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Never the Face: A Story of Desire, by Ariel Sands
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In an age where every sexual frontier seems to have been breached, it’s hard to believe there could still be unexplored corners, dark desires that few people dare make real. In the tradition of Josephine Hart’s masterpiece, Damage, Never the Face uses riveting storytelling to tackle a complex and provocative relationship – where the most exquisite passions are also the most dangerous…
The heroine of Never the Face is searching. Dissatisfied with love, bored with sex; in her experience, all lovers are predictably dull – and she longs for more, for an intensity she knows exists and has yet to discover. Just after her thirty-third birthday, she runs into David, an old flame who’s now married. David invites her to dinner. Then he says, “I spent the weekend choosing a stick to beat you with.”
With these words, unable to resist the allure of sexual submission, she falls into an abyss of violent intimacy and excruciating pleasure. But as their brutal bond begins to unravel, carrying them together into an unfathomable territory of increasing violence and sexual extremes, she begins to discover the full, destructive power of obsessive love – and gradually spins out of control.
Written in spare, savage prose, Never the Face shocks us into realizing there are people we know, friends perhaps, who are on dark, erotic journeys they dare not confess to. And they might just live next door.
- Sales Rank: #2267810 in Books
- Published on: 2011-04-12
- Released on: 2011-04-12
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 8.30" h x .91" w x 5.86" l, .68 pounds
- Binding: Hardcover
- 208 pages
Review
“Lascivious, intense, and keenly probing the human impulse toward submissive desire, this first novel is as intelligent as it is arousing.” – Booklist
“Never the Face is a story in the tradition of 9 1/2 WEEKS – about the twisted corkscrews of desire, the hearkening after the call of brute submission and dominance that is the dark side of romantic attachment. Rarely has this skewed version of love been portrayed with the clarity and daring that Ariel Sands brings to it; her rendition makes for compulsive and disturbing reading.” – Daphne Merkin, author of Dreaming of Hitler and Enchanted
“In spare, literate prose, Sands (a pseudonym for a best-selling author) has written a novel that is both shocking and compelling in its psychological violence and graphic sexuality. Its similarity to Pauline Réage's Story of O is unmistakable, and it is likely to appeal to fans of that erotic classic as well as similar works like Anne Rice's "Sleeping Beauty" trilogy and the "Marketplace" novels by Laura Antoniou.” – Library Journal
"A book like a dream: shy, intense, full of desire. An erotic journey into a space where all arousal comes through the whip, the belt, the cane, where all tenderness comes through savage submission. Subtle and brutally true, this book is a confession of love.” – Niklaus Largier,
"A book like a dream: shy, intense, full of desire. An erotic journey into a space where all arousal comes through the whip, the belt, the cane, where all tenderness comes through savage submission. Subtle and brutally true, this book is a confession of love.” – Niklaus Largier, professor at University of California, Berkeley and author of In Praise of the Whip: A Cultural History of Arousal
About the Author
ARIEL SANDS is a pseudonym for a bestselling author.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
TEN
I ROLLED over and looked at the clock. Four A.M.
How strange. Usually, when I’ve been lying awake for hours, I get angry and restless. My feet kick at the covers. And I twitch from one position to another.
But not tonight.
Tonight, I’m in a state of—well, it’s hard to describe. A kind of transcendent calm. Dazed. Still. Relaxed.
And full of wonder.
After a while—perhaps fifteen minutes, perhaps an hour—I stretched, switched on the light, and got out of bed. Chilly. I took the few steps to the end of the room and pulled back the long, pale curtain that hid a tiny cubicle containing a toilet, a sink, and above the sink, a small mirror. The mirror was what I wanted. I shut the lid of the toilet, climbed onto it, pulled down my pajamas, and craned my head to look.
Jesus. Worse than I thought. My buttocks, and the backs of my thighs, were covered in weals. Fat weals. They were already starting to bruise. I ran a finger over one of them. It hurt, a throbbing, twinging echo of the blow that had caused it. I shivered. But not from cold. Was it excitement? Fear? Excitement.
