Review of UNDATEABLE: 311 Things Guys Do That Guarantee They won’t be Dating or Having Sex

I’m back. Finally. After a long layoff.  (You missed me, right?)

Since I’ve blogged about every aspect of SKINFLICKS, inside out, upside down and backwards, I am expanding the scope of this blog to include…anything.

I’ll start with reviewing two contrasting books that I’ve read lately, on the subject of sex and seduction (big surprise).

This is a gonzo book review of
UNDATEABLE: 311 Things Guys Do That Guarantee They Won’t Be Dating or Having Sex

By Ellen Rakieten and Anne Coyle

The authors are both beautiful women with long, flowing, blondish hair.
Rakieten, president of Ellen Rakieten Entertainment  has been “a key force in creating, developing, writing and producing The Oprah Winfrey Show” for over 23 years (If her photo was taken after those 23 years, she must have started there at age 2.) She is shown wearing a Jackson Pollock-like splatter of desultory colors that would render any man who wore a similar scheme “undateable.”

Coyle is equally stunning. In her photo, she wears shimmering blue with nipple outlines.  She owns Anne Coyle Interiors, “a nationally acclaimed interior design firm.”

Both women live in the Chicago area.

The concept of “gonzo,” taken from the jagged journalism of the late Hunter S. Thompson, frees the commentator from traditional constraints. Therefore, in my review of UNDATEABLE, I inject my own snarky, prejudiced, and/or questionably sagacious comments.  I feel these are needed in order to shield the delicate sensitivities of male readers from the slings and arrows of these Authors. For example, here’s how they respond to a man who wears a sleep mask: “Oh yes…and will we be slathering scented moisturizer on our hands and covering them with rubber gloves before we turn in as well?” And don’t call a woman “my lover.” “We’d like to enact a new law: Any guy who uses this term immediately gets punched in the face.” If you wear an apron (un-masculine) while cooking a scrumptious dinner for her, “Your pumps better match your apron or we’re going to have to come in there and beat you again.”

Shades of SCUM (Society for Cutting Up Men—the invention of Valerie Solanas, the woman who shot Andy Warhol.)! At first, I thought the Authors were parodying the snooty, overly-picky SAP (Spoiled American Princess). Sort of like Steven Colbert (The Colbert Report) pretending to espouse the very things he is ridiculing.  But, no. The Authors are serious. In the Introduction, they write, “Perhaps, after reading the first few pages, you’ll think we’re just a bunch of uptight, judgmental nightmares.  And maybe we are.”


So, let’s start with some of the items under the category…

WHAT NOT TO WEAR (Authors’ words in bold, mine in unbold.)

