Atlantic Library Digital, $3.00
Contemporary Erotica
I don’t need to tell you that Jackie Christian’s The Pussy Eater is a work of erotica, do I?
Picture this: we have a Spa in Catalina Island where women are tended to by Spa Maidens and given marijuana to help them relax. And then we have the Pink Salmon Room, where the butt-ugly Sal Rosen is waiting.
Should they tell her about “The Pussy Eater“?
Honestly, tall skinny Sal Rosen wasn’t the best looking guy.
In fact, many of the workers in the facility referred to him as “scavenger face,” “bottom feeder,” “dog fish face,” or in the case of the black employees, “Ugly motherfucker.” But what he looked like really didn’t matter, because more valuable than gold to Dr. Hutton’s establishment was the healing powers of Sal Rosen’s long, firm, pink TONGUE. A tongue that had been dubbed “Paddle scooper“, “Pink Row-boat Oar“, “The Batter-Beater” — all kinds of names had been made up by famous Hollywood actresses, supermodels and MTV singing divas who frequented Dr. Hutton’s renowned Spa Cure — but none of the names they’d given his tongue quite fit so correctly as the title Sal Rosen had been given overall — The Pussy Eater.
Jackie Christian would most likely fail an exam that challenges her ability to punctuate correctly, but you have to admit, there’s a bit of a cunning linguist in her.
The “her” in the excerpt above is our heroine, movie producer Annie Morgan. Or size 14 Annie Morgan, as the author puts it in this book, because she wants us to know that fat women can enjoy a good shag too. Like all authors determined to shove a Very Important Message down my throat, Ms Christian often misses the point. In this story, she has Annie sneering and mocking thin women to such an extent that I find myself wondering since when looking like a beached whale allows one to be so rude. The author’s writing is pretty amateurish too. Here is an example:
“It’s so nice to meet you in person,” Athena Choy smiled as her own set of maidens were sponging her body and serving her wine with lobster tails. Athena said, “Care to have a little wine or a toke together?”
Annie tried to recall what the famous model’s name was but she couldn’t. She said, “I’m so sorry – I have a flight out this evening and a lot of stuff to catch up with on my computer before I call it a weekend.”
If Annie can’t remember the model’s name, the author shouldn’t have put the model’s name in the above excerpt. Because the author mentions Athena by name first, I am led to assume that Annie already recognized her and therefore I get momentarily confused when the author later asserts that Annie doesn’t remember Athena’s name.
As Annie enjoys the way Sal brings her to “hypnosis” with his tongue, Sal (who turns out to be “very tall”, “surprisingly young”, and Jewish with a “ravaged and limp little two-inch thimble dick”) has his own problems. His shrink and obsessed stalker, Dr Laura (snicker), wants him to go down on her, but he can’t stand the smell of her, er, fish sandwich.
He turned around and said, “OK, you want the truth? It’s not because you used to be my psychologist, Dr. Laura – it’s because your fucking twat stinks like raw liver, oysters and sardines marinated in donkey shit and left on a sidewalk in hundred degree weather for two weeks straight!”
Suddenly, it made sense to Dr. Laura. She’d had a vaginal infection at the time and hadn’t known it. She tried to explain that to Sal Rosen, but he said that he still couldn’t perform the therapy on her. He said, “Now that I associate that smell and your vaginal infection as part of your vagina’s overall face — I could never kiss that face, Dr. Laura. It’s just ruined for me for good. And I’m sorry, but I can’t service you.”
What the…?
Dr. Laura burst into tears. Balling, furious rage as she picked up her glass of scotch and hurled it across the room at him!
“You dirty period-eating fuck-tard! How dare you humiliate me!”
Oh my.
And then we have Julio San Angelo, Latin lover with a big dong, who, as he tells an imaginary Annie while admiring himself in the mirror, “… want to stick my big Mexican sausage right up your ass and into your heart” (ouch) so that she will give him movie roles. If you think a Mexican man named Julio San Angelo isn’t cheesy enough, wait until you meet Salsa Santana as well as the Black maid called Miss Dot.
Miss Dot had huge black balloon titties that she let sit out whenever she was relaxing on the cot in the maid’s quarters (usually slathering her hands with arthritis medication and airing out the tits) — and every so often, she’d have Otis, the old black dude who tended the garden down the street at the Bostwick house, come over to Alan and Annie’s for “afternoon tea” in the maid’s quarters. Viewing the secret camera monitor anxiously, Alan would jack off as he watched old black Otis sticking his half-limp; half-hard dick in Miss Dot’s mouth or massaging it against her huge black balloon tits. Never did Otis look at her face; he just looked at the wall. But he sure would hump his gray patch of crotch hair against Miss Dot’s face and make her suck that long black dick.
The fun really begins when Annie brings Sal with her back to LA, where the story then morphs into an X-rated version of a Jackie Collins novel. The whole thing is as hysterically overblown and funny as you can probably imagine.
The Pussy Eater is most likely the worst-written but most memorable book I’ve read in a long time. Seriously, how can I not remember a story that advocates going down on a woman as a means to restore her youth and cure her of ailments like backaches and such? Or that the heroine’s most dramatic and ambitious film is one called Mexican Exorcist? This story has young ladies wanting to have sex, jealous husbands, adultery, infidelity, crazy women, but if I strip away the Jackie Collins pretensions, I find a very important story full of important social messages such as: fat women have the right to be raging bitches like everybody else; it doesn’t matter that he has a small penis – it’s how good he uses his tongue that counts; old people have the right to engage in skanky sex as much as nubile young people; Jewish men are the best while we should stay away from the crazy Mexicans; and you cannot put two women in the same room for more than two seconds before they try to rip each other’s throat out. This book is also a must-read for all students in creative writing classes, because this is a powerful demonstration on how using blatantly racist stereotyping, dizzying abuse of points of view to create a potent seasick effect, bizarre capitalization of WORDS, and more can convince readers to love you in an “Oh my goodness, he squeezed out a turd that looked just like Steve Buscemi’s face – AWESOME!”manner that you may not appreciate.
More importantly, this book makes me laugh out so loud at least twice on each page, until my sides ache and I have to stop reading now and then just to catch my breath. This book is like… I don’t know, Jackie Collins on acid or something. From a technical point of view, this book is a complete failure – the author’s writing style is frankly horrible. Anyone who can’t switch off his or her “English teacher” mode is better off staying away from this book instead of getting a coronary while reading it. The sexual elements are too exaggerated and absurd to be taken seriously. But as prime comedy that has me rolling on the floor laughing until my sides ache, The Pussy Eater is F-A-B-U-L-O-U-S. I love it! I love it so much!
My apologies to people of good taste and proponents of quality literature everywhere, but I just have to give this baby a final rating of four oogies.
