I didn’t enjoy this title. To my puritanical taste, the morality of the first story seemed skewed and the plot structure seemed convoluted. None of the other stories I read after that excited me. If you’re the author reading this, I apologise for not enjoying your work. If you’re an editor or a publisher of the title, you’re probably already familiar with my foibles.
Fred slowed his own jerky gyrations, entranced with the vacant stare of the voyeur. His sense of time altered, or ceased to exist. Back to the stare, the total existence of sexual being. “The Engrossment of Fred,” he’ll call it. He’ll call it that when out of his trance. When she has squealed her release. When she has screamed out to whatever gods that be to fuck her silly. For all the gods to fuck her as Fred fucked her that first time.
How he fucked her backwards in the cunt in the broad daylight under a tree near the last bus stop. How he fucked her, face against the trunk of the rough bark, mini-skirt folded up in back, panties stretched around her knees. Long gone was the hot purple dildo that she’d lost on the bus. The wet, sticky rod that maybe some kid found, or maybe somebody’s grandmother. And now Nancy fucked herself harder.
I come away from this with the impression that Daddy X has aspirations to be the Hunter S Thompson of erotica. As aspirations go I can admire that one. We all strive to emulate our heroes. But, as I’ve never been a fan of Hunter S Thompson, that’s probably one of the reasons I’ve not enjoyed this collection.
I appreciate that it’s close to sacrilege admitting to a dislike of Hunter S Thompson but I’ve always found Gonzo journalism to be uninteresting and obscenely unapologetic in the way it glamorises substance misuse. If I want to endure shit like that I might as well just go and chat with a local smackhead about how great it is giving five quid blowies to feed his habit.
“All tits and ass” is the term for women like Willow. “Like a brick shithouse,” or,
“Cantilevered bubblebutt hardbody fuck machine,” would also fit. But Willow’s singular appeal is in her thoughts, in her capacity for love. Our love, her can-do attitude—the acceptance of whatever might contribute to the package. My love, my lover, my Willow. My eternal, end-overend fun pack.
“You okay?” Tears must be questioned.
She nods a qualified yes then: “It hurts. But, it’s okay—hurts okay, you know.”
Leaning forward on my knees, I brush my mouth against hers. “I know—” The vibrations we sense on our lips speak louder than the words themselves.
Willow’s breath nuzzles my ear. “Push,” she suggests.
Tongues tangle as I comply with her wish. One long stare combines us in one another’s welling orbs.
As I said at the start of this review, I’m probably biased because of my lack of empathy for Hunter S Thompson and my pedantic enjoyment of cohesive description and chronological plot. I don’t doubt there will be far more intellectual readers than myself who find this book stimulating and engaging. One thing I did think was good in the book was the dedication:
Even though I didn’t enjoy the title I can’t argue with that sentiment and I salute Daddy X for honouring one of my favourite bastions of erotica with such a thoughtful mention. This wasn’t my ideal read but I can understand that there is likely a large readership desperate to enjoy The Gonzo Collection.
This volume is dedicated to Adrienne Benedicks, in appreciation for all the writers she has encouraged through the Erotica Readers & Writers Association.