a book extravaganza


It’s official. I now have more sex-related books than I know what to do with, or have time to read. They sit in little piles on my dining room table, mocking me.
For some titles, of course, the prioritization is easy. I recently had two – two, mind you, a regular feast – Aran Ashe books delivered to my little mailbox. This guy’s work is incredible, and I devour it, though some might find it a bit ponderous. Frankly, I find it amazing that he can write such amazing and arousing books without ever once having to use the words pussy, clit or cock. And without reading like a badly written Harlequin; no throbbing manhood, either. His stories are set in a fantasy time, in a fantasy castle, where there are slaves and Lords and Taskmistresses. These slaves are rarely punished in a heavy physical way; rather, these slaves (male and female both) are trained to pleasure either through pleasure and denial, pleasure brought time and time again until the slave is exhausted, or both. And, needless to say, these books feature some amazing scenes featuring hands. You know me and hands. 🙂
I’ve also got a small pile (four or five books) of Ray Gordon novels. I’d enjoyed his book, Naked Lies (see review) so I thought I’d give some more of his novels a try. I’m halfway through the second, and have to say I’m grossly disappointed. His books don’t start out badly, but they end up ballooning into these incredible tales so quickly out of the gate that it leaves you, as a reader, incredulous. The female lead becomes so completely sex crazed that she’s shoving three-inch candles in every orifice during her many masturbation sessions in between the six or seven sex scenes that include other people, per day. I’m all for fantasy and suspension of disbelief, but let’s get real here. These read more like teenage male fantasies than anything that could ever be construed as truly erotic or stimulating. After the second or third chapter, he’s lost me.
There’s the nonfiction pile. I’ve got titles on BDSM, women’s right to pornography, the A to Z of penis lore and the history of the vibrator. Some of these are half-read, some just started, some still sitting with pristine spines waiting for the first words to reach my fevered and sick little brain.
And last, there’s the “I’ve finished it but have yet to write a damn review for the site” pile. This pile is huge; I’ve given up and put many of them in the bookshelf near my desk, hoping that their sheer proximity to the computer will get me off my butt and writing.
These are, of course, just the sex-related books on my todo list. It gets worse when you start moving into other genres.The problem is, I’m addicted. Like a masturbation junkie unable to walk past a toy store without needing a quick fix (yes, okay, so sometimes I’m addicted to those too – grin), I am literally incapable of entering a bookstore and not walking out with at least one book. Generally I’ll pick up a few. The addiction is a sad and expensive one, particularly given how little time I actually have to read. I remember being able to blast my way through five or six novels a week and still have a social life. Now I’m lucky if I polish off one a week. Less if the book is technical in nature – say, usability or web design or project management.
Addiction, thy name is books. Or sex. Whichever. 🙂

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Vikki McKay
By Vikki McKay

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