists versus boat-rocking upstart newcomers; snobs and slobs; pompous roll-playing blowhards a bit too into their personae for their own good, or anyone else’s; the junior-league Machiavelli wannabes, and all the shifting alliances, resentments, personal vendettas and concomitant motives, means and opportunities for murder that make an extraordinary mystery into a compelling, irresistible page-turner.

 

Lots of writers have a good eye for character and a sound ear for dialog; but Antoniou has a way of capturing the subtle nuances of ordinary human behavior without calling undue attention to herself or her process, clearly understanding Heisenberg’s principal that the very act of observation changes the thing being observed. This is what an effective homicide detective, like Antoniou’s Laura Feldblum, must understand as well; a question, posed too soon, too late, or left unasked altogether, may irrevocably alter the dynamic of an entire investigation. Journalists are often excused their carelessness:

 

DOM, SUB, SLAVE, PUPPY, SWITCH, ALPHA, PRIMARY, BOY or boi, master, mistress or sir and ma’am, top and bottom, 24/7, twink, tourist, Zodian, polyamorous, lifestyler, leather, latex, gear, cyberpunk, steampunk, uniform, vampire, furry . . .

 

Nancy Nichols hadn’t had such an extensive vocabulary list since the fourth grade. Arriving bright and early to discover the fallout from the meet and greet debacle, she was armed with a scene guide she’d discovered online, scrolling through the wonderful cheat sheet on her smart phone. She hadn’t bothered to do much research on the leather community before—who had the time for real work on a turkey-ass story like this one? But now that it seemed full of filler pieces she could spread out long past the actual event, it was worth it to get a grip on the lingo. She already had outlines for three lifestyle pieces, and the bones of her big story on the event itself.

 

Nancy also had joined Kinkynet; she’d picked the screen name TELLMEKINKYSTORIES after she found out there were no less than eighty MISTRESSNANCY and LADYNANCY accounts already registered. The chat boards there had been full of outraged and delighted recounts of the Mack Steel outburst, many seeming to be from people who were not actually present.

 

 

Including the journalist as well as the detectives in the cast allows the reader to explore ideas, at once essential to the plot, but potentially overwhelming to the uninitiated. It would have been all-too-easy for the author to turn a story like this into an apologia for Kink, a piece of propaganda posing as documentary or some sort of rambling encyclopedic data-dump. True, many of the characters here are willing and eager to talk about their lifestyle and cast it in the most positive of possible lights; but Antoniou skillfully avoids the too-common pitfall of preachy-ness. She does not patronize the outsider or shame him for merely asking an innocent question. Nor do the characters shy away from criticism or complaint. (In other words, they talk and act, live, love, hate, enthuse and effuse, bitch and moan exactly like real people.) Antoniou clearly loves some of these characters; certainly respects many of them, enough to make even a few of the minor players more than mere stage dressing:

 

“Would the honored free woman like to know why this slave lives this way?” she said lightly. When the folds had been arranged to her liking, she crossed her legs and said, “Because this one is happy to explain.”
 
“Yeah, cool, let her explain,” Blade said, nodding.
 
Jazz shrugged, and phyl’ta bowed her head for a moment. When she looked back up, the aspect of simple, smiling passivity was gone from her face.

“I’ll tell you why I do it,” she said, no longer keeping her voice in the upper registers. Several eyes widened at the change in her tone and style of speaking. “And you know what? I don’t care if that old . . . lesbian wrote it for a joke or protest or whatever. Because I’m not doing it for her, and I’m not doing it for any of you, and I sure am not doing it ‘cause I think it’s some mystical, magical truth.”

“Whoa,” Kelly exclaimed. “Okay?”
 
“Look, I grew up in L.A.,” phyl’ta said, “Do you have any idea what it’s like to be short and fat in the land of tall and skinny? To burn like a potato chip in the shade when everyone else is tan? To be told over and over my whole life how ugly I am and how sad it must be to be me?”
 
“You’re not ugly!” Kevin McDonald said.
 
“Maybe not to you—and not in the BDSM scene! I didn’t feel pretty until the first time I got all dressed up in a fancy corset and stockings because my first master bought them for me.” She sniffed a little. “I mean, not that he was much of a master, but I liked him and he thought I was hot because I was a damn sexy submissive; I love getting beaten and caned and tied up and used really hard! He loved me because I was hot to him, all of me, and he didn’t even have to say things, like I was sexy despite being fat, like some guys do.”

Angelina nodded. “Yeah, well, the scene is more welcoming to lots of body types.”
 
“So fine, I could get laid, I could get played with. But I’m an old-fashioned girl! I like the idea of being a stay-at-home mom. I want a man who thinks he’s my champion and my hero, who wants to take care of me. I want a man who responds to me when I want him, and someone who I can read, too.

“And you know what? My man likes the Zod books. Big fucking deal! He could like Star Trek or football or some stupid game online, but he likes Zod stuff. And when I talk this way and dress like this and say certain things and kneel a certain way, guess what? He goes crazy wanting me! He thinks I’m the hottest thing walking! It makes him happy and proud, and it makes him feel like he’s a stud, too.” She grinned suddenly, “Know why I do this? Because last night while the rest of the Zodians were getting all upset in the dungeons, we were back in our room getting it on. Because last night, I came six times! Six! Because he thinks it’s his duty as a Zodian master to make me ‘weak in the love furs,’ and so he figures that means getting me off so much I have to beg him to stop.

“So, if getting that from Phil means dressing up like this once in a while, and doing a hoochie-coochie dance, and talking like I’m retarded, guess what? That sure isn’t much different from wearing high heels and miniskirts and a ton of makeup, and pretending to care who wins the Super Bowl or the World Series, and millions of women do that. And because I go along with it, and let me be clear, I am perfectly happy to, Phil will be happy when I get pregnant and quite my job and we settle down together the way I always wanted. Because he’s not just my boyfriend, he’s my fiancé. So, yeah, that’s why I do it. The lifestyle I want, the man I love, and a ton of screaming, sweaty, panting, Oh-my-God-it-hurts-so-good orgasms.”

