$14.95
ISBN 1573442224
available through
Amazon
Reviewed by William S. Dean
(12/28/05)
On his fascinating, personal blog, Kevin Keck tells how he once almost traveled to Wyoming to masturbate by request on the face of a wealthy young heiress. That's the sort of thing that peppers his book of essays entitled Oedipus Wrecked. If you've ever thought that sex and humor don't mix, you need to read this book. On the other hand, if you've always thought that sex and humor mix quite well, then you should read this book, so it's a win-win situation.
Diane Levinson, Publicity Director of Keck's publisher, Cleis Press, says, "If David Sedaris were straight (or Margaret Cho were a man) either could be Kevin Keck." In truth, Keck is more Odysseus than Oedipus. Sexual Everyman, Keck blithely and hilariously wends his way through an extraordinary gamut of fetishes, peccadilloes, contra-taboos, and encounters with the erotic side of Life, capital L.
For example, there's his little entr'acte of videotaping himself in his parents' house (they were asleep) masturbating, using Crisco as a handy lube. Or another time, when in the back of the family van, he secretly stroked himself to climax and shot all over his grandma's handbag. He faked a big sneeze; granny handed him a tissue. Nuff said, end of story.
You might, by now, get the impression Kevin Keck is a bit obsessed with his private parts. Well, who isn't these days? The difference is that Keck, like a raunchier (and far younger) Steve Martin or a really nasty Garrison Keillor laconically chronicles his adventures in sexual high jinks with tongue firmly in cheek and an open-hearted irony.
You have to admire Keck's candor, and, for a guy, his honesty. Consider...
The loss of my own virginity was simply that: a loss. On the brighter side, it was such an utter disappointment that every other sexual encounter I've had since then has seemed transcendental by comparison. It might not have been such an anticlimactic experience (and sadly, it did lack a climax) had I actually been the first choice of the lady I ended up -- very literally -- rolling in the hay with.
Keck is insightful, too (sexual experience will do that to you if you pay attention). His comments on phone sex cut right to the sensual chase.
The knowledge that there was a woman who was listening to me as I pleasured myself, and who was very likely doing the same thing, was the most delightful notion -- sometimes even more wonderful than sex itself. Sound is the most pleasurable of the senses for me, and the orgasmic orchestra that I helped conduct over the phone was a constant source of arousing and beautiful music. The sound of any random woman coming is the sound of a beautiful woman -- your ears are never as biased as your eyes. When I closed my eyes and listened to a woman evoke primal sounds from within the instrument of her body, I felt the strings of pleasure within my own body begin to vibrate, and my hand would keep tempo with my cock until the crescendo built to a rousing finale.
The book's title essay is assuredly the coup de grace, however. It's littered with guffaw-producing episodes that are so outrageous that they must be true and so fraught with Freudian overtones that the reader is left to ponder if even a therapist like the God of Jokes could keep a straight face listening to Keck's couch confessions.
Speaking of his dear mama, Keck writes:
When I was older, she passed by me one night as I went to the bathroom, and her hand lashed out for my crotch. I turned quickly, and she instead grabbed my pocket, feeling something hard inside.
"What do you have there? Is that my Vaseline? Are you going to whacky-whacky?" She punctuated this with the universal gesture for male masturbation, and stuck her tongue out to one side of her mouth.
I most likely told her to shut up, or something to that effect, because she suddenly began to treat me as though I had been caught stealing money from her.
"Show me what you have in your pocket. Give it to me now. You're not jerking off with my Vaseline. Give it!" I pleaded with her not to humiliate me, and after she had extracted enough remorse from me, she moved on. I went into the bathroom and removed her vibrator from my pocket; her Vaseline was already in there.
The world of American male heterosexual erotic experimentation and expression has long awaited its own Mark Twain, imbued with the directness of straight-forward journalism and graced with the earthy humor of the absurd. Kevin Keck is well on his way to earning his due accolade with Oedipus Wrecked. Write on, Kevin!
