This eleventh installment of the 14-book “John Colleton” series of erotic pseudo-memoirs has for its settings Charleston, Madrid, and Rome. I’ve previously read only the second and the seventh books, which made the early chapters of this one a little bewildering for me. They do take for granted a fair amount of prior character relationships, and narrator Beuaregard “Bill” Benton seems disinclined to supply context rather than witticisms. He does occasionally fill in details retrospectively–often with block text that looks like it might be quoting earlier books.
This short book is not psychologically profound, nor morally responsible. In The Pleasures of Cloris, Bill had already shown a lack of confidence in his abilities as a writer, and that note is sustained here, nine books later. In addition, he declares, “As must be evident by now, I am not comfortable with myself. I am bothered always by conflicting loyalties, mixed emotions, mixed emissions” (127). I can’t say that I judge his adventures admirable, but I do find them entertaining.