The Fine Line Between Erotica and Smut

While I was away on my recent jaunt to England (more on which anon), I brought with me a pile of virtual books, including a short novel, Clockworks and Corsets, by Regina Riley.

The book revolves around Rose Madigan and her all-female crew of the airship, the Merry Widow. With a plot that takes the crew to a tropical island in search of a mad scientist's laboratory, and a scheming bordello owner hoping to acquire a weapon to take over the United States, the book seemed promising enough. But then...

Chapter 1 introduces us to Rose and her "cabin boy," Click, traveling aboard the ship, apparently for the purpose of servicing most of the crew. For page after page, the hapless reader is treated to prose such as

She groaned as he continued to knead her breasts, worrying her stiff nipples. His rigid member pressed hard against the small of her back, poking, prodding, begging Rose for admission to her vessel.

Good grief! But on we go, with more rigidity, poking, sodden lady parts, and, indeed, a great deal of admission to said vessel.

While the tale is entertaining enough, once we strip away the extraneous boudoir scenes - including an outdoor romp that is interrupted by one of the crew - one gets the impression that discipline on the Merry Widow is unknown, and that women are interested only in having a hunky man service them. Seems like an unfortunate message.

Lest anyone think that my reading list was merely a stack of (virtual) smut, I also read Winter Journal, by Paul Auster. Though, come to think of it, Auster seemed to spend a lot of time talking about his loves and lusts. Ah well, it's the human condition, right?