 

Laura Antoniou’s The Killer Wore Leather is enthusiastically—ardently!—recommended. This review has only scratched the barest surface of all the things that make it one of the most memorable and enjoyable reading experiences of the year. A book to be read, re-read and read again with ever-increasing pleasure. (And, as of this writing it’s understood a sequel may be in the works, too. I, for one, can hardly wait, even if it does end up making my job that much more difficult!)

Notes from The Erotic Writer's Thesaurus, and more

I’ve been concentrating on my own fiction lately, working to complete a new collection of short stories and an additional long-ish stand-alone story (Summer of ’69) with an eye towards publication sometime this fall. Of course, this doesn't mean I've gone cold turkey on reading other people's books or making notes for future reviews. We'll be looking at some exceptionally fine, exciting titles over the next several months here on EFTBB; see below (*) for a list of upcoming notices.
 

My lastest title, Mr.Friday’s Midlife Crisis was published in November of 2012, and something had been bugging me about it for a while. There were some issues with “head-hopping” in a few of the scenes. I was aware, however vaguely, that this was a flaw in the story, but wasn’t convinced it was a fatal flaw, nor was I quite sure of how to go about fixing it without radically reworking the whole thing. And yet, though I had more or less resolved to forget about it and move on, the question continued to gnaw at me. Then I came across this piece by Remittance Girl, one of the most intelligent, astute, and incisive writers and critics on the contemporary erotica scene. Needless to say, after hanging my head for a seemly period of contrition, I’ve made some changes to the story, and the revised version is available now. I suppose the “moral” of this tale is, ‘always get somebody to beta read for you.’ As RG points out in her article, “head-hopping” is something most writers simply do not notice in their own work. Having a second pair of eyes on a manuscript can potentially save scads of time and trouble, not to mention an eternity of abject embarrassment.  

NOTES ON USAGE FROM THE EROTIC WRITER'S THESAURUS

When it comes to issues of usage and style, I have some seriously gnarly pet peeves; probably enough to start a peeve-petting zoo, or, at least, a peevish-flea circus. For instance, I absolutely hate the word “breakfasted”; so insufferably twee, so pinkies-out namby-pamby. Yuck! I’d prefer “they ate breakfast,” “they broke their fast” or even (albeit holding my nose) “they partook of a fine breakfast”. I despise phrases that include the words “. . . like nothing she had ever known before . . .” or “. . . more intense than anything he had ever experienced.” But hey! That’s just me.

There are lots of usage questions specific to erotica, and it’s highly unlikely one will find the answers to them in Fowler’s Modern English Usage or The Chicago Manual of Style—handy and great as those references are. I love dipping into Fowler from time to time, if for no other reason than to be entertained by the editor’s wonderful, inimitably pugnacious pronouncements on the practice of good English. (Granted, I have yet to internalize the wise old curmudgeon’s notion that “the essence of good English lies in the use of short words.”) But Fowler's not much help when it comes to, say, knowing the difference between areola and aureole, or understanding the distinction between come and cum.  One of the things I hope will make my Erotic Writer’s Thesaurus a more valuable resource to the community is the inclusion of notes on many of these erotica-specific usage issues.

In its current form, The Erotic Writer’s Thesaurus (see its page for today’s major update) has a few drawbacks. Among other things, it’s difficult—especially when attempting to do regular updates—to include clickable internal navigation on the website.  Eventually, I hope to make this reference available as a very-reasonably priced e-book with searchability and full internal navigation. If I can figure out how to make the e-book updatable, I will. (Informed advice on this is welcome.) The usage notes will probably be organized into their own section, separate from the synonym lists. The notes do represent my own opinions. I recognize that reasonable people may disagree, though I hope we can all remain agreeable in the process. Questions, comments or suggestions for addenda are always appreciated and invited.

Here are a few of the notes from the newly updated version:

AREOLA versus AUREOLE. Areola (pl. AREOLAE or AREOLAS) is the clinical term for the dark ring of flesh surrounding the nipple. Aureole, meaning “halo” or “radiance” (as in “aura”) can be employed as an artsy synonym for areola, but the two words should not be confused when one endeavors to write prose.

ASS. There is probably no other word in erotic fiction so often employed out of context or with such careless imprecision. ASS may refer either to (1) the buttocks or Gluteus Maximus, or (2) the ANUS (c.f.). The distinction is important insofar as readers need to have a clear picture of what’s going on in a scene (e.g. She took off her panties so I could admire her tight little ass. I assailed her quivering ass. I rubbed my cock up against her sweet, needy ass). Aside from the obvious, that these are examples of dismally unimaginative writing, can the reader say for sure what specific body parts are being referenced? Writers should also take care to use the word in proper historical and cultural context. While it is ubiquitous in contemporary usage (indeed, many people have grown up knowing no other word), such was not always the case. The word may sound perfectly apt on the lips of a Combat Zone hooker or even an adventurous married couple in the private throes of passion; but probably wouldn’t be quite so believable in the mouth of a Victorian noblewoman. Earlier generations wore their reticence like an extra layer of clothing, priding themselves on propriety and a certain stilted elegance in speech. Our day and age may be a tad more relaxed (or possibly a good deal less imaginative) when it comes to vocabulary, but good writers are always sensitive to issues of context and precision.

ATTRACTIVE people are not necessarily BEAUTIFUL (c.f.) or HANDSOME (c.f.), though these adjectives are commonly regarded as interchangeable.

BLUE BALLS describes both a physical and a psychological condition; that painful soreness in the once-expectant scrotum comes with a sobering sense of unfulfillment and frustration.

BOSOM and BREASTS are not exactly the same thing, though the words are so frequently confused nowadays (even by some supposedly reliable authorities) that it seems futile to point out the distinction. The BOSOM or BREAST (singular) is the general area of the upper chest taken in as a whole, which includes the pectoral muscles as well as the breasts and the cleavage between them. BREASTS (plural) refer specifically to the mammary glands, and are a constituent part of the BOSOM. A woman may be described as “full-bosomed” or “bosomy”, meaning “full-breasted” or “large-breasted” but the general distinction remains; BOSOM is the whole package, BREASTS a distinct feature within that package. And while one may choose to say “bosom” to mean “breasts”, “bosoms” (plural) is NOT a proper synonym for “breasts” though it has become fairly common in informal usage or as slang.

