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Like some lazy people, I buy books based on their blurbs. Stupid, I know. Those little quotes of praise on a book jacket are often given as favors to editors, not out of genuine enthusiasm for a book. But how could I resist Maile Meloy’s novel, Liars and Saints? First, great title. Second, she’s around my age, so I’m curious to know how much I, as a writer, suck in comparison to her. And because I’m struggling masochistically with my second book, I figured, why not bring on the pain of someone who seems to be spitting them out at the rate of one a year? But when I flipped to the back and saw the eighty-seven-word blurb from Philip Roth himself, I muttered “sold” to no one in particular and bought the thing.
Roth’s endorsement provoked a few personal reactions. The first was abject jealousy. The second was a feeling of confidence that I was finally bringing home a well-written dirty book, one that wasn’t covered in fuchsia or decorated with a high heel, martini glass or shopping bag. Since the flap copy hinted at “sex and longing” that lay at the heart of “family relationships,” I was counting on a literary Flowers in the Attic. Instead, I got this:
But I did! I totally expected this! People having sex! Yes! But what happens next is the novel’s equivalent of fade to black, when actors dive under silky sheets and the show goes to commercial:
Okay, we know that they did it. That is obvious. Perhaps that was enough for Meloy. I will leave the rest to the readers’ imagination, she thinks. If people can’t make out what happens next, it’s not my problem. But by bringing a reader to that lascivious brink, then leaving him there, Meloy suggests it’s not the reader’s imagination that’s lacking.
This cuts to:
Son of a bitch, she did it again! She shut off the lights at the first glimpse of nipple, the first glint of pubic hair, the first urgent clutch!
They kiss and grope, and yes, it’s lovely. But the characters are young, practically children. Later in the novel, an adult Will meets a French woman named Annette. Soon after, Will, his friend Hand and Annette are nearly naked in moonlit water. Will fantasizes about diving under, imagining he could “grab her legs. I could bury my face between her legs.” But he doesn’t. Still later, while in Eastern Europe, Will meets a hooker with whom he has no sexual chemistry. He accompanies her home out of curiosity. Upon her instruction, he takes off his shirt. Upon her instruction, he lies down. And . . .
Cut to morning. Will’s friend Hand prods him for details:
Of course you didn’t. Because that would be wrong!
Riii-iiight. Mountain Man just wants to spoon. And of course, you get the impression that’s all they did. A few pages later, with zero seduction, coitus or saliva, Lucinda announces she’s “romantically involved” with Mason. They embark on a long, drawn-out relationship, which includes a lot of sniping, bitching, and inhaling, but not one iota of sex. Heavy meth use kills the libido, true, but couldn’t Daum have made something up? It’s fiction! I find that good sex tends to sneak up on you, like the unpresuming geek whose company you enjoyed but never gave much thought to, so you never noticed how he calibrated the drinks so expertly that, on the third date, you found yourself shoved up against the wall, awestruck, staring down at the top of his slightly balding head, thinking, Jesus, how the hell did he get me in this position?
But most of the best literary sex writers — not to be confused with erotica writers — are unknowns. Many of them are Canadian. All of them are without the benefit of a big contract or a New Yorker debut. Lisa Moore’s Open is a beautiful book in which real people have graphic sex in awkward places, with adult consequences. Jonathan Goldstein’s Lenny Bruce is Dead is seriously literary, horny and hilarious. The protagonist, Josh, has sex constantly with a bunch of barefoot scraggly nymphs, girls whose asses he has “creamed;” girls who make him want to throw himself “into an open grave;” girls with butts “full of personality.” He wants one so desperately that he vows:
Tamara Faith Berger’s filthy book, Lie With Me, caused a craze in Canada a few years ago with her raw, visceral, totally hot portrayal of one true slut:
But the best recent one-handed sex scene can be found in Gould’s Book of Fish by Richard Flanagan, a young Tasmanian. It’s an award-winning, international bestseller, one I venture to guess you’ve never heard of. Why? Here’s the jacket copy:
Would you pick it up? I did, because I was looking for something dense and distracting. I got that and then some, including this on page 275:
I’ll stop there, but this turns out to be the kind of sex that shipwrecks our protagonist forever; it’s the kind of sex that leaves the reader breathless and aware that we’re adults, our body grown and necessary, that we can do miracles with them and each other. Yet Flanagan’s publisher decided that the cover should trumpet his literary accolades. That’s why you’d never pick it up.
I recently had lunch with Candace Bushnell, a woman whose name has become synonymous with sex, though God knows why. She’s a funny, earthy lady: approachable and forthcoming. I like her writing a lot. And though she might be (barely) from a different generation than the writers I’ve mentioned, she turned positively demure when I asked her why she doesn’t write sex scenes. (Seriously, check for yourself. She doesn’t.)
I clinked my third Bloody Mary with her second, but part of me wanted to slap her taut face. Part of me wanted to take a lipstick to a wall and write: Carrie Bradshaw never fucked anyone. Samantha Jones never fucked anyone. Janey Wilcox never fucked anyone.
Or let’s blame Hooksexup for being smarty-pantsed and artsy, for inadvertently creating a bastion of two-handed sex reading. Hell, I was excerpted here, as were Safran Foer, Spiegelman and Frey, but sometimes I think of Hooksexup as the guy who’s too good to sleep with the town slut — he’ll talk to her, hold her, sit and tell her about everything she has going for her, if only she would read more, think a little more deeply, take herself a little more seriously.
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