I slid back under the blankets and curled into the warmth. I lay, hovering between sleep and wakefulness, and watched the light start to seep through the slats of the blinds. All of a sudden, I laughed aloud. He’s way ahead of you, observed a small voice in my head. You don’t often meet a man who makes you feel like an ingénue.
Again, I heard his voice on the telephone.
“So we’re all set for dinner on Thursday,” he was saying. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“Great,” I said. “I’m looking forward to it.”
Then he said, “I’m going to make you bark like a dog.”
I giggled. He was always saying things like that. He never meant it.
His voice became hard, full of threat. “I spent the weekend choosing a stick to beat you with,” he said.
My heart skipped and thudded.
“Don’t be ridiculous, David,” I said.
“I’m going to take you to the Gates of Hell and beat you there,” he went on.
What is he talking about?
There was an edge to his voice I hadn’t heard before. I discovered I was chewing my lower lip.
“What makes you think I’d let you do that?” I said.
“Because I’m an old friend, you trust me, and you know I’ll be very rough with you,” he said.
Old friend, yes. Trust, yes. Rough? What does that mean?
You know what that means.
A shiver of lust rippled through me.
He can’t be serious. He just got married.
Pity.
The flash of disappointment was as raw as it had been six months earlier, when he’d said to me, across a plate of eggs in a crowded café, “Maria and I got married last weekend.” I must have looked stricken, because he added, “It was a small ceremony—just family.”
I’d smiled, and said, “Congratulations! That’s fabulous! I hope you’ll be so happy.” But part of me was shouting, No! We’d have been so good together!
I heard myself saying into the telephone, “But David. What about Maria?”
“She knows about it, and she’s okay with it,” he said.
What?
For the next two days, my mind argued with itself.
He’s teasing. No, he isn’t. He’s always made threats, but they’ve always been empty. This is different. Why? Because this time he means it. This time he’s not teasing.
Again and again I heard the menace in his voice as he said, “I spent the weekend choosing a stick to beat you with.… I’m going to take you to the Gates of Hell”—What?—“and beat you there.” Each time, my mind went round the same circle. He’s bluffing. No. He’s not.
Or is he?
I thought of the postcards he’d sent from time to time. “How’s my naughty sex kitten? Any good spankings recently?” one had said. “Lashings of love—like switch marks after they’ve cooled down and you can stare proudly at them in the mirror,” said another.
It’s all just talk. He’s never done anything. Never even tried.
I’m telling you, this time it’s different.
It can’t be. He just got married.
But if she knows—
I shuddered.
Oh come on, he’s teasing. No, he isn’t.
And I thought of the dreams I had had about him. The details were different, but the plot was always the same. I was helpless, legs open, waiting. For him. He would come near. My body would begin to tremble with a degree of arousal I had never felt when awake. He would move toward me—about to hit me? About to kiss me?
I never found out. In that moment, I always woke up.
I had never had such dreams about anyone else.
But a dream was one thing. Did I want the reality? Assuming that it was real?
Finally, on Thursday morning, I picked up the telephone. I put it down. Go on. I picked it up again, and this time dialed his number. I licked my lips.
Four rings.
A voice. “You’ve reached David’s phone. Please leave a message.” Beep.
“Hi, David, it’s me. I’m afraid something’s come up and I won’t be able to make dinner tonight. Sorry about this; I’ll give you a call later. Bye,” I said.
Excellent.
And for the first time in two days, I found I could concentrate on work.
I was in my office, reading dispatches from the Italian trenches, when the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Come and have dinner with an old friend, and stop your silly freaking out,” he said. His voice was warm and reassuring, as if I’d imagined the previous conversation. “I’ll pick you up from your office at seven. Look pretty for me.”
Before I could argue, he’d hung up. I looked down and saw I’d scratched the cuticle around my thumbnail so deeply that it was bleeding.
At seven o’clock sharp, he knocked on the door.
“Hi, David, come in, sorry, I’m not quite ready.”
“Take your time,” he said, giving me a hug. “Nice office.”
“Yes, it’s great,” I said. I pointed at the darkness beyond the window. “You can’t see much now, but during the day it has a wonderful view of the hills. How are you?”