Jorts. (Jean shorts that end above the knee. Below the knee is bad, too.) Khakis are OK, as long as they end at the knee. Precision is critical.
Bad Facial Hair. Actually, any kind of beard/mustache/soul patch is bad. But they don’t diss that dirty-face, three-day-old stubble look, so give it a try.  That way, you’ll get more mileage out of your Gillette Mach 3 Turbo.
Hairy Body. So wax it. Ouch!
Hair plugs, toupees (unless you’re a Sean Connery clone), and bald on top with hair on sides is no good. Go full cue-ball, instead.
Overly cologned.  Recommended: “…aftershave with a hint of geranium, citrus, lavender, sage, rosemary, cedarwood, or cucumber.”  In other words, smell like a spice factory.
White briefs. Boxers preferred. (I say: If you’ve gotten as far as the underwear, don’t worry about it.)
Black jeans, embellished jeans, dad jeans, acid-washed jeans, pre-ripped jeans, sky-blue jeans. Also Dockers and pleated pants. So, what’s left? Scottish kilts?
Sports jerseys. So find a girl who also likes Da Bears.
Weekend White Guy. (Whatever the hell that is.)
Hawaiian shirts. Even if you’re in Hawaii, go with “polo shirt or lightweight cotton oxford shirt in white, pale blue, or mild stripe.” And “keep it untucked and un-ironed.” (Sorry, Mom.)
Cell phone on waist.  They belong in your manpurse (which they also don’t like—they call it a “murse.”). So, wear big pockets or use a body cavity.
Longish fingernails. Trim weekly, unless you moonlight as a transvestite.
Apron while cooking. Ladies, if the guy cooks for you, why do you give a damn what he’s wearing? Besides, do you want him to splatter his pale blue, lightweight oxford shirt?
Turquoise jewelry. I would say try fake diamonds, but the Authors also don’t like men with bling.  So, no jewelry.  Save your money for that Rolex.
Camo.  I agree, unless your date is for bear hunting.
White socks with non-athletic shoes. Tube socks. Black socks without black dress pants. Navy blue is OK. Also, they like going sockless. (Just remember to use your Odor Eaters.)
Transitions sunglasses.  What?  My ophthalmologist says they’re better for the eye.  Maybe the Authors prefer a manly, Clint Eastwood squint.
Speedos. I agree. Don’t reveal your size, or lack of same, until you’re in your briefs–or boxers.
Comb-over.  See preference for cue-ball look, above.
Multiple tattoos. Authors admit some women like ‘em, some don’t. Authors admit content of tats makes a big difference.  Here, I insert a marginally off-color joke: A sporting goods salesman loves his products so much that he has their names tattooed on his body. As he strips, he shows them off to his date. On shoulder: NIKE. On chest: SPALDING. On stomach: RAWLINGS.  He takes off his underwear and on his penis:AIDS. The girl reacts with a sound of horror. The guy says, “Wait a minute.”  He strokes himself up to full erection: ADIDAS.
Mullet.  Try ponytail instead.
Tank tops.  Only for beach or gym with requisite buffed body.  If badly built, use shoulder pads under Spandex.
Bad tie. “For a guy, his tie is like a woman’s breasts.”  Because it’s the first thing that attracts the eye. So, in the spirit of breast alteration, get a tie-ectomy. Or tie reduction—snip it in half. (For “tie help,” the Authors plug their website,
Tie with short-sleeved dress shirt.  So? It’s hip to be geek. Ladies, be glad it’s not a tank top.
Stupid T-shirts.   Authors’ example: FBI  Female Body Inspector. (In other words, the invisible T-shirt of Everyman.)
Gold chains.  Tell women it’s an heirloom from your late grandmother.  Or find a pawnbroker who’s nostalgic for 1979.
Overly tan.  That John Boehner look. Or desert hobo. Out of place in Seattle, but OK in Las Vegas, where Hawaiian shirts and indoor sunglasses also help you score with hot, blue-haired grandmas.
Dyed hair. Gentlemen, women are good at spotting this. They’ve spent years examining it on other ladies and themselves.


Anal Andy.  Dream husband. Does dishes, laundry, shopping. Takes out trash, vacuums, cleans. Great cunnilingus—oops! I added that. Sorry.  Downside: Frets over wrinkle in shirt, needs weather report before leaving house…you get the picture. He’s not sexy!  (Ladies, go for the slob watching football with stinky socks.)
“Pregnant” man.  That slob mentioned above, taken to extremes. After mega-doses of sports TV and Budweiser, he looks like he’s in his third trimester. Cure: Adopting Anal Andy fixation with exercise. Or—failing that—turn to liposuction.  (Girls, seek a happy medium between the two above-mentioned types, but don’t try to reform either one.)
Benchwarmer.  Dresses in his fave team’s uniform. Emotes loudly with every play/pitch/basket/groin kick. Solution: Slip Valium into his beer.
Mr. Softy.  AKA couch potato. Ladies, to get his cardio going, tickle him.
Meathead.  “…roided-out, over-buffed physique.”  As if “Pregnant” Man’s bulge had been squeezed up into his biceps.  And you know what steroids do to the cojones.
Bitterboy. Angry white male. Maybe made so by trying to date one of the Authors.
Wimpy drinker. Gets drunk after two beers.  Authors say, “You need an infusion of male hormones.” No, you don’t.  You just have to practice drinking booze until your tolerance level goes up.


(Note: So many of these are obvious, such as “Bros before hoes.” “Get your rocks off.” And “Gotta take a dump.”  So, listed here are the questionable ones. Trying to avoid them will turn you into “the strong, silent type”–minus the “strong.”)

