The Sexual Life of Catherine M. (Serpent's Tail Classics)

About once a year I like to read something in the erotica genre just so I can stay up on what is "trending" out there in the world and what people are talking about. I have enjoyed many books that describe lifestyles foreign to my own, such as "Carrie's Story" (S&M) and "The Surrender" (heterosexual sodomy). And so this book, for which I was given ample notice dealt with group sex and orgies, seemed like it would possibly be moderately interesting. I can imagine less appealing themes, and depending on who was in the group and the other attendant circumstances, I thought it might be a good salacious read.I regret to inform you that something does not work here. Maybe something was lost in the translation from "the French." I offer that as a possible explanation, but I don't really think that explains it.This book has a disturbingly complacent quality to it. There is no energy here at all--sexual or otherwise. Ms. Millet simply describes this never-ending series of group encounters that seem, to my mind, empty and vulgar. I can imagine her getting up after one of these episodes and just draining slime out all over the floor like an overflowing toilet (she actually describes it in similar terms). She is so passive and dispassionate about receiving the protruding member of countless men in her various orifices that she really has me convinced that there is something going on here that only someone with a real command of the DSM (5th Edition, now, I believe) could tackle. Psychosis? Maybe. More likely some type of dissociative state. Obviously the self-esteem of an automaton is a characteristic.Ms. Millet tries to explain the origins of her predilection, but it is all very fuzzy and peculiar, and truth be told it is not very interesting. Again, what you get here is ugly and not sexy. If you find anything sexy here you must be very easily aroused. I've seen salamanders rutting with greater poetic joyfulness. This is a dismal recitation of meaningless wear and tear on the genitals for everyone. As I read this I could practically smell the stench of sweat and unwashed bodies. (Again, she describes some episodes in these terms herself.)I did not find myself despising Ms. Millet. She is not pretentious, and she makes no claim that her story will titillate anyone. (She does presume that it is an interesting tale. In my instance, she was wrong.) She makes no claim as to her sexiness or beauty. There is a certain candor which she exhibits (reminding me that too much candor can be a very bad thing). There is simply a matter-of-fact recitation by her of meaningless, faceless, humorless, robotic, slimy, en masse copulation all over France (and several other countries and continents as well; she is a cosmopolitan libertine). I actually found myself wishing I could call out to Ms. Millet's younger self: "Please, stop this gruesome self-defilement. There is no reason for it. You are more than a mere receptacle." Stated in the most simple of male terms: This account was a boner-killer. My sex drive plummeted throughout the week it took me to read this painful and sad tale, and so did my appetite.I'm not easily offended or grossed-out. It takes a serious effort to accomplish that. The Story of O, the two books I mention in my first paragraph, and many others I've read did entertain me. There was a sense of adventure in those, there was excitement or intrigue. I particularly enjoyed the Memoirs of Casanova because his amorous affairs were part of an overall extremely sensuous life filled with a vast variety of intrigues. He loved women, and he loved making love to them. There was vivid sensuality in his accounts, and considerable humor. I also enjoyed de Sade's Justine. There were some atrocious references there, but they were fully acknowledged as aberrant curiosities. Both Casanova and de Sade were translated from French--the writing was sumptuous and the stories were captivating.But this "Sexual Life" does not seem sexual and it certainly is not much of a life. I'm not a prude and I'm not judging Ms. Millet morally--not at all. It is just that her story is lifeless and grim and unconvincing as a meaningful adventure in sexual exploration. At most, there is some shock value. I found it depressing and the ultimate in anti-sexual inspiration. Normally I mark my books up and then review the marks at the end to re-live the good moments. There were no marks here; the book went straight into the trash.