“Good,” he said, looking out of the window. “Busy. Flying to Japan tomorrow for a business trip. Be away a few days.”
I went over to the desk. What did I need? Not much. I picked up a couple of books and put them in my bag. As I did so, I became aware that he was staring at me. A tremor ran through me, and I heard myself talking wildly and irrelevantly about a recent vacation I’d been on. An amused smile flickered on his face, but he said nothing.
We walked together to his car, and got in. I glanced around. The backseat was deep in papers, books, socks, and T-shirts. A Styrofoam box of congealed food lay half open under a tennis racquet.
He saw me looking. “Nothing changes,” he said. We both laughed.
“I’ve booked a restaurant you’ll like,” he said, putting the keys into the ignition. He started the engine, and pulled into the road. “But we have to make a stop first.”
“Where are we going?” I said.
“You’ll see.”
He drove along a series of small streets, then parked. “Here we are. Get out.”
We were in front of an art museum. He opened the trunk of the car, and took out a stick.
“Put this between your teeth. Carry the stick I’m going to beat you with.”
“No! David!”
He shrugged, stuck the stick into his belt, grabbed my arm, twisted it behind my back, and propelled me across the street.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I said, struggling.
“Quit it. You’re going to get me arrested,” he said, his mouth against my ear.
“Good. Damn it, David, let me go.” He didn’t. I couldn’t break free.
We crunched across gravel. We were in the museum’s sculpture garden. Up a few steps, and onto a plinth. His grip relaxed. I twisted away, saw a stone bench, and sat on it. And found myself looking at a huge bronze sculpture of writhing figures, their mouths open in infinite screams. For a moment, I didn’t recognize it.
Then I realized. It’s the Gates of Hell.
If I hadn’t been so on edge, I would have laughed.
David sat down beside me.
I turned to glare at him. “David—” But I got no further. As I started to speak, he put a piece of chocolate into my mouth. A small piece of expensive dark chocolate. It melted on my tongue, thick and bittersweet. I sat in sudden silence, just tasting.
The evening was cool, but clear; a light breeze was making the leaves of the palm trees rustle. A door in the side of the museum opened. Some people came out. I hoped they would loiter, but they all walked toward the row of parked cars and, one by one, drove away. Nobody disturbed us.
He broke off a piece of chocolate for himself and got to his feet.
“Stand up.”
“No.”
“Come on, stand up. We’ll leave the stick here.”
He put the stick on the bench. I glanced at it. About two feet long, it was pale, thin, and slightly bent. It looked light. It looked like a toy.
So he was bluffing.
I stood up. He reached out, put his hand in my hair, and twisted. I yelped, and tried to pull away. I couldn’t. His knuckles dug into the back of my head, drawing my hair tight against my scalp. I waved my arms; he wrenched my head back so they flailed the air. He forced my face upward, and kissed me, savagely, roughly. With his free hand, he reached down into my sweater, into my bra, and touched my breasts. Not softly, the way most men will, but with a casual brutality, as if he didn’t care whether I liked it or not. Squeezing, pulling, pinching. I squirmed and began to cry out; he clapped his hand over my mouth and nose, his fingers digging into my cheeks. I couldn’t breathe. I started to panic.
He let go. I staggered, gasping.
“Let’s go to dinner,” he said. “You look like you need a drink.”
He picked up the stick, and led the way to the car. Too startled to object, I followed.
He started driving.
“Spread your legs,” he said.
“No.”
He let go of the steering wheel, reached across, took one knee in each hand, and wrenched them apart.
“In my car, that’s how you sit. It’s okay: you’re new to this.”
He ran his right hand lightly along the inside of my thigh; despite myself, I felt my body give a responsive shudder. Then, wham. He smacked me hard, the flat of his palm against my thigh. I jumped. My thigh smarted.
“What do you say?”
“Ow! What did you do that for?”
He laughed. “Fair enough. But next time I hit you, you say ‘thank you.’”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said.
He cocked an eyebrow. “You’ll learn.”
