There is something pitiable about those persons who feel they must be forever advertising their own sexiness – for fear, one presumes, that if they didn’t tell us we would never have noticed. Fiona Pitt-Kethley has made a career out of setting her sexual exploits to verse. And while the contemplation of her own conquests might make Pitt-Kethley’s juices flow, the reader, required to consider the poet’s flailing limbs in amorous contortion, is offered no such erotic reward. I imagine she has her following. Perhaps Christopher Sinclair-Stevenson, who commissioned the collection of dirty bits under review, is to be numbered among them. Others will find it deeply boring.
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