COME versus CUM. A simple rule of thumb for usage in erotic writing; COME is most commonly employed as a verb (e.g. I’m coming! or He came on her breasts.)  CUM is always a noun, referring most commonly to the product of male ejaculation (e.g. He shot his hot cum all over her face.) but also, occasionally the fluid product of female arousal. COME may sometimes be used as a noun, but it is best to maintain the distinction, and, whatever one choses to do, always be consistent.

EROTICA versus PORNOGRAPHY (c.f.). The words have been used interchangeably, their meanings conflated by so many for so long; the difference (or complete lack of any) debated so hotly without resolution or consensus, that it seems pointless, now, to make a case for differentiation. Puritans and prudes will always see smut wherever flesh is referenced, no matter how obliquely, while many of a more open-minded, sex-positive bent see no real value in a distinction. It does seem to matter a great deal to writers and publishers, though, whether due to peevish literary snobbery or mundane marketing concerns. For the purposes of this reference—focused as it is on the needs of serious authors—the words are regarded as possessing two similar but discrete meanings. PORNOGRAPHY deals with objects, focusing almost exclusively on the purely visible (i.e. graphic) physical aspects of the sex act. It eschews story, plot, conflict and character development in favor of vignettes featuring pure action, almost never reflected upon or analyzed in any serious or introspective way. EROTICA deals with subjects—characters—and while it may include a great deal of explicit physical description; it also concerns itself with the feelings and emotions of its actors, usually in a recognizable, coherent literary form. (No value judgment is implied in this distinction.)

FEMININE and MASCULINE (c.f.). Given that these words come with their own noxious freight-load of obsolete values and discredited patriarchal assumptions concerning gender characteristics, writers should proceed with some caution. Surely no one having seen an episode of Xena, Warrior Princess or Buffy the Vampire Slayer would be so foolish as to consider words like “docile”, “soft” or “weak” as universally appropriate (or even remotely accurate) substitutes for FEMININE. Nor, in this day and age, does MASCULINE exclusively (or even necessarily) convey concepts such as “bravery”, “nobility” or “strength”. However, in the name of thoroughness, a separate subheading has been added to include a list of these antiquated synonyms.

GIRL. A mature, sensitive and discerning man (or woman) well knows and appreciates the difference between a GIRL and a WOMAN (c.f.). Yet, in the most rigidly politically correct situations, referring to a female of any age as a GIRL is considered insulting and chauvinistic. Unfortunately, there seems to be no clear rule about when it is or isn’t acceptable to employ this term for “young female”. Some young females insist on being spoken of only as WOMEN (c.f.), while lots of reasonably liberated and mature women have no problem being referred to—or referring to themselves—as girls. As always, when writing good fiction, let the characters speak honestly and for themselves.

GLAMOR versus GLIMMER. Both words may be used to describe magical spells in which persons or things are enchanted in order to be perceived as something other than or different from themselves. (e.g. The ugly witch glamored the knight, who thereafter saw her only as a beautiful maiden.) GLAMOR, in its contemporary sense of artful allure or luxurious attractiveness, is no longer interchangeable with (and only obliquely related to) GLIMMER, which can be employed to describe something shiny or highly reflective.

HOT. Possibly the single-most overused word in all erotic writing; and certainly one of the most misused. Employ sparingly, and with acute awareness of the word’s two discrete functions. HOT (1.) meaning beautiful or extremely attractive, is an adjective with dozens of synonyms, and is easily avoided. HOT (2.) describes the state of being aroused (possibly by observing somebody who qualifies as hot?) again, with many readily available substitutes.

KINKY. Almost all synonyms for KINKY are atavistically pejorative or derogatory. Never mind that many kinky things, once ignorantly regarded as symptomatic of mental illness or sociopathic tendencies, have now begun to emerge, if not into the mainstream, at least into a greater light of understanding. The word, having thus lost most of its transgressive potency, is synonymous with nothing so much as “a willingness to seem different”. Someone into a KINKY LIFESTYLE (c.f.) is no longer reflexively condemned as a pervert; but, more often, hailed as a NONCONFORMIST (c.f.)

LAY versus LIE: Very often confused, especially in their various tenses, these two verbs continue to bedevil many an aspiring writer. Simple rule of thumb: To lay is to put a thing down (e.g. He laid the girl on the bed). To lie is to rest horizontally or to recline. (e.g. She was lying on her back).

PANTIES. Those writers of erotic historical fiction should be aware that the word did not come into the English language until 1908, (MWC 11 ed.) and was not in common usage before the 1920s. The British equivalent, KNICKERS did not appear until the very late nineteenth or early twentieth century (the term may or may not be related to the American “knickerbockers” (1881), a type of gathered short pants.) (MWC)  Nothing is more annoying than blatant anachronism in an otherwise well-written historical narrative.

PRURIENT is regularly employed as a catchall to describe any sort of illicit sexual feeling or state. In fact, PRURIENT has a much narrower meaning; a prurient thing is that which inspires or arouses “immoderate or unwholesome interest or desire.” (c.f. Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary, Eleventh Edition (2008) (MWC))

SENSUAL versus SENSUOUS: a simple rule of thumb for remembering the difference between these two very similar, albeit subtly distinct, adjectives; what is sensual is often sexual; what is sensuous is occasionally sumptuous or luxurious. In real-world usage, much to the horror of the pedants, the words have become virtually interchangeable, and in their secondary definitions at least, synonymous.  Still, best not to use both in too close proximity.

