Sexo Manifesto

I’ve had an almost pathological obsession with sex for as long as I can remember. It is laughable when I consider the limited number of sexual partners I’ve had, but quality over quantity is what I go for and if you exclude the hours of self-stimuli I’ve achieved, I can count the number of satisfying partners I’ve had on one finger. My sexual appetites are curbed largely because of my romantic nature, where, as one great mind put it, everything has to be fraught with meaning.

My latest read, “The Lisa Diaries” is the single most entertaining sexual memoir I’ve encountered. It blissfully lacks the self-conscious irony one finds when thumbing through the diaries of everyone’s favorite smarmy noodle head Anaïs Nin, replacing that pseudo-hedonism with depth that I doubt Nin ever felt even in her darkest hours handing Henry Miller her table scraps.

Lisa’s book isn’t marked up for shock profit and it doesn’t try to ruffle any feathers as much as it peeks beneath them looking for something interesting.

The greatest strength of this book and really, of all Lisa’s books is that she writes with such depth that when you’re reading, it’s like eating the tastiest croissant you’ve ever had, with rich flaky layers, something you’ll remember for days afterward. She can talk about going to a porn shop and buying a dildo and make it seem like an odyssey, which, incidentally, it becomes in subsequent pages. There’s a great entry wherein Lisa describes her new dildo and makes it sound like a Freudian amusement park where the roller coasters are made of sweaty skin and latex. Also, I’ve never owned a dildo and have been in very few porn shops, so this is twice as nice.

I’ve found that a lot of people like to use sex to illustrate how free spirited they can be, or how amazingly guilt-free they are for screwing and forgetting about it later. Sexual show-biz, I call it. It’s about as convincing as a chick screaming “Oh yeah!!” in a porno and about as boring to hear. I used to work in a very seedy nightclub where people led others about in chains, which would be interesting if they meant it. Usually, it looked as though they should be wearing signs that say, “Momma didn’t love me” or “Behold, my feigned indifference!” Not to mention it was in the heart of Cincinnati, where one chick spanked people for money while wearing fishnets so tight that her grotesquely obese legs oozed between the holes. The only turn-on there was a light above my head that told me to run like the wind that passed between her enormous ass cheeks.

You won’t find bullshit or inhibition in Lisa’s book and you’ll be entertained AND maybe even turned on. And no grotesque ass cheeks can be found lurking behind strained latex. Not even a little bit.

Buy it! You couldn’t be putting money in the pocket of a cooler gal.