Make Love. They prefer “Have sex.” OK. That cuts out the B.S.  As Tina Turner sang, “What’s love got to do with it?”
Fake swearing.  Such as “Heck.” “Jeez!” “Sheesh!” “Goldarn.”  The Authors want manly talk, like %#^&*,  *+@(>), or ^</!)*.  Do I have to spell it out for you?
Base names for breasts.  Examples: “Knockers.” “Jugs.” “Headlights.”  The Authors offer no alternative suggestions.  So, when referring to your lady’s cleavage, just use the word “breasts.” Or, better yet, don’t refer to them at all.
Clit.  Alternatives?  None. “Clee-toe-russ” sounds too formal, especially when confronting the item.  Gentlemen, when facing a clitoris, talking is the wrong use of the tongue.
The Family Jewels.  Say that around the authors or their Facebook followers and you get “a good knee to the groin.”  Besides, male genitalia are now referred to as “junk.” The Authors use that term when they say, Don’t Rearrange your junk in public.” ( Instead, walk bowlegged to a men’s room.)
Slang terms for vagina. (Examples not repeated here.) Hmm…If male genitalia have descended (so to speak) from jewels to junk, then could the vaginas of dateable women be referred to as “junk collectors?”
Business clichés. “…pushing the envelope…run it up the flagpole…think outside the box…” Instead, say “My IPO has just made me a millionaire.”  By the time she finds out you’re lying, your family jewels will already have shown their bling.
Sports metaphors.   “Knock it out of the park.” “It’s a slam dunk.” “Let’s go for the goal line.” The Authors quote Jack Nicholson in As Good as It Gets: “People who speak in metaphors ought to shampoo my crotch.”  So, the Authors hate metaphors. Would they make the same offer as Nicholson?
Boner.  Or any other word for erection including “erection” itself.  Gentlemen, this is no time for “show and tell.” Just settle for “show.”
Pet names for your penis. See above advice for “Boner.”
Brewski.   Instead, call the beer by its formal name, as in “I’ll have an Arrogant Bastard Light.”
Bayotch.  “Bitch,” as said by a gangsta practicing multi-syllabic vocabulary. As a general rule, don’t say “bitch” unless referring to someone your date has already labeled as such.


Own a cat.  You’ll look like that dork, Jon, in the Garfield comics. Explain to her that it was a starving stray that you felt sorry for.  The Authors’ choice of words here begs the rhetorical question: Does anyone actually own a cat?
Own a violent dog.  Agreed. But if you need that Doberman to scare thieves away from your pot farm, tell the dog that if he behaves himself around your girl, you’ll set him up on a date with a Bichon Frise.
Own a rodent. Explain to your date that you only keep the cute little critters around as food for your pet python.
Own a reptile. OK, so the pet python is out.  Maybe a small turtle?
Own a PT Cruiser or a Corvette or a minivan or a Hummer.  The Authors don’t diss Ferraris—so, get one.
Attend Star Trek conventions. The Authors do not want to be beamed up. Or upped any other way.
Bring a glove to a baseball game.  In the film Fever Pitch, the Drew Barrymore character gets knocked out by a line drive. Show your date this movie before exposing her to Seattle Mariners’ foul balls (which is about all they can hit).
Leave porn lying around the house. The Authors especially detest Juggs, touted as “the dirtiest tit-mag in the world.”  (How much did the publisher of that rag pay the Authors for the plug?)
Go shirtless in public.  After all, the Authors would never do that to you.  Does “public” also include beaches?
Order a girlie drink. No Kahlua  and Cream, Grasshoppers or Mango Martinis.  Recommended are vodka and tonics, scotch and soda, etc.  And if you happen to date one of the Authors—or their followers—order a double. You’ll need it.
Be Lactose-intolerant.  If you are, date vegans, not the Authors, who might poison you with mozzarella pizza.
Open-mouth breathing.  Before a date, use nostril-clearing inhalants like cocaine.  And offer some to your date so that her nostrils will be clear, too.
Sell blood for money.  It proves you are too poor to date women.  But what if you are simply altruistic and you want the ER to have enough plasma on hand for the next mass shooting?  (Maybe the Authors and their followers want to keep all your blood in your body so there’ll be more to suck out of you.)
Not owning a TV set.  A quote from the Authors: “We like talking about The Office. Everybody does.” I say if you have better things to do than watching TV, you should find women who also have better things to do than watching TV.
“Not feeling well” and whining about it.  Authors’ quote: “For all our talk about equal rights, no woman wants to date a wuss.”  So, suck it up, big guy. That knee to the groin she gave you is just a test of your machismo.
Order wine at sporting event.  Only beer will do. Wine protects your heart, and women such as the Authors may not want that—especially after becoming your life insurance beneficiary.

