A collection of surrealistic black fantasy fables which disclose an occult world of sex magick, lunar mutiny, excremental demonolatry, in utero lycanthropy, sadomasochistic vampirism, oneiric post mortem malediction, and other bizarre manias; a book steeped in arcane law, suffused with the perfume of graveyard erotica. The publication of James Havoc's anti-novel Raism was greeted with equal extremes of revulsion and delight. In Satanskin, he has taken the motifs of that book and woven them into a series of grotesque morality tales described in his own unique language.

We’ve all heard of some authors being described as “a writer’s writer.” James Havoc, a pen name, deserves some type of title like “an erotic’s erotic” or “a sadist’s sadist” or, perhaps less eloquently, an “erotic writer’s erotic writer.” The twenty-one short stories found within Satanskin are brimming with vampiric, cum-filled, literary, child-brain-rape insanity. Don’t feel perturbed if you have to grab your OED more than once.

I would like to party with Mr. Havoc. Though, like me, he’s probably pretty boring in real life. I heard through the grapevine that he moved to Bangkok, Thailand. There is a BDSM scene there.

What wonderfully colorful prose this stud writer can compose though! I’ve never read anything that is so sexually vivid. Let me quote some of this tasty smut. From my favorite chapter/story on Devil’s Gold:

“In dreams, Gillespie wanders sodden, hermaphrodite corridors, halls that resonate with the melancholy of outcast animal kings. He conjures forth and preens an eight mouthed ululating penis, unleashes tulpas from the folds of his scrotum, drag cold reluctant somatic formations from occult slits. Cephalopods. He caresses his breasts on a throne of bones, while eunuchs swing in the void.”

Do you enjoy whisky?

This is how best to consume Havoc’s prose. Allow yourself only to open this terrible terrible book later in the evening, not after midnight, but sometime before. Turn off all the lights except one, something shaded and halogen; avoid the candles cuz those are kitsch as hell. Have a bottle of single-malt Scotch whisky (should be $100 over or not worth it) on the table next to you. Savor your first drink for some minutes and then pour a second. Open Havoc’s bestial monograph to a start of a new chapter. Now enjoy. If you need music salting the air sweetly behind you, consider something on vinyl and of the chamber, the more piano the better. Your hand will soon be reaching toward your flowery vagina: Drip, drip, drip, after awkwardly yummy drip. Restrain yourself to only one chapter an evening.

And, indeed, this is the point—the orgasmic tip of it all. I do classify this as a piece of erotica. Why? Because anything that makes me wish to rub my clit is erotic, if not erotica, for me. Not unlike the great de Sade, Havoc will having you thinking and rethinking the ethics of your enjoyment of such tales. But of course this is what makes it all so riveting. The cerebral must be violated in the same way as all the usual orifices for a true libertine aficionado.

Yes, read Havoc's Satanskin. Come home to me Mr. Havoc. I have a bed waiting for you in Kansas!

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