How To Go On A Nationwide Book Tour And Not Get Laid

I: In which the author anticipates nookie

On the eve of my first coast-to-coast book tour, my pal -- I'll call him Wilhelm -- took me aside for a little literary man-to-man: "The last time I went out on the road it was crazy, dude. Women every night. They just come up to you. They offer themselves."

It is important to note that Wilhelm is a poet. And when a poet tells you he's getting that much play, well ... you can pretty much draw your own conclusions.

What's more: I had written a book of short stories -- "My Life in Heavy Metal" (Grove, 2002) -- with enough erotic content to convey the impression (however mistaken) that I know my way around the female anatomy.

And so, for the first time in many years of traveling, I packed condoms, four varieties, in their bright, hopeful little wrappers, affixed with all those salacious buzzwords -- ribbed, lubricated, extra-sensation -- which have the effect, even now, back in my lonely writer cage, of giving me semi-wood.

II. In which the author ... not

But, see, that's just not how the road worked for me. Perhaps this has to do with the fact that I'm kind of goofy-looking. Or that my stories tend to be about sexual disaster. Or perhaps Wilhelm is simply mas macho than I.

I sure never experienced the carnival of casual sex he so blithely described. What I found was that women (and men) come to readings seeking an intellectual, creative connection. And while this isn't always incompatible with sexual adventurism, it tends to diminish the chances for a quickie in the self-help section.

In my case, there was also a logistical issue to consider, one best represented by the following equation: no hotel = no coochie. Yes, to help save money, I stayed with friends. And friends don't let friends fuck drunk.

Besides which, there's something indisputably scummy about using your cachet as an artist to hit on a fan. I know it's a timeworn tradition and all, one of the perks of the biz. But half my stories are about jerks who use sex to primp their frail egos. (This, come to think of it, might also help explain the dearth of fawning bachelorettes.)

III. In which the author addresses the, uh, ejaculation issue

One of the things that became apparent as I read my work aloud is that people tend to get hung up on the sex. As soon as someone starts talking blowjobs, the crowd just freezes. This was especially true when I read the title story, which includes the following passage:

Gradually, her legs sagged to the bed. Her pelvis vaulted into the air. I followed her up, pressed my tongue harder, and suddenly there was a warm liquid coming out of her, a great gout of something sheeting across my cheeks, down my chin, splashing onto the comforter.

The first question I got from audiences was, almost invariably: "Have you ever had sex with a woman who ejaculates? (Or: "How much of your work is autobiographical?", which is just a wimpier way of asking: "Have you ever had sex with a woman who ejaculates?")

My basic response to this question was: yeah, I did. But that's not really the point. Sex is just the strange chemistry and plumbing of our bodies. I'm far more interested in the emotions that live beneath the thrashing.

Still, the issue wouldn't die. In Minneapolis, a reviewer named Ann Bauer called my rendering of the female anatomy "woefully inaccurate," setting off a tsunami of protest. One women (God bless her) wrote in to confess that she gushed, was proud to be a gusher, and expressed what I would consider a charitable pity for Bauer.

No less an authority than the New York Times offered the following in-depth analysis of my narrative strategy: "The thing about Almond's stories is that his characters like to have sex. Really like to have sex."