The Sexual Life of Catherine M., by Catherine Millet, deploys in its title the subterfuge of the Victorian sex novel, or perhaps a case history by Freud. But the book was written under her real name, informing us that rather than concealing her sexual life, she is really putting it on full display. And she certainly does so, without the least inhibition.This books contains a number of interesting contradictions and paradoxes. At times, it is simply pornography. Millet relishes titillating her readers, and admits she is excited herself by writing of her exploits. But at the same time as she skims the surface of sexual encounters, she also digs deep into the motivations and drives which brought her to a life of nearly pure, unquestioning sexual acceptance. She will do nearly anything, with anyone, at any time. She venerates this stance as a form of ultimate freedom, even as she often describes it as a kind of subjugation.Her kind of adoration of the flesh is akin to mysticism. Several times Millet explains how her encounters with the flesh of men help her leave her sense of being a fleshed-being. Yet there are dark sides. She tells us she was once beaten into a ditch by a jealous lover. She had an abortion. She contracted a sexually transmitted disease. She admits to not exploring her own pleasure in sex until she was at least thirty – when she had already had scores of sexual encounters. She explores this dark side of pure sexual freedom, but only lightly. For the most part, she has few qualm about her robust drives.This odd memoir is hard to categorize. Millet reveals much but also conceals a great deal; at the end, it is difficult to form lasting conclusions about this elusive book.

Catherine Millet has written a thoughtful memoir of her sexual activities with many people over an indeterminate amount of time.Predominately she is descriptive of her activities, her partners, and her thoughts and physical feelings. There are no dialogs or regrets, just a straightforward presentation. The book contains a lot of graphic description of sexual acts that may shock some readers. The author does go into quite a bit of abstract intellectual thought about meanings. This can either enhance or distract from the flow of the narrative.Unlike My Life And Loves by Frank Harris, this book is not a chronological journal. It is arranged into four chapters called Numbers, Space, Confined Space, and Details. In "Numbers" Millet talks about her fondness for many physical relationships. Although she has sexual friendships and lovers, most of her encounters are with anonymous partners. "Space" is a chapter devoted to her joy in making love outdoors. "Confined Space," on the other hand, describes her need to find privacy with her lovers in stairwells, alleys, storerooms, etc. The small intimate facts and observations on lovemaking are saved for the last chapter, "Details."What I find most interesting is how little else there is in the book to provide background or setting. Only a few locations and the first names of a few men are given. Never are dates provided which gives the work a timelessness like an erotic adult fairy tale.I found out through other sources that the author was born in 1948, and has been in a monogamous marriage for over ten years. Ineeded that much of a setting to make some sense of this work. With the current fear of AIDS and herpes, I found it difficult to imagine a person today engaging so freely in the activities described in this book, and began to think of it as an extremely well-detailed fantasy. However, when I realized that the setting for most of the material was probably the Sexual Revolution of the late 1960s and the 1970s, then I saw this book as the report of an adventurous explorer giving a meticulous account of that time and its unique morality as it worked itself out in her own life.

This is a compelling read of the most promiscuous of lives a woman could lead. Catherine has no sexual boundaries. She tries everything. Her objective is to make herself available to any man, even strangers, to experience everything. The extremes are disturbing, including insisting on anal sex on one occasion because at the time she had venereal disease. Pornographic, scatalogical, there's no limits. A meandering list of anecdotes rather than a cohesive tale. And no romance, affection or love.

Interesting

Please do not think this is solely a sex book. It is a serious story from a woman who gives thought about her sexual expression. You may not appreciate the thought, but I guarantee you will come away with a different opinion about sexual expression. Her artistic sensitivity aside, the thought pattern which allows (pushes ... forces ... obligates) her actions is fascinating in and of itself. If you wish to understand a little of your own personal libidinous motivations, well then, this book may be an excellent place to begin. However it will require you to ponder and ask and answer deep personal questions. Self knowledge is important and enjoyable.

My views on this book are a little mixed. Rather than it being an autobiography it seemed to be more of a catalogue of the author's exploits during her life in France. It is splendidly written but sometimes detail can be a little too grphic, however on the whole it is an enjoyable book.

A work of eroticism like no other. Sometimes disturbing. Sometimes funny. Often arousing. And definitely thought-provoking. A worthy read for anyone interested in sex and sexuality.