Book Review: In Bed With

Published on Friday 30 January 2009 14:36

IN BED WITH Edited by and including stories from Imogen Edwards-Jones, Jessica Adams, Kathy Lette and Maggie Alderson Sphere, £7.99

WHEN "your favourite women novelists" (Ali Smith, Fay Weldon, Joanne Harris et al) write "unashamedly sexy stories", which come together under the covers of a baby pink confection sporting bra and panties, satisfaction is apparently "guaranteed". Indeed, erotica written for women by women who have tossed inhibition to the four winds with "x-rated pseudonyms", a combination of the name of their first pet and their street – Pom Paradise, Minxy Malone – seems an intriguing concept. One is seduced by the slick marketing, but for the most part, this turns out to be all mouth and little trouser.

The expectation on sassy, savvy novel writing women-about-town in 2009 to subvert and reinvent tired old male-centric tropes rises, but this book sometimes reads like second rate Sex And The City. Centrally, most of them, with a few exceptions, follow a predictable arc: woman yearns for invariably illicit sex with gorgeous hunk of man and in no time is a quivering pulsating wreck of lust, be it at a funeral, a bar, or in her own mind.

Nether regions are expanding all over the place. Formulaic, Olympian sex will happen, with men whose backs are usually broad, whose eyes are more than once "green, with golden flecks", and genitalia that are ever ready. Read cumulatively, the glut of clichs results more in irritation than titillation.

Deviation from such boring and predictable plot thrusts brings more gratification. Patch O'Gilby's 'Do You Remember Paris?' is surprising for its pensive lyricism in Paris, and 'The Come-On' by Ruffy Sainte-Marie for its fast-paced energy and linguistic movement. Lingering upon the 'unspoken' and not slavishly upon the physical, it trusts that the reader's imagination can be more powerful than 20 horny Kiwi farmhands. The force of character behind a story makes the vital difference – sweet, sad Nell in 'The Rehearsal', Polly the 19th-century ballerina in 'Pas de Deux', and Lizzie's tears of joy in 'After The Funeral' are more memorable than the endless squeezing, licking and bonking.

At its best, this book can provide some mirthful descriptions of buttocks, but at its worst, it's as meaningful as a one night stand, cheap as Primark lingerie and about as hilarious as a split condom.