VANILLA. Originating as jargon in psychological and sexological studies, meant to differentiate kinky sex (i.e. BDSM (c.f.), fetishism, SWINGING (c.f.)) from more socially conventional activities, VANILLA has become a popular put-down, akin to labeling someone a PRUDE (c.f.) or a square. Lately, and, it seems, with increasing frequency and vehemence, the word has been bandied about as a term of derision for those engaging in (or writing about) less-edgy behaviors, particularly non-kinky m/f activities. As is so often the case with rampant bandying, the term has been employed carelessly, and, on occasion, cruelly. It is not, in fact, a synonym for HETEROSEXUAL (c.f.) (based on an antiquated assumption that gay sex was uniquely transgressive, somehow more adventurous or “out there” than straight coupling). There are many gay and lesbian married couples engaging in perfectly satisfying vanilla sex every day of the year, and hundreds of millions of straight people who aren’t into BDSM, LEATHER (c.f.), FETISH (c.f.) or cosplay, nonetheless managing to enjoy exciting, self-fulfilling sex on a regular basis. A sexual practice that may be perceived as boring and conventional by outsiders is often more than adequately exciting to the people engaged in it. (Not everyone can afford to be choosey after all!) As far as usage is concerned, the term applies to those who tend not to show off or flaunt their sexuality; don’t “get their freak on” or engage in kink-related activities for whatever reason—regardless of orientation. Writers and critics should (we hope) employ this term sparingly, with some sensitivity and greater compassion. Bigotry is bigotry, regardless of where it comes from.

(*) SOME UPCOMING REVIEWS (all titles are recommended):

TheKiller Wore Leather by Laura Antoniou

Extraordinary Deviations (short story collection) by Raven Kaldera

FiftyWriters on Fifty Shades of Grey (ed. Laurie Perkins)

CarnalMachines: Steampunk Erotica (ed. D.L. King)

UnderHer Thumb: Erotic Stories of Female Domination (ed. D.L. King)

DreamLover: Paranormal Tales of Erotic Romance (ed. Kristina Wright

Erotic Writer's "How To" Roundup: Ashley Lister, Susie Bright, M. Christian et al.

We note the death this past week of renowned western-, suspense-, and crime-fiction writer Elmore Leonard. Those familiar with his work know that he was a master of a certain style of gritty minimalism, which, while fairly light on conventional description and detail, placed a strong emphasis on character as conveyed through dialogue, often stripped down, quasi-realistic, but always essentially revealing, and, more often than not, mind-blowingly entertaining. In the immediate wake of his passing, Leonard’s short essay on writing has been ricocheting around the internet under various titles including Elmore Leonard’sTen Rules for Writing. Notwithstanding a tone that occasionally approaches the dogmatic (not uncommon in “celebrity how-to” writing), Ten Rules is an interesting piece, with a nugget or two of wisdom and some good sound advice, well worth a looksee. Yet I think it might more accurately have been titled Ten Rules for Writing Like Elmore Leonard. Not that there is (or was) anything wrong with writing like Elmore Leonard . . . for Elmore Leonard. Gritty minimalism has its place, and artful economy should never go out of style; but pulling it off successfully—and making it look easy—isn’t something just anybody can do. Leonard’s writing, so unique in its mastery, may appear effortless, but was, in fact, highly refined, forged in hard work, constant practice, and an unerring sense of precisely when and how to break “The Rules”; efficient procedure was deeply internalized; technique became second nature. Leonard’s “genius” was a phenomenon more of familiar, well-traveled synapses than magic flashes of inspiration.

In my last post, I asked the question; what does a writer—specifically, a writer of erotic literature—need to do in order to be taken seriously? No doubt there are as many “right” answers as experienced professionals willing to set down lists of rules, or talk about what works for them.  Perhaps the simplest answer, though, is this; in order to be taken seriously as a writer, you need to take yourself seriously. You need to take what you do seriously. As Elmore Leonard once remarked, “your style comes out of your attitude.” If you’re immature, repressed, guilt-ridden, green, overly obsessed with the novelty of your own naughtiness, it will all show up on the page. Likewise, if your approach to sex is jaded, pompous, snarky, ignorant, showy, superior, misanthropic, pushy, patronizing, intentionally scandalous, gratuitously “dirty” or just plain bat-shit crazy, it’s all going to be there for your tiny circle of sycophantic followers to admire. Don’t count on others to respect your work when you can’t be bothered to respect your own subject matter. The world, for the most part, is not going to encourage your endeavors. Particularly when it comes to erotica, the planet is heavily overpopulated with snobby sex-negative naysayers, bound and determined to quash any and all earnest, mature discourse on human intimacy—anything they are too indolent, ignorant, intellectually bankrupt, uncomfortable with or outright scared of to deal with in an open, honest, grownup way —by conflating it with smut and labeling it “pornography”, the magic word that puts an end to all debate. (Are you listening, Maureen Dowd?) Authors working in other genres can be especially dismissive of and catty about what we do.  

For the aspiring writer wanting to make sex his or her central theme, finding a source of sound information and advice can be daunting. Inspiration may be even more difficult to come by; affirmation nigh on to nonexistent. Good general books on the craft and business of writing are plentiful, and many of them are extraordinarily good pieces of writing in their own right. (Stephen King’s On Writing may well be the best single-volume treatment of the subject.)  Such books can be a helpful place to get started. But what about those issues specific to erotica? Where do we go to find out about, say, effective, realistic dialogue in explicit scenes? Where can we learn how to tailor our work to the needs of genre-friendly publishers? More broadly, where can we find encouragement in a world that hates us insofar as it despises anything having to do with sex? Fortunately, the news isn’t all gloom and doom; there are a few titles out there just for us. We’ll briefly consider four of them. The newest is Ashley Lister’s Howto Write Erotic Fiction and Sex Scenes (How-To Books (UK), 2013). The others are How to Write and Sell Erotica by M. Christian (Sizzler Editions, 2010), Susie Bright’s How to Write a Dirty Story (Fireside, 2001), and The Joy of Writing Sex: A Guide for FictionWriters by Elizabeth Benedict (Story Press, 1996).  

We can dispense fairly quickly with Benedict’s The Joy of Writing Sex. The book was clearly aimed at aspiring literary authors and would-be writers of mainstream genre fiction. Aside from a subtly biased tone apparently born of an overarching, peevishly PC-ish need to be “inclusive” (without actually including hetero males), the book is now in many ways hopelessly dated in its treatment of certain themes and issues, such as BDSM (still pretty much an underground phenomenon back in 1996), HIV/AIDS, and an obsessive concern over the portrayal of safe-sex practices.  The title may yet live on and be considered valuable if only for Benedict’s now-famous and oft-quoted four organizing principals of a good sex scene:   

A good sex scene is not always about good sex, but it is always an example of good writing.

