I was the wrong person to review this title. I’m a fairly shallow person and my reading tastes are simple to the point of being puerile. Some friends have said I’m as shallow as a spit stain. I perceive this as justified criticism.
And so, when I’m asked to review Evil Companions by Michael Perkins, one of the modern erotic classics published by Constable & Robinson, I have to be honest and say it was possibly too intellectual for my pedestrian tastes. This is a sample of the erotic content.
I began to get hard from all this corpse-fucking myself. I could tell that the Charmer felt the same way, because he was jerking his loins in sympathy with Paulette. I had to get into the action myself. Paulette’s mouth was not in use, so standing between the mark’s legs I fitted myself in through her clenched teeth. The mark was giving her such a good fuck, it was hard going, but it was worth it. The Charmer tried to follow my example with Lady Jane, but he got discouraged with her tears, and stood there frustrated, wondering how to get in on things. The idea he came up with might have been acceptable at another time, but I wasn’t up to being buggered right then. I kicked backward when I felt his tool ram against my buttocks, and he cursed.
“Fuck this, man. I got an idea.”
Mark Twain observed: “A classic is something that everyone wants to have read, but no one wants to read.” I mention this because the thought was going through my head constantly as I realised this title was from a range entitled ‘modern erotic classics.’
And I find it annoying because, looking at some of the other authors in this series, I know I would have likely enjoyed works by Remittance Girl or Marilyn Jaye Lewis because their work has always struck me as being representative of the type of erotica that I enjoy reading.
But this title simply didn’t work for me. The focus on excess and extremes was reminiscent of The Tale of Scrotie McBoogerballs from the 14th season of South Park. It was simply a catalogue of unpleasantness, listed as erotica only because those who arrange and organise these categories can’t differentiate between the sexual and the obscene.
They were all so involved in balling, drinking, or beating someone that I was scarcely noticed. My eyes, accustomed to the dimness, began to pick out individuals in the corners. In one of them, far away from everyone else, Anne was sitting alone, a needle hanging from her arm. Her eyes were dead, undersea; I approached with my throat tight, instinctively circling her at first, like an animal coming on its dead. She was much thinner, and her hair had been rough-cut even shorter, so she looked like a boy. There was a new scar on a cheek, a very small one, put there with a razor, probably: a jagged swastika. The Deathhead brand. She was wearing her old Levi’s, one sneaker, and a man’s dirty corduroy shirt.
I slapped her, and her mouth fell open, revealing bloody teeth. After a while, she choked, and came around, mumbling:
“Yes. It’s you. You own. Flies. Roaches. Horrible instincts— insects. Bugs. You own me now. Can I go to the toilet now? My belly hurts.”
Perkins has been described as America’s answer to de Sade. I suppose this might be true if we allow that de Sade’s writing eschews the erotic and instead reverts to the scatological; or if we allow that de Sade’s work favours a prurient celebration of misogyny over mutuality; or if we accept that de Sade treated the reportage of sexual experience as an examination of the eliminatory function of the biological rather than an investigation into the satisfaction of spiritual parity.
As I said, I was the wrong person to review this title because I failed to find it erotic on any level. That said, if you like your erotica to fixate on every unpleasant aspect of sex – from extremes of mismatched personalities through to recreational drug abuse and necrophilia – then this is the title for you. However, if you find such subject matter more distasteful than erotic, you might want to give this classic a miss.