Clay Ferrill, $0.99, ISBN 978-0463120873
Contemporary Erotica, 2021
Oh, Clay Ferrill’s Let Me See is filthy, and the title refers to what is uttered by an audience of big jocks with bigger.. you know, the word that rhymes with “jocks” as each of them put on a show of releasing the fireworks all over our super-hungry horny hippo power bottom Mark.
Mark, whose age is twenty so that nobody gets arrested for reading this thing, first loses his rear end cherry to his friend Jeremy in what is best described as the familiar football jock fantasy. Jeremy is already munching bananas with hot mechanic Dirk, so Mark hangs around Dirk’s workshop the next day and ends up twerking his rear end happily at him. Two and a half hours later, he’s doing a train with Jeremy, Dirk, and two more guys. Then Jeremy invites his football team mates over.
Yes, this is basically the written equivalent of a porn movie without plot, but that’s the whole point of its existence: titillation, and for under a dollar to boot.
I like the raunch here, and the sheer unapologetic nature of the relentless traffic in and out of Mark’s depot. Even more intriguing is the dynamic of these encounters. Many erotic gay romances tend to portray the top as the epitome of masculinity, in the process unfortunately turning the bottom fellow into a caricature of some emotional feminine guy prone to hysterical wailing about how it’s all so big and he needs the big strong top to protect him from the scary big world out there. It’s all about the worship of the top from his do-it-all nature to big dong.
On the other hand, Mark holds all the power here. His hungry, hungry peen-gobbler ways transform even the boldest caricature of over the top masculinity into a mindless, moaning being trembling as he empties into him. Mark transforms rough trades into obsessed men that hold his cheeks and kiss him hard, even calling him instead of him calling them because they really want another go at him. He takes them to church, in other words, introduces them to a brand new religion, and he gets them to donate to his plinth every day, hallelujah.
With so much of gay romance worshiping the top to the point of reducing the bottom into another blank slate damsel in distress, it’s nice to read something raunchy that also celebrates the power the bottom holds over even the biggest and tallest and hairiest men in the land.
As I’ve mentioned before, the author gets the sexy stuff mostly right here. The dirty talk, the tempo and choreography of the sex scenes, the length of it all—everything comes together, ahem, to make this a joyous, vulgar, and filthy fun little read.
My only issue, and it’s a subjective one, is how Mark can keep taking all these big, big, big things, which on average are about ten inches long each in quick succession without suffering from a rectal prolapse. At one point, he gets fisted deep after taking a few big ones, and then he continues taking more big ones like a pro. And he has lost his backdoor cherry only a day before! Is his poop chute made of Plasticine? By the last page, I am starting to think of goatse, and that’s not what I want in my mind after reading a work of dirty fiction.
That’s just me, though; there is only so much a human body part can stretch and tear before I start feeling second- and third-hand agony from reading about all the ins and outs. I still think this is a hot read that is worth every single of its bargain price, but at the same time, folks that can suspend their disbelief about the flexibility and elasticity of a man’s anal and rectal tissues may enjoy this one far more.
