Invisible
Ink by Elisabeth Joye
Self-published,
2015
In
the world of explicit fiction, eroticism is sometimes treated as
synonymous with sex. In my view, they could hardly be more different.
Sex is about physical acts and the sensual pleasure they engender.
Eroticism involves the experience of desire, an emotional state that
may be entirely independent of bodily arousal.
Of
course, desire and sex often occur together (the former usually being
the cause, the latter the effect), but that’s not always true. I’ve
read far too many self-styled “erotic” stories in which the
author’s primary concern seemed to be who was doing what to whom,
without much attention paid to how anyone felt about the process.
Meanwhile, it’s possible to write (though difficult to sell!)
erotic tales that include little or no sexual activity. For instance,
I have a BDSM story (“Stroke”, originally published in the
anthology Please Sir) in which the hero is a Dom half
paralyzed by a cerebral hemorrhage, who seduces his kink-curious
nurse without ever touching her.
I’ll
lay out my bias clearly before I continue. I’m far more interested
in the infinite variations of desire than I am in the ultimately
limited repertoire of sexual acts.
Elisabeth
Joye’s debut novella Invisible Ink is almost one hundred
percent sex scenes. At the same time, it’s one of the most erotic
books I’ve read in a while. The book’s premise is a bit
implausible—a woman so ensnared by sexual need for one particular
man that she will do anything to be with him, regardless of
the consequences—but Ms. Joye focuses so strongly on Lex’s inner
life that I could suspend my disbelief, at least while I was reading.
Jake
is literally a rock star. Lex begins as a fan. When he singles her
out from the crowd of adoring groupies, she falls deeply and
permanently under his spell. The chemistry between them is so strong
it overwhelms everything else—rationality, responsibility,
morality.
What’s
erotic about this scenario? Being known. Jake knows what Lex wants
before she’s aware of it herself. He challenges her to act upon her
desires—and to satisfy his—no matter how outrageous. We all hide
things from our lovers. The notion that we might share our darkest
fantasies, without guilt or blame, can be intoxicating. Jake offers
Lex exactly this freedom. In fact, he demands it.
He
knows Lex in another, more visceral way as well. Through intuition,
skill or luck, he understands how to play her body in order to evoke
the maximum pleasure. We all dream of finding the perfect lover whose
every touch is bliss. Jake has that gift, at least as far as Lex is
concerned.
It’s
erotic to be known, to the dirty depths of your soul. It’s also
intensely arousing to be chosen by the one you desire, to feel
that you alone can satisfy that person’s need. In Invisible Ink,
the author makes it clear that no woman has ever gotten under Jake’s
skin the way Lex has, despite his skittishness about commitment and
her explicit renunciation of any sort of long term relationship. The
heroine’s sense of being unique, special, destined to
love the hero, is a
touchstone of romance, but it’s also intensely erotic.
The
sex in Invisible Ink is moderately extreme. The book includes
transgressive scenes involving bondage, voyeurism and public sex. And
yes, Jake has a huge cock (sigh), which makes the rough sex all the
more edgy. I was more impressed, though, by Ms. Joye’s attention to
the subtler aspects of their physical connection—Jake’s warm
breath, his distinctive smell, his stubble scraping against Lex’s
flesh, and his seductive, irresistible voice. The best scenes in the
book are the ones where he wrings an orgasm from Lex without even
touching her.
But
then perhaps I’m just revealing my bias.
Although
we see Jake only through Lex’s eyes, he’s a far more substantial
character than she is. His hot-and-cold moods, his arrogance and
conceit, his hidden need, all make sense in the context of who he
is—adored as a star, but also exploited as a commodity. Lex on the
other hand seems to have no personal traits other than her obsession
with Jake. When she’s not with him, she’s rather boring. She
hooks up with boring men. It’s as if she only exists as Jake’s
lover.
Perhaps
this is exactly the point Ms. Joye was trying to make. I found it
disappointing, even distressing, however. Why would a complex,
tortured, creative person like Jake fall in love with a non-entity
like Lex? It’s clear their connection is more than just sex. What
does he see in her that I didn’t?
Furthermore,
although I love Ms. Joye’s brilliant, believable portrayal of Lex’s
erotic obsession, I have a hard time swallowing a woman who’d
blithely abandon her job for sex. Even Jake seems a bit shocked when
she tells him she’s been fired (presumably because he feels
responsible). I suppose my feminist upbringing is partially
responsible for my horror, but still, Invisible Ink would have
been far more intriguing if Lex experienced some actual conflict
about jettisoning her career, her boyfriend, or her fiancé, when
Jake calls.
Invisible
Ink excels in its portrayal of a woman under the hypnotic
influence of desire. It never goes beyond that point, though. Given
the insight Ms. Joye shows in some of this book, I think she can do
better. I look forward to her next work.
