Fawcett, $12.95, ISBN 0-449-00180-6
Historical Erotica, 1999
Call me paranoid, but I have this feeling that the title of this book must be an inside joke between the author and Fawcett. At least I hope it is, for the irony of the title with the story within the pages is really spectacular. The last thing one can find in The Innocent is innocence.
Someone wrote to me, saying that, well, to be professional, I ought to bring out the best points about a book, even when everything else is pretty down the drain. I’d be accommodating to those from that school of thought.
People, I love the cover! It’s beautiful. I also love the title and the irony of it all. THE END.
I’d go on, but be warned that there will be nothing “good” from hereon.
Eleanore de Monfort, or “Elf” as she prefers to be called, is called from her convent to her brother’s bedside and realizes that she has inherited everything. Lucky girl. Isleen, her sister-in-law, is not happy, naturally. She hatches a plot to have Eleanore kidnapped and raped (Isleen, of course, will bake popcorns and watch), but too bad, she and her lover botch things up.
Elf is commanded by King Stephen to marry Ranulf de Glandeville, the king’s faithful knight, and even though Elf wants to be a nun, they get married anyway. Ranulf teaches Elf the glory of the Glory-O’s and they all live happily ever after.
That is, after Isleen and her other lover botch up many, many more stupid plans to have Elf kidnapped and raped (these people really need a hobby). Uh oh, Ranulf goes on a mission and leaves Elf to fend for herself. And there is lots of skanky boinking. I’ve lost count of how many men Isleen slept with. She loves to involve in her happy fun times blunt and elongated household items and many positions I wouldn’t advise anyone to follow, except the yoga practitioners, maybe, and even then I’d advise them to get their lover’s permission before bringing in the whole party to bed like Isleen does.
Usually, I’d say if a woman likes it rough and painful like Isleen, here, more power to her for her ability to celebrate her sexuality. If she likes getting tied up, blindfolded, or indulging in rape scenarios, and gets off on these, good for her. But the book ridicules Isleen, making a mockery of her sexuality and carnal preferences. This I find distasteful. The message here seems to be that women that enjoy sex in various forms are inherently evil skanks. A woman can’t be pure and holy and enjoy sex unless she is “awakened” to it by her man. This I find really offensive.
And Elf and Ranulf, bland bland bland, get it on like Energizer bunnies on pheromones. The creepy thing is, Elf’s fourteen. I try to remind myself that they do things young back in the days in which this story takes place, but still. Ranulf’s tutoring of Elfie to joys of boinking make me want to take a shower. Not a cold shower, but a long, cleansing one.