A good sex scene should always connect to the larger concerns of the work.

The needs, impulses and histories of your characters should drive a sex scene.

The relationship your characters have to one another . . . should exert more influence on how your write about their sexual encounter than should any anatomical details.

Interesting ideas to be sure, and there are a few more to be found salted through the text, though the author seems to deliberately establish her definitions with the aim of excluding works in which sex with an intent to arouse is the central focus (that is, pretty much anything you would care to classify as erotica). One gets the impression of a woman in full hazmat gear, stiffly detached from her subject matter, replete with latex gloves and surgical mask, deathly afraid of having her “thoughtful” literary endeavors infected by the evil cooties of carnal spontaneity. Benedict’s examples are chosen accordingly, unwitting, perfect illustrations of Elmore Leonard’s principal that style proceeds from attitude. Funny, and certainly ironic if not embarrassing in retrospect, how many of the cited authors ended up receiving one of the British Literary Review’s annual Bad Sex in Fiction awards. Twee metaphor and turgid simile abounds, along with an abiding distaste for even the simplest portrayal of illicit nooky.

By contrast, Susie Bright’s How to Write a Dirty Story is much less formal and a good deal more personal; part creative-writing course, part pep rally. More about inspiration than technique, Bright’s style is sympathetic, warm, personable and always engaging, aimed at helping her readers cast off their inhibitions and hang ups, open and expand their erotic imaginations, and take their first steps on the liberating journey of honest self-expression. I can personally attest that her approach works! The best how-to books can, on occasion, change lives, and this one certainly changed mine, encouraging me to get over my guilt and reticence about the sex writing I had been doing in secret for many years, an intense guilty pleasure I never imagined sharing with anyone. Along with a series of exercises for testing and stretching the limits of our imaginations and better visualizing our fantasies, some of Bright’s most powerful and valuable insights concern the ways in which a newly inspired and “out” erotic writer deals with the attitudes and reactions of his or her family. Reading this book helps us understand that we must be better than the bigots who despise us; we must outsmart them; out-enlighten them, and out-write them. We cannot—must not—displace one strain of reticence with another equally unhealthy form. Silence is death! With some very good, practical advice on the craft of writing to go along with its quiet rabble-rousing, How to Write a Dirty Story is a deep, cool wellspring of knowledge and bracing encouragement.  Wholeheartedly recommended.

 

M. Christian’s How to Write and Sell Erotica is a collection of short essays drawn from his regular blog postings on the ERWA website. As one might expect from their origins in the blogosphere, the style of these pieces is personal, pithily opinionated and, at times charmingly irreverent; informal but always informative. Topics are wide ranging, touching on numerous issues of concern to established and aspiring writers of genre (i.e. non-literary) erotica. I especially like Christian’s definition of erotica as works that “do not blink” when it comes time to describe sexual activity—a healthy counterweight to the sort of prissy detachment on display in Benedict’s book. His repeated observation that, in our society, if you cut off somebody’s head “you get an R rating; if you show someone giving head, you get an NC-17” is right on the money in addition to being funny as hell because it’s so maddeningly true. I find moving his suggestion that, perhaps, someday society will achieve such a level of enlightenment, frankness and maturity that erotica will disappear as a separate genre—would that it could be so in our lifetime. Like Bright, Christian does his share of cheerleading, offering encouragement and inspiration, though usually with a healthy dose of realism and a plea to maintain a set of realistic expectations. There are so many marvelous quotable passages in these essays I find it hard to choose only one; so updating the ancient practice of sortilegium for the Age of the E-Reader, here’s one at random:

One more thing you could do [by writing erotica] is help people. We don’t like sex in this country. Sure, we sell beer and cars with it, but we don’t like it. We’re scared of it. Living in this world with anything that’s not beer and car commercial sexuality can be a very frightening and lonely experience. Too many people feel that they are alone, or that what they like to do sexually is wrong, sinful or sick. Now, I’m not talking about violent or abusive sexual feelings, but rather am interest in something that harms no one and that other people have discovered to be harmless or even beneficial. If you treat what you’re writing about with respect, care and understanding, you could reach out to someone somewhere and help them understand and maybe even get through their bad feelings about their sexuality—bad feelings, by the way, that maybe have been dished out by the lazy and ignorant for way too long.

As with any book of this type, readers will not always agree with the author on every point—and that’s as it should be. For instance, I don't agree with Christian--or Stephen King for that matter--who argue that a writer should never resort to a thesaurus. (As the compiler of The Erotic Writer's Thesaurus on this site, you can bet I disagree!) Nor does Christian like the idea of constantly “changing up” descriptive words in a text, especially where bodily parts are concerned. Others may be horrified, recalling nightmare critique sessions in creative writing class where they were admonished to avoid repetition and parallelism like the plague. Christian could have a point, although his tone may be a tad too ex-cathedra not to wrinkle a few noses, I remain skeptically neutral on this particular issue, while Christian is happy to inform his readers that he never got much out of those creative  writing courses. He also doesn’t particularly like being reviewed—“shut up!” I think were his exact words. All I can say is; tough titties, dude; the book is recommended, so suck on it!

 

Published earlier this year in the U.K., and still awaiting its long-delayed American e-book debut,  Ashley Lister’s How to Write Erotica and Sex Scenes might best be described as "Erotic Writing 101". It makes a near-ideal primer for those just entering the strange, bewildering world of the more unconventional creative endeavor known as genre erotica. A well-known author, poet, editor and educator in Britain, Lister has apparently transcribed one of his own writing courses—as evidenced by the odd typographical style of the print edition, in which the author's own words appear in quotation marks. (First time I’ve ever seen that! An excess of humility, perhaps?) Material is presented matter-of-factly, and everything is very much to the point. Perhaps a little too much so, as the book seems rather dry in spots, akin to a rudimentary classroom syllabus. Topics are laid out neatly and patly at the beginning of each chapter, discussed briefly in the middle, and cursorily summarized at the end. Serious-minded readers (a student is literally "one who is eager"after all)  may well appreciate this more formal, stripped down, academic approach. I wonder, though, if this same approach might well discourage the ones who need a book like this the most; those casually laid-back, if no-less curious or potentially talented auditors lurking in the back row, waiting to be inspired?

