Confessions of a Chronic Pervert - first impressions?

[GHoster79]

Hello there, I've recently finished my first book, and as you can probably guess from the title, it's concerned with sex a fair bit. I'm really just writing this to gauge reaction to the first chapter/opening chapters. I haven't let any of my friends read it, mainly because they may think it is more autobiographical than it really is (although it is fairly autobiographical). Anyway, here's the opening chapter, if you want to read the a few more chapters for free the book can be found by putting the title into Amazon (no links allowed for me)

I would welcome any feedback. It's the first edition; the second is a bit better (as one would hope) but I don't want to replace the first edition as it will wipe the reviews.


1

It could have been anyone’s bedroom. The light leaking in from behind the curtains suggested afternoon or early evening. Magnolia or some other safe colour covered the walls, and pinkish red curtains – curtains that could have been selected by a male or a female – gave a rosy tinge to the scene. The bed was unmade; white sheets that again gave little indication as to whose bedroom it was; the girl’s or the young man’s. But as the video recording played, tiny clues would have started to tell a story, even to the casual or unwitting viewer. The girl, not tall, but slender, looked perhaps less at home than the male, his firm grip around her waist leading the way. We might surmise by now that it was his bedroom. Someone unfamiliar with the setting and the couple would probably have guessed that they were not strangers, but that they had not known each other for a very long time either. Her body may have appeared a little stiff, but as the young man covered her face and neck with kisses, it would appear to wilt somewhat, only to become rigid once more as his hands began undressing her – a little awkwardly perhaps. The video recording was infused with warmer shades as more of the girl’s clothing fell to the floor, her smooth, supple skin displaying a warm luminescence akin to that of the sun sneaking in under the curtain. The male’s slow, careful movements seen at the video’s start were becoming quicker, more feverish. The passivity in the girl’s body was leaving her, as some desire, physical or emotional, or both, seemed to take hold. The two bodies were soon naked except for the short, dark socks of the girl, which remained on throughout, right up until the video’s vigorous, sweaty end. As a climax approached he grunted a little, but her noises would seem a little stifled, a tad amateurish. The male’s body would have seemed several shades paler than her lightly tanned flesh, though comparable to the small white bells of her unruly, jiggling breasts, as he moved behind her in an unbridled canine rhythm. Her face was inches from the mattress, her back angled upwards. Perhaps she was enjoying it, perhaps she was putting up with; the casual viewer might decide the latter as the final moments of the action played out. After an animal, downward thrusting crescendo of gasps, the male, exhausted, fell back on the bed in a spent collection of sweat-filmed limbs to the left of frame, his head just out of shot, while she looked rather less expended, perhaps a little discontent, to the centre. They must have lain there for ten minutes or more. The audio would pick up the bass of his voice and the tinkling mezzo-soprano of hers, as they exchanged some post orgasm small talk, although it might not have been clear if they both did orgasm.
It’s odd. The light, the video, the lens, it all seemed to make the male look like someone else, someone disconcertingly older than he was.
If I had come across the video myself, having suffered some amnesia, I might not have realised it was me doing the fucking. Not, at least, until the girl had tip toed off towards the shower, I had pulled myself off the mattress, approached the lens with a sly look over my shoulder, and switched the camera off.




Write-up on back of book:


A gripping tale of sexual obsession and revenge...

Jack Vaughn is a salesman for one of Britain's leading internet marketing firms. He's also a pervert. That, at least, is what you might think if you met him. And meet him you will, in this shocking tale about one man's peculiar sexual behaviour - a deviancy that puts him in the sights of the mysterious James Carrick. On this visceral, haunting journey across Europe, Vaughn seeks his own salvation, not only from Carrick, but from himself.

Part meditation on sexual addiction, part travelogue, Graham Hoster's Confessions of a Chronic Pervert crosses the boundaries few are prepared to acknowledge exist...