“Forbidden Fruit psalms of a black master” Reviewed by - Stanley Bennett Clay Author Will Kane (an obvious nom de plume), making his literary debut with this collection of black gay male erotica, has placed himself in that small cadre of writers able to spin tales of raw sex, reality that reads like fiction, and poetically rendered kink, with admirable confidence and skill. And I do not use the term “literary” lightly, as Mr. Kane, whose day job is that of a Certified Insolvency and Restructuring Ad-
visor, raises the bar on descriptions of sexual encounters, settings, characters, and emotional responses, with a poetic skill reminiscent of Anne Rice and The Marquis de Sade, of which he is somewhere in the middle; more explicit than the former, less sadistic than the latter. And as explicit as the sex is, there are no gross-outs here. More than just a rudimentary teller of tales, Kane, in his nineteen-story collection (plus a fascinating mock interview epilogue) let’s us ride along on the multi-stop journey with one, handsome, (what else) black Certified Insolvency and Restructuring Advisor who manages to “nail” and get “nailed” by every hot black, Latino, and Asian male hottie on the planet, with the occasional white male freak thrown in for good measure. There’s not a lot of lovemaking in these 288 pages, but lots and lots of great sex for almost every taste. Kane does not hide the fact that his stories are fictitious takes on his real life experiences, disclaiming eloquently in his introduction:
“Thus I have taken the liberty of mixing things up; taking the plethora of sexy soirées, minor and major indiscretions, sleazy encounters, anonymous gropings [sic], and just out and out damn horny pig debaucheries that have been the story of my life these many years, stuck them in a metaphorical blender, and hit “Whip.” In “One Front Street” our lead, whose name also happens to be (what else) Will Kane, is led by six-foot-eight inches, two hundred thirty-five pounds-of-pure-muscle Blatino drag queeb to a club underneath the Brooklyn Bridge. The drag queen’s vise grip on his ‘private part’ encourages him to follow without question. Here he meets a gorgeous ‘well-gifted’ Dominican man. The description of their sexual encounter runs three pages, with nary a wasted word. “Midnight Showing” opens with our hero’s business trip to London and his hot tryst with an exceedingly handsome Sikh cabdriver in the backseat of his cab before Kane is dropped off at his hotel. And that’s only the beginning of Kane’s London britches falling down. During a Circuit party in San Juan, Puerto Rico, (“Max Redux”) a basketball game between a team of buff, mainland brothers, and a team of gorgeous local cholos, determines tops and bottoms, which includes a ‘playful’ gang bang. A naked run through America’s largest municipal park, which also happens to be one of Los Angeles’ most notorious cruising locations, pays off around the clock in “A.M-Griffith Park-P.M,” while “Men Out of Uniform” gleefully details an orgy Kane ends up in with a couple of Navy Seals, a pair of Gunnery Instructors, and a beautiful Mexican cleaning attended on the outskirts of San Diego, near Camp Pendleton. “Banker’s Hours” is a haunting meditation of time and place with an unexpected twist. There are so many encounters chronicled here that one can easily become dizzied. Though at times they tend to become repetitious, they never fail to “excite.” (Great bedtime stories.) But it is still about the exquisite writing, masterfully alternating between poetic narrative and the profanely stimulating. Both are exemplified in this passage from “Vale of Cashmere” “The drummers were down the hill, in their circle, pounding out tribal rhythms whose words had long ago been forgotten, back before there was even a memory of the homeland, but which nonetheless had the power to ignite that fragment of antiquity in our bones, whose resonance got the blood in our veins to boil with the familiar even still. The air was alive with the sounds of a lost diaspora. Gentle breezes carried the scent of frangipani, ginger, spice, and sweet girls gyrating to the steel pans, even though I was still some distance from the trailing lines of marchers celebrating their island heritages and shared experiences in the new world. Above me, with stern gazes, the Grand Army of the Republic, frozen for all time in triumphant procession, gave muted witness to the dizzying throngs milling about their feet, grilling plantains, roasting corn, frying acra, dusting salt on sweet-potato fries. Celebration and Triumph. Here was the crossroads of victory, and before me lay the field of battles yet to be fought. I was ready. I was ready to taste victory. I was ready for some hot ass.” Needless to say, this is not a book for the prudish, but considering the new openness with regards to homosexuality, straight women’s burgeoning fascination with gay male sex, and a new sexual maturity among African Americans (in spite of some antediluvian sectors of the black church); “Forbidden Fruit” is a highly satisfying page-turner and, quite frankly, a real turn-on. [Stanley Bennett Clay is the author of novel "Looker"]
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