Lister has included frequent and generous examples of “good practice”, excepts of first-rate erotic fiction drawn from the top of the A-list; the work of some of the most talented writers in the business sprinkled like cereal-box prizes throughout the text (rather like Lucky Charms before they added sugar-coating to the oat (i.e. non-marshmallow) bits). Yet, at times, one might have wished for more in the way of inspiration from the author himself a la Bright and Christian. Then too, I would have liked to see expanded and more deeply probing discussions of certain topics. I'd love, for example, to hear more about the differences between literary and genre erotica. (Lister suggests that genre erotica is almost always sex positive, while literary stories more often than not portray sexual relationships as broken, dysfunctional or unhealthy.) It would be fascinating--and fun!--to learn more about how erotic writers can use adult films as a source of inspiration. I suppose it would be possible to write entire books—or at least several extensive chapters—on those heavily-charged topics. As noted, Lister's outline is well-organized and thorough, yet I do think it might have benefitted from a little more depth in places. Perhaps he may do so in a sequel, say, "Erotic Writing 202"?

My impression is that if one were to take out all mentions of erotic fiction here, and replace them with a discussion of classic English literature or some other popular genre, one would still have a fairly decent general introduction to the basics of fiction writing. As it is, the book includes a lot of valuable general information, the sort of which one might expect to find in any respectable entry-level text. This leads me to wonder if, perhaps, more people might be encouraged to try their hand at writing if the prospect were sweetened, as it were, with sex; writing as a form of personal liberation; a way to express our too-long repressed erotic selves? Ashley Lister has given us much to think about. May the conversation continue for a long time, indeed. Recommended.



 

 

Review of erotic fiction by Aimee Nichols and Liberty St. James

Everybody wants to be a famous writer these days, but nobody wants to read. A shocking number of self-proclaimed authors seem to believe that reading anything other than their own “brilliant” stuff will somehow ruin them, sap them of their Wile-E.-Coyote-Super-Genius-like inspiration, and snuff out their personal eternal flame of autoerotic originality. And what’s the result of this belief? A lot of sloppy, rambling, self-indulgent, same-old-rooky-mistake-infected amateur dreck, often little more than a weak echo of the one or two books these morons actually did bother to read once upon a time. I slog through more of these dilettante scribblings than I care to think about every month in the process of vetting books for review on this site, and I can only say that I have come to understand why so many of my English instructors in high school and college were in such a perpetually sour mood. (Of course, some of them were simply being their normal asshole selves, but most of them, I now see, had a pretty good excuse.) 

And it’s not only would-be authors who don’t want to read; there’s a whole world of self-deluded wannabe singer/song-writers, actors, composers, painters and performance artists, all clamoring for attention; a nation of narcissists, scheming to copyright themselves, dreaming of being discovered without actually having to do any hard work, ultimately transcending themselves as their own brand. (One starry-eyed dreamer who contacted me recently, with but a single self-published title to her credit, is already inviting potential readers to write fanfic—talk about the triumph of self-delusion over reality, not to mention carts before horses!) People seem enthralled by this notion that what they have to say is uniquely interesting or irresistibly compelling, and if they can only find the right forum or platform for their self-expression; if they can only market themselves a bit more aggressively; if they can only snag one more review from the “right” venue, then the world will simply have to recognize their specialness and reward them with fame, adulation, and untold riches. A few wild tales of “overnight success”; a handful of fluke “discoveries”; rumors of so-and-so’s latest fat advance, and the gold rush is on. Never mind that those old media paradigms are now hopelessly obsolete. Self-expression and self-indulgence are becoming one and the same. Professional creative endeavor is doomed. And there’s a reason those riches are “untold”; for the most part, they don’t exist.

Alright, perhaps I’m being overly pessimistic—and please, shoot me if I ever turn into the old guy yelling at the rotten kids to get off his lawn—but the question remains; what does an aspiring author have to do to be heard in this increasingly noisy world of ours? Beyond that; what does a writer need to do in order to be taken seriously?  The simple answer is; to be heard, one must have a voice. A writer’s voice does not necessarily need to be unique, or striking or even particularly original; but, for a start, it must be strong, clear, and well-focused. A writer’s voice is not an innate gift; it is something that must be trained up; cultivated, nurtured, exercised, polished; honed. To train the voice, a writer must do two things with unfailing diligence; write constantly, and read voraciously.  Constant writing is like weight lifting to build up muscle mass; the regular habit of writing builds up the brain and keeps it strong, while reading provides the fuel it needs to flourish.

No one is born a writer; writing is learned, and no writer—no artist—ever steps out into the world fully formed. Working through early influences is part of the artistic growth process. There is nothing wrong or unnatural about being influenced. Rather than resisting influences, a young writer should turn and face them head on (preferably without trying to publish the early results). There is no piece of writing from which one may not learn. So far from stifling one’s originality, good books offer models of what works; bad books—and there are many—show us what not to do. When a writer attains maturity, if not mastery, she will look back on her early influences and understand the difference between the good books and the bad ones, recognizing the lessons learned from both. The fact is, if reading other people’s books had the power to snuff out one’s precious creative spark, there wasn’t much of a spark to begin with.  In truth, the more one reads the less enthralled by any single influence one is likely to be, and the more original one becomes.  But the need to read doesn’t end with the attainment of mastery; it is a lifetime pursuit, and part of the ongoing job. Ultimately, the more broadly one reads, the deeper one thinks, the better one writes, and this process of literary symbiosis is never-ending.

And how to be taken seriously? What I look for when vetting books for review is, first, that strong, clear, fluent voice; confidence, competence, a solid command of language, and an engaging style.  Beyond that, I want well-drawn, well-defined, smart, memorable characters undergoing a process of growth or change; compelling conflict, a story that piques my interest without being overly derivative or gratuitously far-fetched; a narrative that continually moves forward. I want maturity—but not in the euphemistic Triple-X sense of the word—a thoughtful, entertaining exploration of grownup themes. Is this asking too much?