I have just listed 61 of the things that render a man “undateable.”  Believe it or not, there are 250 more.

Can an “undateable” shlemiel be saved? Yes! The Authors provide a before-and-after makeover.  On page 14 is a photo of a guy with a Fu Manchu and a soul patch beneath his lower lip. At the end of the book, we see the same guy, clean-shaven, in the arms of his pretty, new wife.  But that worrisome mole on his cheek is still there.  Maybe he’ll get it removed through his wife’s medical insurance.

A Note to the Authors:  I trust that you attractive, polished, successful professionals have managed to find the only two men alive who have evaded all of the items that make men undateable.

But, no.  Rakieten is married, but—if Google has the latest bio information—Coyle is still searching for that elusive, thoroughly dateable Mr. Right.  Maybe her co-author has snapped up the last one available.

I recommend UNDATEABLE as a highly entertaining, fast read. The writing is witty, and you will learn new slang terms (that you must avoid) for sex organs, breasts, masturbation, excretion, and for sex itself.

Gentlemen, though you might be intimidated by the myriad things the Authors ask you to do or not do, I leave you with this quote from Danielle LaPorte, author of The Desire Map: “You will always be too much of something for someone, too big, too loud, too soft, too edgy.”  Her advice is to just be who you are and don’t “round out your edges.” And Rakieten and Coyle close out UNDATEABLE with this statement: “And remember, SWAGGER and CONFIDENCE can almost always counteract the damage caused by a really bad pair of Dad Jeans…”

So, Mr. Undateable, go boldly forth to your Star Trek convention, wearing your SPOCK ROCKS T-shirt. You just might meet a beautiful Vulcan maiden.

NEXT BLOG POST:  I’ll review THE GAME: Penetrating the Secret Society of Pickup Artists by Neil Strauss.

Book Review: PORNLAND by Gail Dines. A Tragical Mystery Tour Through Porn Hell

PORNLAND How Porn Has Hijacked Our Sexuality by Gail Dines is a well-written examination of Internet porn that is both educational and alarming.  What Dines describes in grisly detail are sexual aberrations that most of us couldn’t imagine.

The book is well-researched and impeccably footnoted.  As a professor of sociology and women’s studies, Dines has examined porn for over 20 years.

Her main concern is that Internet pornography has jaded our nation’s men. According to Dines, young boys are “catapulted into a never-ending universe of ravaged anuses, distended vaginas and semen-smeared faces.”  “When men turn to porn to experience sexual arousal and orgasm, they come away with a lot more than just an ejaculation because the stories seep into the very core of their sexual identity.”

So, how did this sordid state of affairs come about? Dines gives a step-by-step progression.  The following, in order of appearance, are the items she tackles.

Dines begins by pointing to those ancient skin-mags Playboy, Penthouse and Hustler. She states that these relatively innocuous (compared to the stomach-churning stuff she describes later in PORNLAND) publications opened the floodgates to the tidal wave of smut that she says we are now drowning in.

Regarding Playboy, Dines passes along significant information about 83-year-old Hugh Hefner’s sex life: “…Hefner would have unprotected sex with a number of women, one after another, but regardless of how many women he penetrated, he could orgasm only by masturbating to pornography.”  (Hey, Gail, give the guy a break.  He’s 83!) Her reason for including this intimate detail, I believe, is to augment her description of how porn has affected men.

She laments “reality” shows such as Girls Gone Wild that further the “porning of our culture.”  Dines writes  “…the young woman’s behavior is frozen in time on tape; they can’t take it back, hide it or deny that they did it.” “Ellen started college with the hope of being a business major but after the tape of her having sex with her friend was shown at a frat party during the first semester, she dropped out of school…Tricia told me that ‘my life will never be the same.  I had so many plans and look at me now, a dropout with no future.'” (I feel that Dines should place more blame on our judgmental society for saddling these young women with such opprobrium.  But saying that might run counter to her theme of how our culture blithely accepts porn’s leadership in creating sexual “new normals.”)

