I’m going to preface these comments with a disclaimer. I really didn’t like this book. I also very much believe that one’s taste in writing is so totally a matter of personal preference that you shouldn’t adopt another person’s opinion as your own without giving it a read yourself.

In other words, please take the following with a grain of salt. Just because it wasn’t my cup of tea doesn’t mean this book isn’t for you. Like sex, it all comes down to what you’re into, what you’re looking for, and what you expect.

And now on to the review.

More often than not, the stories in She’s On Top read like bad detective fiction. Here’s an example:

“I came to this profession the same way an undertaker or a farmer comes to theirs: I was born to it. No, my mother wasn’t a dominatrix. She was headmistress at an exclusive boarding school for girls, nestled in a small town in the hills of Vermont. I learned the look – the one that can make a man tremble or come in his pants – from my mother. I learned the walk –back rigid, eyes straight ahead – from her, as well. At my mother’s knee I learned that discipline demands a price, and that price is pain.”

“discipline demands a price, and that price is pain.” WTF?

Let’s compare this little gem to an excerpt from one of Mickey Spillane’s Mike Hammer novels:

“Pat motioned me over to him and pointed to the bedroom. "In there, Mike," he said.

“In there. The words hit me hard. In there was my best friend lying on the floor dead. The body. Now I could call it that. Yesterday it was Jack Williams, the guy that shared the same mud bed with me through two years of warfare in the stinking slime of the jungle. Jack, the guy who said he'd give his right arm for a friend and did when he stopped a bastard of a Jap from slitting me.”

Do you see a difference? I don’t either. The lesson I’m taking away from that is erotica that reads like bad private eye fiction is bad, bad, bad erotica.

The writing in this anthology seems to presume that readers are either retarded or have absolutely no capacity for imagination and, therefore, spells out every single stupid detail. The rest of the book continues on in this trite tone.

There’s this:

“Cut the concerned authority figure crap, Steve. You want it as much as I do, so why don’t we just go ahead and fuck right here?”

And this:

“I should have spent some time planning a harsh regimen for Saturday morning, something that would exhaust him by the end of the day, something that would sate his endless need, but instead I rolled over and pressed my cheeks against his chest.”

And my personal favorite:

“Yes, Mummy loves you. Why else would I allow you to watch me dress? Oh yes, all those years ago I knew you were eyeing my naked body as I slipped into my lingerie. Of course Mummy loves you, but she must also punish you.”

Stereotypes. There are lots and lots of stereotypes.

All of the stories aren’t awful. Some aren’t as bad as others. Others are actually good. On the whole, however, this anthology is weighed down by the bad writing more than it is uplifted by the good.

The one thing that redeems this book is that some of the stories are so over-the-top bad, they’re redeemed by their sheer awfulness and become good. Good in a campy sort of way. Good in the way that the Spice Girls are good.

This book would be appropriate for a joke gift to someone who blushes easily and would never read it with the intention of turning themselves or their partner on. For those who take their erotica seriously, however, it would be a better idea to look elsewhere.