For your consideration then; two recent works of fiction by a pair of authors whose voices may not necessarily be unique or strikingly original, but nonetheless, at their best, pass the test of clarity, fluency and strength with impressively high marks. Liberty St. James is a promising newcomer. Her first effort, Lock Me Up and Set Me Free, is a novella-length BDSM-tinged erotic romance with a memorable central female character and the occasional flash of something approaching brilliance. Aimee Nichols’ recent collection of erotic short stories, The Mercy of Strange Men, offers up some very fine writing with enough passion and insight to compel page-turning.  Both writers shine when describing what is immediate and real and most arousing to them. Beyond sex, for St. James, this is the transporting orgasmic power of music. For Nichols, it is the perpetual flux of urban life; another kind of music; the pulse of the bar scene; the grit and sweat of the crowd. Both titles offer much to enjoy, though neither is recommended wholly without caveat.  

Lock Me Up and Set Me Free by Liberty St. James

With a surprisingly good story, and an unforgettable female lead, this debut novella from Liberty St. James comes as a thoroughly pleasant surprise. What might have been yet another run-of-the-mill erotic romance with BDSM a la mode transcends ordinary genre fare with its empathy and depth of insight into character. Tam is smart, clear-headed, and strong-willed; submissive but never a pushover, that is, the perfect bottom. Hired to provide musical entertainment at a country estate’s New Year’s gathering, St. James’ bi-sexual heroine accepts an offer to get away from her workaday routine, and act as a slave for a young businessman and his fiancée over the weekend. “Sometimes,” she tells us,

I like to move out of my slap-dash, hand to mouth existence, and play at being pampered. Sitting at the top table in the restaurant of the moment, drinking champagne and flirting. Lying like the Rokeby Venus on some chaise lounge in a flat looking over London, naked except for real pearls or a silk scarf round my waist, while a man sits fully clothed in the chair opposite, watching me touch myself while he smokes. There’s something about that much quiet luxury; something that’s almost melancholy, like being indoors in winter while rain batters the window.”

Granted, we could do with fewer exchanges like this: 

“Keep them wide. No moving. My god, you’re wet. Fuck, you’re beautiful. Ah, you beautiful, beautiful little slut.”

Honestly? If the Victorians had made porno videos, something like this could have been the soundtrack. Can erotic writers PLEASE (!) do something to make their characters’ “naughty talk” more varied, interesting and realistic? Still, while St. James’ scenes of BDSM play seem rather contrived, repetitious and often boring (less would definitely seem like more, here), what keeps us reading are passages like this:

I love music as much—more than—I love sex. I want to drown in it; lose myself in it. Falling into music makes me feel safe, as if someone is holding me up. While I listened, I decided to let myself fall into this weekend the same way and not resist. Total submission. I’ve flirted with it before but never properly given myself to it

At an appropriate point I do a slow strip to You Made Me Love You. The dress, hat, and gloves come off. Underneath I’m in a corset, frilly pants and stockings. I sing I Want to Be Loved By You with brunette sleaze rather than blonde Marilyn Monroe dizziness. Then I get the cello out and play the prelude from Bach’s Cello Suite Number 1. You know the one, that famous one; the only cello tune you’ve ever heard on the radio or as the backing to an advert. I play it in my corset and stockings. I play it as if it’s turning me on like no-one I’ve ever known; I play it like I’m fucking the music. I am fucking the music. It does turn me on like no-one I’ve ever known. If I died playing the cello, I’d die happy.

Liberty St. James is a writer with enormous potential, and a newcomer to watch. In spite of its subtle flaws, overdone sex scenes, and a male lead whose demons are just a bit too predictable to be compelling, Lock Me Up and Set Me Free is nonetheless an impressive first effort and recommended to those in search of something new.

 

 

 

 

The Mercy of Strange Men by Aimee Nichols

This collection of well-crafted short stories from Australian author, Aimee Nichols is something of a mixed bag. There is sufficient contrast in mood and voice to keep things interesting, but it’s clear the author was more invested in some fantasies than others. She is at her best when her passions shine through; but has some difficulty disguising her distaste—occasionally approaching contempt—for some of her more conventional scenarios. The most interesting stories take us into steamy urban undergrounds, indie rock dives, kinky sex clubs, and seedy apartment back-bedrooms, as in The Gospel of Sophie, a genuinely first-rate ménage narrative, or the gloriously passionate lesbian encounters of Lipstick and Strap On Sex is So Passé. Nichols conveys considerably less enthusiasm when inhabiting the heads of serendipitous voyeurs (The Window and Down in the Park), and the overly-stylized psychological monodrama of the title story leaves the reader with a bewildering sense of literary déjà vu, bringing nothing new or positively exciting to the standard BDSM scenario. Far more successful is the exceptionally well-thought-out All Eyes On Him, written from the perceptively mature reference of an experienced fem-dom:

This is the story we are used to. Women, and especially attractive young women, are meant to be attracted to power. We’re meant to be the reason why men who make no effort to please anyone but themselves bemoan their lack of ability to get the women they feel they deserve. We’re supposed to accept status and money in exchange for being dominated. Some of us know that’s not the only narrative . . . Topping helps me find equilibrium, brings a dynamic to a relationship that allows me to relax into things. I like to know where I stand with the person I’m fucking or playing with, and I like them to know where I stand, which sexually speaking is over them, and usually holding something used to inflict pain.

The beauty of any short-fiction anthology is that readers may quickly seek out the gems while giving the tailings a pass. With more than a fair proportion of well-refined erotic literary ore; Aimee Nichols’ The Mercy of Strange Men is a vein adventuresome readers will surely want to tap.

