The Book of Orgasms

by Nin Andrews

Poetry. A series of wry meditations on the relationship between the ordinary and the extraordinary, the human and the divine, everyday experience and the limits of bliss, THE BOOK OF ORGASMS maps the imaginary terrain of the upper realm, the place where euphoria endures. In Nin Andrews's highly original conception, orgasms represent peak moments that take the form of invisible creatures waiting to lift us up into the air, out of the ordinary and into a place just above our heads, just beyond our fingertips. And yet—curse or blessing—the gravity of our own desire, the weight of out humanness continually pulls us back from the splendid lightness of euphoria.

Genres: Poetry

80 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1994

Reviews

[Glenn Russell]

American author Nin Andrews

I first encountered the prose poems of Nin Andrews back in the 1990s, a time when I was a dedicated reader of experimental fiction.

What's so nifty about experimental fiction is its ability to speak for itself. Writers like Stephen Dixon, Greg Boyd, Judy Katz-Levine and Thomas Wiloch express their literary vision in such a unique way, commentary counts for next to nothing - you have to read their actual work. So, in the spirit of allowing Nin Andrews to speak for herself, I'll simply include a quartet of prose poems from The Book of Orgasms. Go get'em, Nin!

HOW TO FARM AN ORGASM
The male orgasm is easy to grow. A root vegetable like a potato, it can be covered with almost anything. Even a little straw will do fine. Keep it in a dark place, and it grows, becomes large and hard, a stately presence, a wonderful addition to any country garden. Even when you ignore it, the thing ripens of its own accord. Then, whenever you're in the mood, simply uncover and cook the little sucker. Enjoy with butter, sour cream and whatever else you desire.

A female orgasm is no vegetable. No, she's a strange and timid animal. She doesn't allow herself to be tamed, so you must coax her with soft sounds and caresses, flowers and wine. Here characteristic reluctance and timidity should never discourage a young farmer. Once she lets herself go, she'll be well worth your time and effort.

THE SOUL OF THE ORGASM
A man wants to tame his orgasm. But orgasms do not belong to man. Man belongs to orgasms. The man closes his eyes and sees them and thinks, no, these must be someone else's orgasms, for they are gathered at mass, an entire congregation of orgasms, singing and cheering then crowding toward an alter. He sees at the head of the church a group of uniformed orgasms, giving out blessings. After the usual bread and wine reception, he notices one significant orgasm sitting alone, breathing deeply. It will be harder to avoid it now, he thinks anxiously, the sweet soaking his shirt. He wonders what to do with such a blond, red-lipped orgasm when it comes, but the orgasm is already looking at him sadly, almost helplessly, as it captures the man's soul and refuses to let it go.



THE TRUTH ABOUT ORGASMS
Long ago the orgasm was a creature who could see. She swam in the ocean like a fish and flew in the open sky like a bird. Still deep within the collective memory of the human race there remains the image of a creature, a winged woman with great radiance, ethereal beauty and wings.

Sometimes an orgasm was so stunning, the gods became jealous and had her slain with a thunderbolt.

Once a man captured the orgasm, making her his slave. He kept her in a gold cage, fed her ripe fruit and wine. But the orgasm would not eat or drink. Instead she pinned away, moaning and sighing to herself, until nothing was left but her voice. Ever since then, she has been invisible and fleeting, slipping through the eager hands of lovers.

The orgasm is still angry at the men who try to seize her. She heaps revenge upon men or women, visiting them in their sleep and sweeping their minds clean of reason with a single puff of her warm breath.

Sometimes a man and a woman believe they have fallen fatally in love with one another. In fact it is the orgasm they have fallen in love with. One orgasm is never like another. The lethal orgasm can never be duplicated but it leaves a wound in the heart and soul which can never be healed.

A person must believe in orgasms. If she lacks faith, the orgasm wanes. Nothing can be done about it.

Every orgasm involves three women. One who weaves the moment, one who tries it on, and one who casts you off like an ugly gown.

Some orgasms take pity on the most timid human beings and let them bail out early. Sadness like a parachute opens overhead and carries them away.

Men and women still fear the great flood and tell stories of Noah and his ark. In fact, the flood is a story of great psychological truth. We fear not rain but orgasms. If men and women allow themselves, they will be deluged by orgasms. They will give birth to a race of giants.



THE WOMAN AND THE ORGASM
This is the story of an orgasm who made the mistake of falling in love with a woman. It is your story. It is a cautionary tale, a warning women should wear on their bodies for orgasm like you, romantic orgasms that dream of lasting forever.

You told the woman a story about an apple tree that fell in love with a woman. Whenever she walked by it, her arms were caressed by petals. You told her about a car that was started with a single kiss from her crimson lips. You told her about houses that flung open their doors and let loose herds of nude men whenever the woman walked past.

