I’ve just given 4.5 stars to a book about lesbian BDSM at the end of which the Sub allows her tongue to be cut off and her fingers surgically sewn together so she can live out the remainder of her life chained up, on all fours, and mute, as a dog.
It could be that this is my first lesbian BDSM and I’m young and impressionable.
I happen not to be a lesbian (yet). This is no impediment to enjoying the general gist of the novel, but there were, however, a few ‘technical issues’ that threw me off kilter. Heres some ‘dirty talk’ thats supposed to get me in that ‘Barry White and Bolly’ mood: ‘I have such a monstrously big hole its unlikely theres a cock big enough in the universe to touch both sides at once’. Followed by a couple of fists shoved where the sun don’t shine to underoutline the point. Now the reference to the cock is a red herring. What we need to concentrate on here is the rite of passage whereby you’re supposed to stick both hands in it (said passage) and be able to clap. No, thats not a Koan. Me, I’ve always subscribed to the less is more principle, Kegel is King, and somehow consider it un petit triomphe if my bits don’t flippedy-flop-flap in the wind when I’m walking my dog. See what I mean about technicalities? Am I being t too up tight, is Jane Delynn too loose? The devil is in the detail. (Otherwise lesbians go).
I’m also a BDSM novice, at least in the manner prescribed here. Meaning, I have not had my face smeared with faeces, had someone urinate in my mouthbless me with golden elixir, or copulated with dogs (or any other animals for that matter). Well holy hell, how boring can I get. Wiki says around 25% of the population engage in BDSM. So. Then. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I took out this really long thin plastic ruler, and stared at it for about 10 minutes, trying to think pain is sexy thoughts. Then, I raised my hand and administered a god almighty, take no prisoners smack across my (naked) thigh. Here is what happened: I did feel something instantaneously (well beside the pain)!!. I did not unfortunately feel erotic feelings, because my hypothalamic-pituitary-adrenal axis kicked into gear and I entered ‘fight or flight’ mode. In my case it was ‘fight’: This wave of white anger washed over me: who the fuck just made me wibble-wobble? Oh wait, it was me. Well, thats a doozy. I can’t very well punish myself by hitting myself again: where the hell will that lead? The dog chasing its tail. Total frustration and not being able to take it out on transgressor. (Wait, is that in its own way a form of SM where I am both the S and the M?)
The book is also not written all that well. I mean, it doesn’t drip with impressions hued through the orchestrated pattern of allusions, metaphors, similies a and alliterations. (unless someone disagrees based on ‘My, you’re a real gusher’ she said as I could feel the gunk between my thighs congeal’. I think congealed of anything should always stay off menu).
So if I’m not going to be tipping the velvet with congealed pituito-serous fricassee whilst passing the golden nectar filled loving cup to the left anytime soon, where do the four and a half stars ‘gush’ from?
Simple. This noir little piece is NOT about sex at all. Infact, the more the BDSM gross-me-out-meter rises, the less sex there is, until in the final stages whilst Jane spends months on end as a dog (and this is before her little tongue procedure), the sex disappears entirely.
But, this novel isn’t about BDSM either. I mean yes, there are scenes of it everywhere, and some might take that away with them, but the heart of darkness here is about resigned despair, leading to self-loathing, leading to self-punishment and finally, to self erasure: most might take the easy route out and self terminate, but that doesn’t allow for true penance now, does it?
We’re all unique, each and every one of us, right? Bullshit. Seek and ye shall find. Find that there are people out there who are your mirror image in all the ways that count.
Jane Delynn is my mirror image, my counterpart. She has a voice through which all my personal demons speak. Her long monologues, perhaps devoid of style, as I’ve noted, dry and way too cerebral for the type of work she’s aiming for, crystallise every guilty, stupid, desperate, selfish folly I’ve ever entertained. So how could I not give her close to five stars?
The novel is a philosophical treaty really, of a woman who is tired of life, who knows that its too late to make meaningful changes, that the satisfying of desire is much worse than not satisfying it, that every decision is made within a split second of it being posited, and any subsequent deliberations are fools gold, that we live in our minds and not in our bodies, that it is more erotic to have sex with someone who understands Plato’s concept of the relationship between signifier and signified, that we commit transgressions so we can confess them, and much, much more.
Soul sister.