Waving the magic wand

Press, 27 July 1985, Page 20

Waving the magic wand

Any Man Can. By W. Hartman and M. Fithian. Angus and Robertson, 1985. 177 pp. $14.95. (Reviewed by Ken Strongman) This is not a book for the ladies; it is for gentlemen, particularly those who feel inadequate in the face of multiple distaff orgasms. Should you be male and have your refractory period preying on your mind, then within the rather plain brown covers of “Any Man Can” you might find solace. Failing this, you might find a few ways of keeping busy while learning to multiply. Should you be female and just ordinarily prurient, a 10-minute browse might be amusing, but be careful not to snort too loudly in the bookshop. “The Solitary Player,” “All Together Now,” “Don’t be afraid to Masturbate,” “It takes Practice — and Exercise,” and “You Can Learn to Multiply Orgasms”: this sprinkling of chapter headings from “Any Man Can” gives a fair idea of the content and style of the book. It is a popularised account of some of the observations of two sex therapists who appear to have developed a money-spinning speciality. It is ill-written, repetitive, condescending, sexist, and has only a handful of line drawings rather than the graphic photographs which normally grace such books. The most disturbing aspect of the book is not simply that it is so poor as to be readable within 30 minutes of concentrated page-flipping, but because of the idea of mathematicalising sex. Its subtitle is “The revolutionary new multipleorgasmic technique for every loving man.” It is but a small step from multiple orgasms to fractional erections. It could be all-too-easy to become stuck with the lowest common multiple rather than the highest common factor. Of course, when it comes to secs and cosecs, the logarhythm method is best. Like many do-it-yourself sex

manuals, unless you happen to be insensitively ignorant, there is not much to be learnt from “Any Man Can.” One matter did stand out though; in America it is possible to buy portable or console-type masturbation machines. This is the stuff of schoolboy smutty jokes, evil little fantasies come true. What must the console type be like? Anyway, perhaps the final word should go to one of the book’s subheadings. “The Penis is a Magic Wand.” Hey Presto, indeed! Sold on the scent Scents. By Johanna Kingsley. Bantam/ Corgi, 1985. 440 pp. $7.95 (paperback). In happier days, before glue sniffing became fashionable, little bands of illuminati indulged a more genteel hobby — sniffing the bindings of books to enjoy the aromas from paper, ink, and glue combined. Now, a publisher has made the connection; books can be sold on smell. Here is a scented paperback that is also described modestly as “stunning, glamorous, suductive, exciting, unforgettable.” Take Armand Jolaunay, a genius at creating fragrances in his Parisian salon. Add Viveanne and Martine, competing for love, for power, for wealth. “One an ice goddess, the other dark and sensual.” Keep their gymnastics going for 400 pages. Impregnate the paper of the book with a lingering scent. If smell alone can sell books, why worry about the words?

However, “Scents” did fail to pass the pussy test. Waved under the nose of the reviewer’s cat, it sent the poor critter three feet into the air with a hiss and a snarl. Something must be wrong in the Parisian perfume salon. Back to the testtubes, Armand. — Literary Editor.