Sex
in the City: Dublin
edited
by
Maxim
Jakubowski
Accent
Press Limited, 2010
Let
me begin by admitting that I am at a distinct disadvantage in
reviewing this book. Despite its literary reputation, I've never been
to Dublin. The closest I've been to Ireland is Boston. I've read some
Joyce but found myself confused at least partially because of his
references to places and historical events with which I was totally
unfamiliar. Hence, I'm not particularly well-qualified to evaluate
whether the stories in this collection succeed in bringing the city
in the title to life.
So
I have to judge this anthology based on whether the stories created a
distinctive world that I could clearly imagine - whether I'd
recognize Dublin if I visited after reading these tales. Of course,
the normal criteria for reviewing erotic fiction also apply. Is the
story original? Is the writing competent? Are the sex scenes
intriguing, arousing, emotionally involving?
Sex
in the City: Dublin
includes
two
exceptional
stories
that
do
all
of
the
above
and
more.
Stella
Duffy's
"Of
Cockles
and
Mussels"
offers
a
lyrical
portrait
of
an
earthy
fish
monger
named
Molly
Malone,
who
claims
she
fucked
James
Joyce
and
was
the
inspiration
for
Molly
Bloom.
Never
mind
the
literary
references,
though.
This
gorgeous
story
evokes
all
the
breathless
intensity
of
first
love,
or
first
lust
(it
has
never
been
too
clear
to
me
whether
the
two
can
be
teased
apart).
If
there's one thing I know to be true about Molly Malone, it's that she
was not sweet. Not sweet at all. She was wild and funny and
exhausting to be with, she could be cruel too, had a mean temper and
a hard jealous streak. But God she was good, to watch, to drink
alongside, to play, to laugh, to fuck. And definitely more salt than
sweet. Alive, alive oh.
The
story also paints a vivid picture of working class Dublin, in the
rhythm of its language as much as its descriptions. The narrator is a
dirt-poor, hard-working Catholic girl:
Middle
child of five and all those boys, you know my mother didn't have
anyone else to help her keep them all clothed, fed, washed, clean. I
hated doing the laundry, all that endless scrubbing of filthy boys'
shirts and underpants. My brothers are not the only reason I started
with women, but knowing a little too much about the ways of men
certainly did make a woman a more interesting possibility when I was
just sixteen.
When
she catches Molly's eye at the market and gets invited to visit, the
narrator's mother, surprisingly, doesn't raise a fuss. The mother
understands that her daughter may be treading a different path than
her own and is glad of it. That's only one of the joys of this story.
The
other standout tale, for very different reasons, is "Picking
Apples in Hell" by Nikki Magennis. In this sassy, sexy story,
the narrator Niamh meets up with her old lover Frank, who has
returned to Dublin for some undoubtedly dodgy purpose. Once again,
the language catches the rhythm of Irish speech:
"So
what's dragged you back, Frank?"
"Oh,
c'mon now. Can't a man visit his home town without good reason?"
"Don't
try telling me that you were missing the ole place," I said,
keeping my voice nice and flat.
What
I didn't say was: tell me you were missing me, tell me you couldn't
forget me, tell me you'd cross the sea for one more shot of that
filthy, mind-blowing fucking we used to do.
Niamh
discovers that Frank is indeed involved in a dangerous and illegal
game, but she can't help surrendering to her lust - and her
nostalgia:
That
mouth. It might have produced some of the filthiest lies you've ever
heard in your life, but there's no denying that when Frank McAuley
kissed you, it was enough to make St. Peter forgive the devil. He
tasted of whiskey and wet nights on the town, he covered my lips with
his own and devoured me, drew me forward so it felt like I was
falling.
I
loved this story for its colorful depiction of the seedy underside of
the city as much as for the characters and the sizzling sex. The fact
that Ms. Magennis pulls off a deft surprise ending was an unexpected
bonus.
Compared
to these two stories, the other contributions are at best
workman-like but unremarkable. Ken Bruen's "Love is the Drug"
is a wry, humorous piece about a regular guy from New Jersey who
travels to Dublin looking for love, only to have all his romantic
illusions about Ireland shattered. "Abstract Liffey" by Craig J.
Sorensen offers complicated and ambiguous characters with whom you
can identify - a hallmark of Mr. Sorensen's fiction - but as far as I
could tell, the story could have been set anywhere. Elizabeth
Costello's "The City Spreads Startlingly Vast" is an
eloquent tale of sex as an antidote to grief, but once again, did not
seem particularly Irish. Several of the stories I actively disliked -
but of course, that's only one reviewer's opinion.
This
isn't
a
bad
collection,
but
I
will
admit
that
after
having
read
Sex in the City:
New York,
I
was
disappointed
by
this
other
volume
in
the
same
series.
I'd
chalk
up
my
reaction
to
my
unfamiliarity
with
Dublin,
but
the
fact
that
two
of
the
tales
did
succeed
in
making
me
see,
smell,
and
taste
the
city
suggests
that
the
problem
lies
elsewhere.
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