I ordered this book with high expectations. Over the years I've sought out a variety of the classic and not-so-classic examples of the genre, both academic and just for fun. The expression of sexuality Bentley promotes is neither shocking nor abhorrent (millions can attest to this) and her story deserves to be told.
Bentley is a former professional ballet dancer and competent writer and reporter. Her memoir about an intense affair that had as its centerpiece frequent, albeit compulsive (she kept count) anal intercourse seemed like something worth reading.
Instead of "showing," though, Bentley tells - and you understand pretty quickly that Bentley has told her story and explained herself many, many times in many, many therapy sessions. She offers some nuggets of self-analysis that sound very much as if a mental health practitioner came up with them. Her father was cold and difficult to please, pain became a friend, she early on became perfectionist, etc. One is led to believe that it is a given that an old psychic wound is necessary in order for one to enjoy anal sexuality.
The Freudian punning is unnerving.
There is little dialogue in this story and precious little deep feeling. The guy to whom she insists she surrendered is called "A-Man," a cutesy moniker and far cry from the grave dignity of the Stephens and Sirs of the genre.
This is less an "erotic memoir" than a series of descriptions - told by the way in the breathy prose of fashion-magazine reportage - of what she wore and how she looked, the state and the size of genitalia, and where to buy the supplies most cheaply (Costco), of an affair that while undoubtedly wonderfully physically intense and affecting, sounds surprisingly lackluster in the retelling. I was disappointed in this story.