Nights you called her name, smiled with your dark mouth, and told stories about her, only her. She was a secret message only you could decipher. You beat your wings against her naked skin like a bird against glass. You couldn't help yourself.

One evening the woman spoke with you, only you, and with every word, you fell more in love with her until you were speechless with desire, until you couldn't tear yourself from her pungent flesh.

Afterwards you walked aimlessly down sidewalks and into shops, gasping for air, gaping at strangers. You were in a state of constant excitement. You forgot about your friends and work. You forgot about the weather, meals, the time of day and night. You forgot everything but the woman. Then one day the woman abandoned you. Suddenly. Without warning.

No on else knew the taste of her skin, the sound of her heart and the strange sadness that you drowned in, sinking like a stone. You visited therapists who analyzed your melancholia, and you stayed awake at night, worrying and listening for her.

You always heard her. The sounds of sock feet in the hallways were her footsteps. The soft meow of city nights was her voice, calling your name, but you never answered. You couldn't.

She had reduced you to a memory, a very elegy of an orgasm.

One night the woman returned. The woman begged you to forgive her. And you lifted her up like a shadow. Again and again.

You told her a story about an apple tree that fell in love with a woman. Whenever she walked by it, her arms were caressed by petals.

[Robert Beveridge · Rating 4 out of 5]

Nin Andrews, The Book of Orgasms (Cleveland State University, 2000)

I do not know Nin Andrews. I have never even seen a picture of Nin Andrews. But I can tell you that Nin Andrews is one seriously sexy person. I mean, you'd have to be to write The Book of Orgasms, right?

The best thing about The Book of Orgasms is that these short prose pieces (some not as obsessive as I about such things would call them “prose poems”, a term I don't believe in) do something that I see very rarely, and wish I would see all the time: instead of using anything and everything as a metaphor for sex, Andrews turns the prevailing wisdom on its head and uses sex (well, specifically, orgasm) as a metaphor for anything and everything else. Given that aspect alone, there are hundreds, no thousands, of authors who should pick this up. They could learn a thing or two. Or more. I mean, if you think about it, sex is such a great metaphor for so many possible things. We spend all our lives trying to find other things stand for sex. What does sex stand for? The possibilities are endless, and Andrews, with characteristic (well, I've only read one other Andrews book, but I will be rectifying that very soon) wit and reflection, explores a few handfuls of those possibilities here. Including the thing itself, which actually comes as a surprise when it happens. I know that sounds crazy, but trust me on this.

The worst thing about The Book of Orgasms is... well, okay, there is no worst thing. This is good stuff, front to back, first word to last. You'll love it. And if you don't, I'll refund the amount you paid for this review.

(Okay, there is one bad thing. The chance of Amazon letting this review through without me having to cut words out is pretty much zero...) ****

[Ann · Rating 4 out of 5]

Nin Andrews needs a copy editor. She repeats and not in a poetic way. She uses “it’s” for “its”. She’s messy. The conceit is that she describes various orgasms from the orgasms’ perspective; the poems are not consistently on. They are not always great. In short, they are very much like orgasms.

For when they are on, Wow! Appropriately, her first is one of her funniest, in which she introduces a few varieties of orgasms. “Ministers and somber folk talk about the elegiac orgasms, which are mostly enjoyed by the dead, while celebrities and exhibitionists are included towards the performance orgasm, a style enacted before audiences.”

Hers are poems begging to be quoted and emailed to one’s two-hundred most intimate friends. Like “The Divine Orgasm”: “Even my cotton panties can hardly breathe.” Or “The Orgasms Farm,” a title that can suffice alone to raise a smile whenever remembered. The interview with an orgasm is another, which ends “Fear is the mother of safety, but death is the mother of beauty,” whatever that means. All in all, I highly recommend this book to anyone and everyone who finds sex funny. And like when diving into sex, first lose the red pencil.

[Michael Brockley · Rating 5 out of 5]

Nin Andrews explores and expands the potentials of poetry in THE BOOK OF ORGASMS. Using language as if the very act if crafting these poems was orgasmic, Andrews provides a volume that is lush with imagination. The assorted photographs that accompany this singular volume of prose poems could be ekphrastic prompts for aspiring poets and the glossary at the end of the book enchants and challenges. THE BOOK OF ORGASMS is humorous and meditative, a necessary addition to the well-read poet's library.

[Jenni · Rating 4 out of 5]

See, this is one of those books that I wasn't too impressed with the first time through. But then I grab it off the shelf today, read it again and love it. Just goes to show how wrong I am at times!

[Jan Moens · Rating 5 out of 5]

8,5/10

[Amy]

Fantastic.