Sex. Writing. Writing. Sex. You’ve always gotta wonder what those two words are doing together in the first place, because I mean … who really wants to get all cerebral and speculative about something so primal and, um, personal? Okay, writing that exists for the very purpose of turning you on, that’s one thing. (And usually it’s called porn, or in cerebralspeak, erotica.) But what’s the point of publishing nonfiction essays, even well-written ones such as these, about doin’ it? The motive behind such anthologies gets all the murkier when bits meant to titillate mix it up with stark glimpses of XXX-film directors, schoolroom sex-ed, and strippers molested as children. Self-indulgences such as Tristan Taormino’s paean to public banging embody the ideological thrust, if you will, that drives much of today’s sex writing: it’s all in-your-face, look-at-me, as functional as a YMCA workout, and anyone who mentions love is slackjawed relic with funny underwear.
Grade: C+