Review of Satanskin by Havoc
We’ve all heard of some authors
being described as “a writer’s writer.” James Havoc, a pen name, deserves some
type of title like “an erotic’s erotic” or “a sadist’s sadist” or, perhaps less
eloquently, an “erotic writer’s erotic writer.” The twenty-one short stories
found within Satanskin are brimming with vampiric, cum-filled, literary,
child-brain-rape insanity. Don’t feel perturbed if you have to grab your OED
more than once.
I would like to party with Mr.
Havoc. Though, like me, he’s probably pretty boring in real life. I heard through the grapevine that he moved to Bangkok, Thailand. There is a BDSM scene there.
What wonderfully colorful prose
this stud writer can compose though! I’ve never read anything that is so
sexually vivid. Let me quote some of this tasty smut. From my favorite
chapter/story on Devil’s Gold:
“In dreams, Gillespie wanders
sodden, hermaphrodite corridors, halls that resonate with the melancholy of
outcast animal kings. He conjures forth and preens an eight mouthed ululating
penis, unleashes tulpas from
the folds of his scrotum, drag cold reluctant somatic formations from occult
slits. Cephalopods. He caresses his breasts on a throne of bones, while eunuchs
swing in the void.”
Do you enjoy whisky?
This is how best to consume Havoc’s
prose. Allow yourself only to open this terrible terrible book later in the
evening, not after midnight, but sometime before. Turn off all the lights
except one, something shaded and halogen; avoid the candles cuz those are kitsch
as hell. Have a bottle of single-malt Scotch whisky (should be $100 over or
not worth it) on the table next to you. Savor your first drink for some minutes
and then pour a second. Open Havoc’s bestial monograph to a start of a new chapter.
Now enjoy. If you need music salting the air sweetly behind you, consider something
on vinyl and of the chamber, the more piano the better. Your hand will soon be
reaching toward your flowery vagina: Drip, drip, drip, after awkwardly yummy drip. Restrain yourself to only one chapter an evening.
And, indeed, this is the point—the
orgasmic tip of it all. I do classify this as a piece of erotica. Why? Because
anything that makes me wish to rub my clit is erotic, if not erotica, for me.
Not unlike the great de Sade, Havoc will having you thinking and rethinking the
ethics of your enjoyment of such tales. But of course this is what makes it all
so riveting. The cerebral must be violated in the same way as all the usual orifices for a true libertine aficionado.
Yes, read Havoc's Satanskin. Come home to me Mr. Havoc. I have a
bed waiting for you in Kansas!
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