Author: Kiki Wellington
You know, you read one little pamphlet about Donald Trump getting it on with a bellboy and suddenly Amazon has a very twisted idea of what you like to get up to in your spare time. That being said, the title of this particular toilet tissue (which, as it turns out, is scented and two ply, which isn’t bad considering the way these things usually go) is The Sexorcist – there wasn’t a chance in hell I was going to pass up seeing how sex could be used to exorcise something. I felt that this could provide some useful life lessons since most of us have to rely on other materials to get rid of unwanted spirits (rock salt, holy water, that sort of thing), and it might be useful to know how to sex the afterlife out of whatever spirit lingers in the shadows at night.
Sutter Avenue Paranormal Society is a group made up of four friends, Hope, Lauren, Andrew and Dale. The four have been called out to investigate a rather unusual haunting at a bed and breakfast where one of Lauren’s friends work. Rather than a spirit that goes bump in the night, this is a spirit that likes to bang and grind with any female that stays in the bed and breakfast.
Lauren’s friend Traci just happens to have been one of those women. Remarkably clear-headed she admits that she enjoys the sexual encounters while they’re happening but is left rather confused once they’re over, and has invited the group out in the hopes that they will be able to give her some answers. Lauren obviously wants to help a friend, Andrew’s there because it’s his job, Dale’s there because he wants to bang Traci before the ghost gets another shot, and Hope just isn’t so sure about the whole thing.
Hope knows that most reports of hauntings are either the product of an over-active imagination or the work of someone who wants to become famous in the tabloids. While she thinks that something has happened to Traci, she’s not convinced that the place is haunted, and nothing about their investigation seems to prove otherwise – no unusual activity, no temperature spikes, no response from a séance.
But sometime’s the proof is in the pudding; Hope’s pudding, to be exact. With nothing to indicate that the place is haunted and with no other guests staying in the bed and breakfast while the investigation is taking place, Hope nevertheless has a ripped Adonis that shouldn’t be in the house banging her six ways from Sunday, causing her to make noises that the best Madam out there couldn’t make if her life depended on it. Perhaps the bed and breakfast is haunted by a sex ghost after all…
The Writing Style
Kiki Wellington (if that’s her real name) is actually a very capable writer.
The Sexorcist is the right combination of funny, realistic and actually erotic. In 37 pages Ms Wellington has managed to craft characters that are well-defined and who react to the (admittedly ludicrous) situation as you image an actual person would – they admit that going hunting for a sex ghost is a rather bizarre thing to do, but it would be really cool and interesting if it’s there. Mixed in is some good banter and decent one liners that make the fabulous foursome something that’s a lot more that the usual talking inflatable doll you usually find in these books, whose sole purpose is to be a receptacle for immoderate amounts of sperm. For that, I give Ms Wellington a lot of points.
What completely threw me off, and what in my opinion was completely unnecessary and which detracted from the book as a whole, was the language used in the lone sex scene. Throughout its short run this book contains good descriptions of characters and location, and when the characters talk about sex (and in the lead up to said lone sex scene) the language is sensual and descriptive. When the sex actually happens, it rapidly descends into vulgarity. Ms Wellington, “I was wet with desire” would have worked far better than “my pussy juices were flowing” – Hope’s a woman at the starting gate of intense passion, not a tap that’s sprung a leak. This is something that a lot of erotica writers don’t seem to understand: crass vulgarity does not equal erotic. I have read books that never once used the word ‘sex’ or any synonym for it, and which achieved far more than all the synonyms for ‘pussy’ ever could.
If some girl ever told me her pussy juices were flowing, the first thing I’d do is become very shocked and frightened. Afterwards, having fought down the flight impulse built into all human beings, I would then take her to a hospital, because that’s not normal. And that, Ms Wellington, is not the thought you want your reader to have.
Happy then sad then happy then sad.
This book was a roller-coaster in terms of how it made me swing between being thoroughly impressed and then thoroughly put off. Were it not for the crassness issue, this would have been a fantastic read that was actually erotic, which is something that’s quite difficult to find despite all the erotica that’s out there.
I was also horrified that Ms Wellington seems to think that a woman, even one that’s rather turned on and causing a minor flood, can simply switch over to anal sex (with no lube) like you would flick between TV shows. Ms Wellington that sounds very dangerous, and I imagine you would run the risk of friction burn. Please consider that before you send some poor housewife down a path that she can’t come back from.