The museum was a short drive from the downtown strip. David parked at a meter on the side of the street. We were underneath a street lamp; a pool of light fell on my lap as though it was a stage being lit for a play. I bit my lip and glanced at the sidewalk. I hope no one walks past.
He turned to me. I thought he was going to kiss me. Instead, he lunged at me, sending his left arm between my open thighs toward my crotch as if he was going to punch me. I leapt backward, flinging myself up the seat.
He didn’t touch me. Yet as he reached toward me, a surge of pleasure flooded my groin. The sensation was so powerful that I had to fight to suppress a moan. No one has made you feel pleasure like that before. And he did it without even touching you. I stared at him.
He smirked. “Let’s get you that drink,” he said.
The restaurant was around the corner. It was a convivial, busy place with chunky tables of dark wood, dim lighting, and an open kitchen. As we sat down, David said, “I’ll get you a drink you’ll like,” and ordered two mojitos, one for me, and one for himself.
A what? I’m sure I’d prefer a glass of white wine.
I was wrong. I liked the cold, tropical tang of the mojito.
But—what on earth was going on?
I glanced at him as he studied the menu. He appeared absorbed in it, and gave no sign that the evening was at all peculiar. As he turned the page, his wedding ring glinted. It was broad, hammered gold.
“Seriously, David, what about Maria?” I blurted out.
“I told you: she knows about it, and she’s okay with it,” he said, looking up.
I stared at him. Maybe I’d gotten him—them—completely wrong. Maybe they did this every other week.
“Do you do this often?” I said.
“Never in ten years.”
“Why me? Why now?”
He shrugged.
“I told Maria you were worried about her.”
“What did she say?”
He mimicked a snide woman’s voice, “‘Why does she care?’”
“But David, of course I care, you’re one of my oldest friends. If—” My voice cracked and I didn’t finish the sentence. If.
He nodded, but said nothing. I picked up the mojito and took another sip. He watched me. His face was inscrutable.
The waiter came over. “What can I get you?” he said.
I opened my mouth to answer. But before I could say anything, David said, “My friend will start with asparagus, followed by the quail. I’ll have—” but I didn’t hear the rest of the sentence. Hey! He just decided what you’re going to eat. He just—told the waiter. How dare he? I glared at him. Now he was saying, “and bring us a bottle of—” The waiter nodded and went off.
“David—” I said, preparing to object.
He wasn’t listening. “The food here is great. You’ll love it,” he said. As he spoke, I realized something else. He chose for you what you were about to order anyway. You lived with Sam for three years, but he could never have chosen food for you. I glanced at David again. How did he know what you’d want?
He smiled, and I had the sudden impression he knew what I was thinking. I felt transparent, as though my skull were glass and he could see the thoughts traveling around my brain. I shivered.
But then he launched into a story about some consulting he’d been doing for a shipping company in Korea—“so we went to this wild karaoke bar, I can’t sing, but I had to”—and the evening began to feel more normal.
“What did you sing?”
“‘Puff, the Magic Dragon.’”
“‘Puff, the Magic Dragon’? No. Seriously?”
I had a vision of David on stage, crooning into a microphone, surrounded by Korean businessmen, their ties loose, their faces flushed.
He shrugged. “I had to sing something. It’s easier than most songs. And it has a story. It has—”
“A beginning, a middle, and an end,” I said. I knew what he liked.
He looked at me and smiled. “Yes. Not like that play we went to in London—three men in a pub telling ghost stories. That had no structure.”
He took a piece of bread and reached for the butter. “Speaking of London,” he said, “time to eat like the English.” He cut a chunk of butter and put it on his plate. Then, instead of buttering the whole piece of bread, he made a great show of spreading a tiny piece of butter onto one corner and then taking a bite, repeating this over and over again until the bread was gone.
We both laughed. I remembered my effete English friend Philip Poppleton claiming that a German spy had been caught during the war because he didn’t know that the way an English gentleman eats toast and marmalade was to do exactly what David had just done: to prepare each bite one at a time, not smear the whole slice and then eat it. I’d told David that story—when? The first time he visited you in London. Yes. How he’d hooted: “That. Is. Hilarious.”
