Five Terrific and Very Different Sexual Books by Men
By
Daniel is an independent writer, reader, teacher, and philosopher living in San Francisco.
Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer
An obvious choice, I know, but not the worse for it. The fact is, Tropic of Cancer proffers a ribald sexuality, an unabashed enthusiasm for getting it on — and getting it on as a man. There is no empathy for women, no feeling it out from her perspective. But this doesn’t mean it’s misogynistic. Miller embraces his point of view, his perspective, and only asks that you do the same, man or woman. And what, alas, is more respectful — and erotic — than that?
Philip Roth, Sabbath’s Theater
Of course, there’s Portnoy’s Complaint, a book that defines post-Freudian, Hebraic male desire: guilt and lust are intimately intertwined, inseparable, fueling each other, effacing each other, defining each other. But I want to talk about a lesser known book, Sabbath’s Theater, which chronicles Mickey Sabbath’s descent, his plunge into derangement, his descent towards death and using his flailing hard-on as a kind of life raft, something to keep him going. The erotic has never seen so vital and so futile — to read the transcript of his conversations with a young female student is as heartbreaking as it is hilarious.
Michel Houellebecq, Platform
Houellebecq has a distinctive view on sex and the erotic. He disdains seduction, the tease, the slow build — to Houellebecq, this is all just so much bourgeois nonsense, defined as much by the idiotic logic of Christianity as it is by the logic of capital: seduction without payoff. Houellebecq’s sexual joy — a joy that is as rare as it is fleeting — is thoroughly generous and democratic. Everybody gives pleasure. For Houellebecq, a morning blowjob delivered without prodding and to completion is the pinnacle of not just the erotic but of human joy. Pleasure, to Houellebecq, is under siege as much from the religious as from the secular banality of it all. Things, alas, do no end well. But in Platform, he does give us a look at extended human and sexual happiness.
Nicholson Baker, The Fermata
This is an incredibly erotic, sexual book — explicit, detailed, and relentlessly so. But it is so generous, so light and beautiful and hilarious that it never comes across as profane. The premise is simple: a man discovers that he, sometimes, has the ability to stop time. At these junctures — in this fermata, this fold in time — he takes the opportunity to offer sundry pleasure to women — such as burying his homemade erotica in the sand where a woman finds it before he slips into her house ahead of her to watch her masturbate. And this is what brings him pleasure: a satisfied woman. This makes The Fermata a surprising book in that it is thoroughly male and yet thoroughly feminine, as well.
Vladimir Nabokov, Ada, or Ardor
Ada is the counterpoint to Lolita’s nymphet — where Lolita is dolorous, Ada is filled with ardor. And while Lolita may very well be the perfect book, Ada approaches the sublime — excessive, fecund, epic alliterative sentences wind tendrils up your thighs and whisper impossible things. Now, the book is not much about the erotic per se — although there are plenty of sexual escapades — as it is itself erotic. To read Ada is to consummate an exceedingly erotic encounter. There are times reading this, you may very well find yourself uncomfortably flushed and unsure as to quite why: such is the effect of Nabokov’s ridiculously delectable prose.
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