Well-written and at times insightful book into the modern sexual mindset of young adults. This British columnist ends up in New York City and traces his own sexual growth in welcoming all sorts of peculiarities and perversities. While it may shock some readers, the book actually fails to follow-through with enough details regarding his thirty encounters with women, men, threesomes and orgies. He was paid for doing all these things, acting as a naive innocent being exposed to a new world, but soon became a confident expert.
It's refreshing to read about an adult virginal novice learning to make out with girls by being forced into uncomfortable situations. The book takes the right approach for much of it, telling his personal story, but then as he becomes less interesting it falters by focusing too much on his New York City life, not giving specifics about what he did to produce a regular sex column. He lists in one paragraph these things but never explains what occurred during any of them: using cock rings, prostate massagers, tantra, attempting to induce female ejaculation, sex while on different drugs, threesome with a couple, working with a relationship coach, watching 24 hours of porn, a casual hookup with a stranger from Craigslist, wearing a chastity harness, being a nude photographer, giving lap dances, being a cock model, sex with a mannequin, being treated like an infant, working at a gay bar, and making out with men.
You have to ask, "Why no details?" It could be for legal reasons (his boss is a real monetizing freak who claims ownership over Stoddard's "persona" of fish-out-of-water sexpert). But one of Grant's columns (on getting a happy ending massage) is reprinted in the book. This should have been filled with details of his adventures, but beyond his first couple of times he doesn't mention much. Namely, there's not enough sex in this book about the life of an experimental sex columnist!
His preferences also seem questionable. He claims to be straight but he certainly does a lot of gay and bi activities without much complaining. The author also has a very cavalier attitude toward taking illegal drugs--he seems to consume them like candy and there is little thought here regarding any moral or physical ramifications of his choices.
The guy also is horribly in love with New York City and everything he details as being selling points for the place are the things that I detest about it. In the early 2000s the city was filled with people who championed sexual promiscuity as normal and the guy who didn't do it was the weird one. He writes, "My love (of NYC) informs my politics and worldview, my lifestyle and relationships." That's really too bad.
From his life there I realized how warped those residents are, that they fear loneliness by valuing constant noise and people and commotion (he said that in his first four years there he had never been truly alone for more than three hours), have no real conscience other than the fake liberal kind that professes tolerance while bemoaning anyone outside their inner group, and are nothing like a large portion of the rest of the county.
So while I enjoyed the book as far as it went, it didn't go far enough, and wasted the last couple of chapters on his attempt to get an MTV show produced while living in the mountains. He was let go from his column, the book ends, and we're left wondering what happened to this good writer whose life had been changed. He certainly was no longer working stiff.