 

 

 

 

Review of P.M. White's "Volksie"

At one point, early on in P.M. White’s Volksie, anti-hero Alston, along with his best friend Grumbine, and Volksie, Alston’s soul mate-as-yet-unawares, plunge their stolen VW Beetle into the Mississippi River near the Gateway Arch in St. Louis. The little car begins to sink, and for a terrifying moment, Alston fears he’s lost the girl of his dreams, not ten minutes after meeting her. But before the chapter skids up to a brake-squealing, metal-crunching, edge-of-the-precipice to-be-continued , Alston believes he sees Volksie emerging, naked, on the opposite bank. Never mind that the river is nearly a mile wide at this point, and rife with treacherous currents; this girl is magic!  

And so it is with much of this story. Subtitled “A tale of sex, Americana, and cars”, Volksie is P.M. White’s vividly dreamed, cute, seductively satirical, sometimes silly magical homage to the wide, fast-flowing river of the American mythos and the tributary subcultures that feed and renew it. The book is a classic chase epic; a tale of sadistic gangsters pursuing hapless heroes across the wide open deserts of the American southwest; think Vanishing Point with VWs; classic American car culture turned on its head; a gentler, geekier Dirty Mary, Crazy Larry with cybersex, less impressive horsepower, and a much happier ending.  It is a story about survival and revenge, enthusiasm, passion, obsession, and loving what you love no matter what the world may think. 

Where style was concerned, the VW Type 1 (Beetle or bug) was a living fossil long before it ceased production in the early 2000s; a charming throwback to the late 1930s, when “streamlining” was all the rage in automotive design. There is a certain female-ness, a Reubenesque voluptuousness to the profile of these cars with their sloping, fat-fendered curves; a look that can be seductive—even erogenous—to those sufficiently receptive. Truck, one of Alston’s shadier acquaintances, even goes so far as to gratify himself with a Beetle in a surprisingly creative—if not crudely obvious—fashion. This is, in its way, a metaphor for enthusiasm taken to extremes; the very essence of what it is to be a nerd.

In fact, I do not believe it would be unfair or in any way unduly dismissive to say that Volksie is the ultimate nerd fantasy. The story would not have had quite the same quirky charm if White’s characters had indulged a more conventionally macho passion for, say, classic Mustangs, Corvettes, or ‘70s-era muscle cars. VW-fandom may be no less unselfconsciously intense; no less unapologetically enthusiastic or—dare one say it?—hardcore; but park a 1966 VW 1300 Beetle with its tiny, rear-mounted, air-cooled four-cylinder engine next to any contemporary American performance car, and one is defied not to smile—or laugh out loud—at the juxtaposition. (Volkswagen’s advertising in the ‘60s was famous for playing up the car’s underdog-ish ordinariness in extremely funny and highly effective ways.) Whether intentional or not, there is a similarly subtle vein of parody running through White’s narrative, the sort of sly referential gestures that film geeks and car buffs (like myself!) absolutely love, as when Volksie convinces Alston to tie her to the roof of another stolen Beetle, for a round of “ship’s mast” a la Zoe Bell riding the hood of a ’70 Dodge Challenger in Quentin Tarantino’s Death Proof:

Volksie dropped her floral skirt to the asphalt and left it where it lay. She wore no panties beneath it. Alston admired the way the sun played along her long, thin legs as she unbuttoned her blouse. She dropped it to the ground next to her skirt, and stood fully nude on the deserted airport runway. Without saying a word, she climbed onto the hood. The seductive globes of her milky ass thrust toward the hot sun like a carnal offering. Volksie mounted the bug slowly and carefully. Her breasts swayed like firm, fleshy pendulums. Once on the rounded roof, she turned and spread her legs wide, then leaned back on her elbows, waiting to be tied. Her nipples looked hard enough to cut glass.

Alston grabbed her ankles and pulled her forward. Her ass squeaked on the metal roof. With her legs spread across the windshield and pointed toward the front fender, he set to work on the bindings. Within minutes, he had her ankles tied tightly to the metal fender. He popped out the small side windows and looped the rope through it, then bound her wrists. Throughout the process, Volksie lay silently on the roof, her eyes closed and her chest rising and falling with excitement.

Sounds like fun! No character in this story, infused as it is with the kind of magical, dream-like atmosphere, is more magical or enchanting than the title character herself. Volksie is quirky, eccentric, sensual, impulsive, and just the right kind of crazy. We fall in love with her, precisely as Alston does, because she’s the girl who loves the outsider--not necessarily the bad boy--the babe who ought to be out of our league but doesn’t play hard to get; knows what we need before we know it, and never fails to satisfy in the sack; the down to earth demi-goddess who’s easy to talk to, and wants to be with us in spite of our inexperience and insecurity. Wow! Does she have a sister? 

[*] I do have a few nerdish nit-picks about certain details in the text. First, there’s no such thing as a “’65 Super Beetle”. The Super Beetle, with MacPhearson struts and elongated front end, did not appear until 1971. Second; when White talks about a customized VW, built to resemble a stretch limo he writes “opposite facing doors, as well as the standard ones lay open for public viewing.” Surely, if one is writing from the viewpoint of American car enthusiasts, one would know the term “suicide doors”. Finally, in referring to a VW Thing, we get this: “The Thing, which turned out to be a 1944 model, the precursor to the German sales model.” The VW Type 181 “The Thing” was a product of the late 1960s, and not quite the same animal as the Type 82 Kubelwagen, the jeep-like VWs used by the German army during World War II. (Honestly, people; you can look this stuff up!) There are certain “British-isms” lurking in the background of the American setting; the character’s names, for example, don’t ring true;  especially the gangsters, who seem to have stepped out of one of Guy Ritchie’s dark-underbelly-of-London crime dramedies (of which I am a huge fan, by the way).

I don’t think any of these misplaced details represent a fatal flaw, however. Once readers start rolling with the story, which accelerates with a stylish momentum, such minor niceties will hardly matter. Volksie is a fast, fun and refreshingly wild ride, not to be missed. (Oh! And by the way: I WANT a reproduction of the cover done up as a large-size glossy poster! Genuinely beautiful!)


[*] Subsequent to the posting of this review, the author and publisher took my "nerdish nit-picks" into consideration and have accordingly revised the text, both in the e-book and forthcoming print editions.  It's gratifying to know that my plodding pedantry is good for something! TAS]