“That still cracks me up,” he said, as the waiter came over to pour the wine. “Cheers,” said David, raising his glass. “And congratulations on your fellowship.”
“Oh, thanks,” I said. “Cheers. Mmm. It’s delicious.” The wine was superb.
“So tell me about this new gig—how does it work?” said David.
“Well, basically, it’s three years to do what I want, where I want,” I said. “No teaching, just research. The pay isn’t great, but it’s enough.”
“It’s fucking prestigious, though,” he said. “I read about it.”
“Oh—” I said, staring at the table.
“You don’t have to play modest with me,” he said. “You’re first class; you deserve it.” I fidgeted. He laughed. “You still need to learn to take compliments, though. But now you’re the queen of your own time, what are you going to do with it?”
“The fellowship starts in June. Before that, I’ve got another two weeks in the archives here, then I go back to London. I’ll be there until the end of May.” I paused.
“And then?”
“Then I move to Italy.”
“Rough life being you,” he said. “What’s in Italy?”
“I’ve organized a position at—” and I named an institute. “It’s in the north, in a small town near Milan. It’s a great place—they provide an apartment, and an office if I want it. I’ll mostly be working in the archives; but I also have to improve my Italian, so for the first few months I’ll be taking Italian classes.” I took a sip of wine. “At the moment, most of the Italian I know is from operas, so I can say ‘Repent!’ and make long speeches about infidelity. Which doesn’t help me much with propaganda in the First World War.”
He laughed.
“It’s a little scary,” I said. “My friend Gio lives in Rome, but that’s miles away, and apart from him I don’t know anyone in Italy.”
“You’ll make friends,” he said. “You always do. It’s one of your gifts.” He thought for a moment, then added, “Gio—is he that gay guy you knew in grad school? The one you said used to wear purple shoes?”
“Yes, that’s right; we shared an apartment for a few months. He’s a sweetheart.” I thought of Gio, hair disheveled, purple shoes unlaced, discussing boyfriend trouble, the secret of good risotto, and the joys of listening to jazz while in the bath.
“How are you folks doing?” said the waiter, clearing the plates from the first course. “Everything okay here?”
“Great, thanks,” said David.
As the waiter left, I said, “There’s something I wanted to ask you.”
“Go ahead.”
“I’ve managed to save up a little money, but I don’t know what to do with it. My cousin has offered to invest it for me—”
“I hope you’re not even considering letting him do that.”
I looked at him, abashed. But his expression was thoughtful, not contemptuous as I’d feared.
“You’re a successful, independent woman; you need to know how to invest your own money,” he said.
“I find it so confusing—”
“You took calculus in college. There’s nothing in this you can’t handle. You just need to know some basics. Here.” He took a pencil and a notecard out of his pocket and began explaining.
As we talked, I forgot about the Gates of Hell and the weirdness and tension of the previous days. But as I was laughing at a joke he’d made, I felt the sudden pressure of his hand on my knee. His touch made me quiver.
“Spread your legs,” he said, his voice low.
“Don’t be silly. We’re in a restaurant.”
Again, he raised an eyebrow. As he did, my knees separated of their own accord until I was sitting with my legs splayed open. I felt vulnerable and louche. I blushed. Thank God the tablecloth is long.
“Good girl,” he said.
I swallowed.
He offered me a piece of his steak, speared on the end of his fork. “Open up,” he said, and I found my mouth obeying, opening wide, receiving the mouthful. I wanted to resist, but there was something warm, something pampering about it, that I couldn’t say no to. After feeding me one particularly greasy mouthful, he leant over and wiped my lips with his napkin. Again, his wedding ring glinted.
The sight made my stomach clench.
I told you: she knows about it and she’s okay with it.
I glanced at him. Is she really “okay with it”?
Does she really not care that I am here, sitting with my legs spread while he feeds me from his plate?
I wish I knew her. I wish I’d met her more than that one time.
I turned to David to ask him more about her, but something about his expression stopped me. Instead, I found myself asking for news of a mutual friend.
When the bill came, I reached for it, but David caught my hand and placed it on the table. He put his credit card on the tray, handed it to the waiter, then looked at me and said, “If you pay, I have to put out.”
