Me so horny

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When Shar Rednour started her ’zine, Starphkr, she laid out the ground rules for requested “submissions” right away: “Raunchy is number one. Saying this is the best j/o material to hit the planet is a pretty big brag & I am prepared to prove it … Content is number two & literary ideals comes in third.”

Although her writers broke grammar rules, decency rules and even their own ideologies, they never strayed from Rednour’s guidelines in retelling wild fantasies about Marilyn Munster, white weddings, blood and Wednesday Addams wielding a foot-long dildo. Or getting dirty with a Corona bottle in Brad Pitt’s shower. Or in the back of Liberace’s block-long Rolls, his large rings getting in the way. A woman spies on Johnny Depp at band practice with Claire Danes. A man has a three-way with John Waters and Divine.

Rednour collected a few of her favorite stories submitted by such noted sex writers as Carol Queen, M. Christian, Susie Bright, Simon Sheppard, Jackie Strano, Thomas Roche, etc., into Starf*cker, a salacious, raucous, hilariously delicious book of modern erotica — not bad for j/o smut. No star’s safe from these writers’ imaginations and pens. Everyone from Marilyn Monroe to Elvis to Tiger Woods to Suzanne Somers is fair game for dirty daydreams.

Rednour didn’t have any trouble filling the soon-to-be sticky pages of her book. If anyone claimed he or she didn’t have a star fantasy — like closet masturbators — she knew they were lying and eventually would come around.

A little less subtle than Anaïs Nin and a bit smarter than Penthouse, Starf*cker fits into a new style of erotica — one that shocks with bluntness and detailed taboo turn-ons, takes pride in its obscenity and maintains a sense of humor and intellectual stimulation all the while. The style is evident in the metaphor: “The voice was familiar, as oily smooth as the sheen of Crisco on a fister’s wrist. I turned to look. It was Liberace, swathed in pink-dyed mink, a toothy grin on his timeless face.”

Of course, the overall outrageousness of the book’s content lends to unnecessary overexplanation. “The irony is I’m not often one who gets starstruck,” Rednour defends. There’s a dichotomy in this new class of erotica; on one hand, it’s blunt like a gay man telling a gay joke. On the other hand, it’s constantly apologizing, worrying that quick-to-critique readers are going to take something the wrong way and accuse the writer of (gasp!) an ism.

But no matter how unstarstruck you claim to be, it’s hard to find too much wrong with Starf*cker. It’s a fun read about celebrities and sex. Really what else could you ask for? Maybe the real thing, but we all know that’s never as good.

Melissa Giannini is the Metro Times music writer. E-mail letters@metrotimes.com.

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