FISH TALES

"'You're daring. Most people cannot even imagine life the way you live it.'"

So says ex-husband Woody to Lewis Jones, the "sexually free" woman who narrates these flat vignettes of unusual bedroom behavior in Detroit and N.Y. As a young woman in the Fifties, Lewis is apparently mistreated by men. So she then takes the advice of an older woman: "'Disconnect your brain from your pussy, girl.'" Lewis marries wealthy allergist Woody, who provides drugs and money for "orgyettes." Assorted threesomes and foursomes ensue—featuring bisexual transvestite "Kitty" (Lewis' soulmate), Vietnamese painter Ciarra, happy homemaker Prince (anal sex with a champagne bottle), and others. There's also a somewhat more intimate session with beautiful Flower, a 375-lb. lesbian whom Lewis lectures on liberation. ("'You think of yourself as a stud bitch?...A dyke? I haven't heard such old-timey words in years.'") Then, in this small book's second half, Lewis attempts to combine sex with love for the first time in years—committing herself "for life" to gorgeous quadriplegic writer Brook, paralyzed since an athletic accident at 18. But, though happy to procure sexual partners for Brook (and to service herself with "Oh Baby," her Japanese vibrator), Lewis is fatally possessive in her new nursing/loving role, refusing to accept Brook's attachment to other people. And the outcome is nasty violence—after which Lewis blames the whole rotten mess on permissive ex-hubby Woody. ("'You fuck!' I screamed out at him, spreading my legs farther. 'You gave me away. Remember that time you watched Kitty and Robb fuck me?...You never loved me.'") Fanciers of sexual psychopathology may find this blend of hedonism and victimized self-pity clinically intriguing.As fiction, however, aside from an occasionally amusing irony, Jones' fragmentary debut is mostly just dank and affect-less—with neither a firm fix on the empty central character nor enough style to conjure up a compelling erotic dream/nightmare.

As fiction, however, aside from an occasionally amusing irony, Jones' fragmentary debut is mostly just dank and affect-less—with neither a firm fix on the empty central character nor enough style to conjure up a compelling erotic dream/nightmare.