Despite myself, I laughed. “Do you remember how that used to annoy Rebecca?” I said. In my mind, I saw David sitting across from a tall girl with a long ponytail. He was smiling slightly; her face was pink. “You pig!” she said, her voice a hiss.
He rolled his eyes. “That chick wouldn’t let a guy buy her a burger and fries in case he felt entitled to a kiss afterward. I think she thought letting a guy pay for a meal was the same as being a prostitute.”
“We were all a bit like that in college,” I said.
“All that crap about wanting to be called ‘women’ instead of ‘girls,’ but totally missing what really matters. Which is why,” he said looking at me, “a successful thirty-three-year-old woman doesn’t know how to invest her money.” I blushed. “Instead of accusing guys of sexism for trivial bullshit, they should have been setting up investment clubs. So they’d know how to use their equal pay for equal work.”
He signed the check, and led the way back to the car.
He began to drive.
“Where are we going?” I said.
“I thought I’d drop you home,” he said.
I was overwhelmed by an odd flatness. Was that it? Had he changed his mind? Had I let him down?
Silence. Just the car’s engine roaring and subsiding as we came to, and then drove through, stop signs.
We arrived.
“Well, thank you,” I said. I unbuckled the seat belt.
He looked at me. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
He wants to come in? I felt confused. And hot, though the evening air was cool.
“Oh. It’s not very grand. It’s sort of a glorified garden shed. Actually, it’s not that glorified. More of a shack. I’m renting it from a grad student who’s gone away for the winter, I think he’s on an archaeological dig in Sri Lanka.” I’m babbling. Why?
David kept looking at me. “But yes, would you like to come in?” I said.
He opened the trunk of the car and, this time, took out a riding crop. What? Oh fuck. I swallowed.
“Let’s go,” he said.
We tiptoed past the main house and along the garden path to the shed.
“Welcome to the shack,” I said, as I switched on the light. It was bright, severe.
He came in, glanced around, shut the door.
“Take off your clothes.”
“No.”
He shook his head, took me in his arms, and stripped me. He did not undress.
“Get on the bed. On all fours.”
I went to turn off the light.
“Leave it.”
“Please, David, let me turn off the light.”
“No. I want to look at you.” He jerked his head. “Get on the bed.”
I curled up on the bed, making myself small. Hiding my body as much as I could.
“No, not like that.” He uncurled me. “Hands and knees. Let’s see pretty dog.” He put me on all fours, then put his hand in my hair and pulled. “Head up. Arch your back. Proud bitch.”
He gazed at me.
Then he hit me.
Across the buttocks. With the riding crop.
Slamming pain. I yelled, and lurched forward, falling onto my belly. My buttocks burned.
He put his hands on my hips, and pulled me back up. “Pretty dog,” he said again, running his hands along my stomach, caressing my breasts. “Show me how strong you are.”
I tried not to flinch as he hit me again. And again. And again.
He put his hand between my legs, dipped his fingers into my pussy. He smiled slightly, and took his hand away. “You are such a bitch,” he said.
“No, I’m not,” I said, offended.
“Yes. You are. Now bark for me. Just a little one.”
“No!”
He hit me again, harder. A wave of pain crashed on my leg. I yelled.
“Do it. Bark.”
Silence. He leant over and whispered in my ear, “Do as you’re told. Don’t make me force you. Bark.”
Silence. I saw his eyes narrow, his arm rise—
“Ruff,” I said.
“Good girl.” He smiled.
The riding crop smashed into the other leg.
“No, David, stop, please, stop. I don’t like it.”
He dipped his fingers back into my pussy, then dragged them across my top lip, smearing it with dampness. “Your body is giving you away,” he whispered. I reached my hand down. My thighs were drenched.
I’m not sure how long he beat me that night. Time became suspended. The world shrank to two people inside a shack: nothing else existed.
Eventually, I dropped forward again. Rather than pulling me back to my knees, he covered my body with blankets, and sat, cradling my head, stroking my hair, caressing my neck. He looked down at me, studying my face, saying nothing. I don’t know whether it was tenderness that he felt, but it seemed to me that he held me tenderly, that tenderness radiated from his dark, dark eyes.
