This is not your father’s porn!
If it’s not porn, is it erotica?
Hell, no. Nothing erotic about this one. Although, it does speak to the many —versions (sub-, perv-, King James, etc.)
Think of it as Neil Simon’s [b:Murder by Death|805509|Murder by Death|H.R.F. Keating|http://d.gr-assets.com/books/1346253341s/805509.jpg|791461] meets de Sade’s [b:The 120 Days of Sodom|6351885|The 120 Days of Sodom|Marquis de Sade|http://d.gr-assets.com/books/1348124889s/6351885.jpg|6538460] with a side of Delany’s [b:Hogg|85865|Hogg|Samuel R. Delany|http://d.gr-assets.com/books/1354642149s/85865.jpg|589031].
In excruciating detail, a host of unreliable narrators post reviews of a male hustler on an internet website and in discussion threads, evaluating his rendered services and their own basest desires, while comments from others claiming to know the hustler (more or less, but mostly more, intimately) provide slightly variant perspectives on the character (including his own perspective)—all under the shadow of that peculiar realm, full of opportunity for deceit, that is the internet.
Years ago, when I first started learning my way around the internet, I found a (now-defunct) gay chat room where a bunch of guys would hang out, say the most outrageously funny things, and generally have a pretty good time while ignoring the occasional Private Message opportunities that would sometimes arise. It was a fun place to be, a no-holds-barred opportunity exchanging humor and, believe it or not, occasionally even talk about books. Then came the Drama. Then the exposure of lies. Then the website just went away, as had all but the die-hards who were there for something other than the one-handed typing. The good ol’ days.
That’s not what this book is. This is the underbelly of that world. The Private Messages writ large. Brutal. Self-serving and entirely one-sided. Nothing beautiful. Nothing insightful. Yet, Real in ways Westboro Baptist only imagines.
Four stars, not for the squeamish.