UNIFORM SEX: EROTIC STORIES OF WOMEN IN SERVICE
edited by Linnea Due
(Alyson) $12.95

I wear the uniform of the Girl Scouts of America, which is rather short and
tight on the full hips and bosom of a grown-up lady. Since reading Uniform Sex, I have taken to wearing pantyhose as well. Suzanne Corson, incredibly,
eroticizes the yeast-infection-in-a-plastic-egg nylon apparatus in “Recuperation,”
a tale of a very mature candy striper zinging pantyhosed legs together while
kneeling to administer a healing salve right where we need it most. Although
many of these tales tell a bit too much, meandering through moralistic relationship
drivel and other plot crap that fails to build erotic tension, there are some
juicy bits that linger. The opening story, which incorporates a majorette’s
baton, white boots, and, yes, more nylons, thrusting at a tuba player’s supple
lips in a high-school band equipment van, sparkles. Although I have always been
more of a UPS girl myself, preferring the poly-blend brown formal uniform versus
the casual, leisure-wear approach of the FedEx knit polo shirt, “Venus in Uniform”
is reasonably arousing, featuring an athletic delivery lady and a desperately
bored office-temp femme whose wit, naiveté, and objectification of this
uniformed worker renders a highly readable (not just for getting off) story.
For a quickie spanning three succinct pages, “One Sexy Scout” digs right in,
brown knee socks still on, tearing the shirt off a park ranger who spouts off
plant names as we bury our tongues in her moist mossy mound. Due, the editor
of this collection, tries her hand at a Civil War period piece. The conventions
and taboos produce a pleasant ache akin to that of Catholic schoolgirls masturbating
(see “Plaid Skirt, White Shirt”), with the added bonus of the presence of horses.
The hardcore “Uniform Night at the Butches’ Club” knocked the wind out of me.
These stories brush their lascivious hands across the delectable, varied buttocks
of lesbian erotica, touching lightly or grasping firmly all manner of fantasy–there
should be something for everyone here, and plenty to rub your cotton crotch
about. ESTHER LaRUE

Lost and Found

NORWEGIAN WOOD
by Haruki Murakami
(Kodansha) Originally pub. 1989
(Alfred Knopf) October 2000 Reprint $13

The Beatles were in their early 20s when they released Rubber Soul,
and the songs on that record poignantly capture the essence of that time of
life; from the twilight of adolescence to the dawn of true adulthood, Rubber
Soul is by turns sweet, melodramatic, tragic, and restless. It’s easy to
see how that album’s best-known song, “Norwegian Wood,” makes the perfect reference
point for Haruki Murakami’s titular tale of first love and its consequences
set in late-1960s Tokyo.

Readers familiar with Murakami’s other novels will recognize his quintessential protagonist in Toru Watanabe. He’s a regular guy, but with enough mysterious, offbeat, and pithy charm to make him irresistible company. The book follows Toru through his first years of college in Tokyo, and through the ill-fated episodes that compose his first love with Naoko, a girl plagued with myriad psychological problems. Falling for someone who is so obviously fragile is usually a bad idea, but youthful optimism is good at whitewashing depressing futility, and Toru falls prey to this quixotic truth. As Naoko sadly comes to the end of her rope, Toru learns the universal lesson that “death is not the opposite of life, but something underlying this life we live.” This is especially compounded when we lose someone who is so close, and merely learning the truth about the fragility of life isn’t enough. “Not truth, not sincerity, not strength, not grace can soothe that suffering,” muses Toru between therapeutic gulps of whiskey. Though the story ultimately ends on tragic ground, its real strength lies in Toru’s devotion and tenderness toward Naoko and in the deadpan, shuffling humor he showers on his collegiate acquaintances.

Murakami’s prose, elegant and magical, goes down deceptively easy; as with Hemingway, 90 percent of the book lies beneath the surface. Every scene is etched as if from a cloudy diamond, suffused with dreamy nostalgia but never at the expense of the sharp facets of the narrative. Readers already hip to Murakami will also recognize his playful metaphors and idiosyncrasies. The meticulous descriptions of food, random intriguing girls, high suicide count, and womanizer acquaintances are all present and accounted for. And as always, everything comes out perfectly in balance–each tragedy is countered with something life-affirming, and every seemingly random character or occurrence slips into focus beneath the unique chiaroscuro of Murakami’s writing. After a few stinkers, it’s good to finally see a worthwhile reissue from the Murakami catalog. Norwegian Wood definitely sets the tone for the virtuosity of his later work, and in its own way is also a masterpiece. Get hip. MARK PINKOS