I gazed at him. I felt serene, at peace.
Perhaps this is what they mean by “bliss.”
After—how long? I don’t know—he said, “Are you okay?”
I nodded.
“Are you sure?”
I nodded again.
“I’ve got to get home. When I’ve gone, go to the bathroom and admire your welts in the mirror. Play with yourself. I’ll call you next week.”
He kissed me gently—so gently that I gasped—and vanished. I lay snuggled under the blankets. My body seemed to be floating. My mind was still. I was just there, listening to the noises of the night.
Copyright © 2011 by Ariel Sands
Most helpful customer reviews
6 of 6 people found the following review helpful.
Sexy AND intelligent!
By thequeerinsideme
While Shades of Grey may wet our appetite without ever satisfying our deeper curiosity, Never The Face actually fulfills the thinking reader's needs. In addition to giving us an exciting account of erotic action - and one woman's fantasies -- the novel asks all the right questions and offers us all the right leads.
The narrator of the novel is a strong, successful woman, who is very aware of her desires, and while she might be scared, she never allows her fear to stop her. She is so far away from our image of an abused woman that we cannot pity or look down on her - instead, she is exactly the kind of protagonist so many women would like to associate themselves with. And so, it is even more powerful to see her body respond to a brutal beating, and see her confusion at the discrepancy between what she wants and what she thinks she should want. Anyone who has ever seriously considered the BDSM lifestyle should recognize or at least admire this narrator's honest, constantly self-interrogating inner dialogue that attempts to reconcile her submissive and masochistic sexual desires with everything she knows and believes in as an intelligent, independent woman. Without sounding academic or contrived, the novel provides enough intertextual references to reflect the experience of an intellectual, who is not just trying out the BDSM lifestyle, but is attempting to truly understand what it means - and so recreates this experience for the reader who wants to know the same.
And yet in its core, Never the Face is not strictly a book about BDSM - rather, it tells the story of a passionate, obsessive love affair that grows in intensity until it has no other choice but to explode, hurting all of its participants. What I found the most refreshing about the novel is that the author doesn't take the easy way out and blame BDSM and the narrator's dark desires for the painful failure of the relationship: while those might be the main driving force behind the affair, it is the ordinary human feelings like jealousy and fear of loss, selfishness and pride that finally destroy the protagonists and their love for each other.
I discuss the book in more detail on my blog: [...]
5 of 5 people found the following review helpful.
well worth your time
By Julica Hermann
It's been a while since I've been gripped by a book the way I was by this one.
First of all, with respect to the writing, let me say that it's brilliant. I sometimes lament having read King's "On Writing," as it has rendered me hypersensitive to adverbs and poor writing choices. I'm delighted to report that "Never the Face" is so well-written, so believable, you lose yourself completely in the story.
And of course the topics in the book are riveting and easy to lose yourself in. I found myself hypnotized, engaged, repelled, troubled, and yes, even turned on. (Warning: spoiler alert.) Kitten's journey and eventual self-destruction was like watching a train wreck up close and in slow motion, and I found myself horrified by and surprised to connect with her struggles and process.
My inner feminist wanted a Hollywood happy ending, but that is not the journey and purpose of this book. There are plenty of (fake) happy endings out there; this book is instead a powerful journey into the dark side of sex and self-destruction. A cautionary tale well worth your time and energy.
1 of 1 people found the following review helpful.
Sex and more
By jseliger
An amazing and underrated book that is intensely about sex but is also about many other topics. Consider this passage, which echoes throughout:
"All that crap about wanting to be called 'women' instead of 'girls,' but totally missing what really matters. Which is why [. . .] a successful thirty-three-year-old woman doesn't know how to invest her money. [. . .] Instead of accusing guys of sexism for trivial bulls***, they should have been setting up investment clubs. So they'd know how to use their equal pay for equal work."
"Never the Face" asks: "what really matters." The answers may not be the ones commonly described and discussed. There is much to learn and know here for those willing to indulge.
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