As an example of porn’s degradation of its actresses, Dines offers up Jenna Jameson.  This porn queen is introduced with an anonymous blog post as having breasts “‘scarred from having her breast implants removed…her face looks like it collapsed…It’s a good thing she retired because this is one old slut that needs to be put down.'”  After that opening, PORNLAND recounts Jameson being gang-raped as a teenager and being so desperate to land her first gig that she “removed her braces with a pair of pliers.”

Dines says, “Before Jameson there was no woman in porn who had a lifestyle that was in any way desirable.”

Has this author who has studied porn so closely never heard of Nina Hartley?  Nina’s lifestyle, while unconventional (having both a husband and a wife), was–and presumably still is–happy and…desirable.  (Neglecting to mention Hartley in a book covering porn is like writing about 1920s baseball and leaving out Babe Ruth.)

Though Dines has studied modern porn intensely, her knowledge of porn’s distant history might be lacking: In addition to neglecting to mention Nina Hartley, she states that The Devil in Miss Jones was directed by Greg Dark (DMJ was directed by Gerard Damiano, who also helmed Deep Throat).

Supporting her claim that mainstream television celebrates porn, Dines laments that on Rita Crosby: Live and Direct, where she appeared with Vivid Entertainment’s Steve Hirsch, he got 50 minutes, while she only got 10. (The reason, of course, is that Vivid is a big-time player in porn. She isn’t.)

Dines decries porn’s widening influence by listing companies that, she claims, are mainstreaming porn.  Among them are media giants Time Warner Cable, Cox Communications, Comcast, DirecTV and Rupert Murdoch’s EchoStar Communications Corporation.  She lists the hotel chains Holiday Inn, Marriot, Hilton, Sheraton, Radisson, and Hyatt.  Her list of smut supporters even includes Microsoft.

In the second half of PORNLAND, Dines carves into the real meat (sorry) of the book when she details that outer limit of Internet porn known as “gonzo (wall-to-wall sex, no story).”

(I’ll admit I wasn’t up to date on gonzo. SKINFLICKS describes the porn world circa 1970-1999.  Beyond that era, I haven’t kept up. [Nothing makes you tire of porn faster than shooting it.]  For a retired old-time producer like me, PORNLAND provided an education–and a Cook’s tour for perverts seeking the grossest stuff imaginable.)

It’s no surprise that weirdos wield websites.  For small investments, slavering psychopaths worldwide can put their fevered fantasies out there, safe from American prosecutors who can’t reach them. (As First Amendment attorney Clyde DeWitt said, “Technology is the worst enemy of the censor.”)

In examining the most degrading of these sites, Dines inevitably falls into the conundrum that most anti-porn scribes do: giving these “entrepreneurs” free advertising, such as… proves that their girls are real virgins by “stretching open a vagina so the user can get a clear view of the internal genitalia, which depicts, the site claims, an ‘intact hymen.'”  This tissue is then “‘stretched and ruptured by an erect penis…$38 a month…”

She blames the 2002 Supreme Court decision allowing women over 18 to portray teens under that age for precipitating a rash of PCP (Pseudo Child Porn) sites like, a website that features “Pissing Teens, Drunk Teens, Teen Anal Sluts, Asian Teens…”  Dines also provides graphic descriptions of such sites as, and

Reviewing the Internet-taught techniques of seducing young girls, the author turns to one of her favorite villains: sadistic producer/actor Max Hardcore.  Dines describes how, in Cherry Poppers, volume 10, Hardcore, who spent two years in prison for his rough-sex videos, “seasons” a young girl.  Dines includes the testimony of FBI child porn expert Ken Lanning, who vouches for the accuracy of Hardcore’s methods. Dines adds “…and man [sic] watching him may find pointers on how to season a child.”

When Dines confronts the dichotomy of men who desire sex only with adult women, yet are attracted to child porn, this social scientist is at her best.  She accurately describes the process of desensitization: the rapidly developing boredom that forces the pornophile to seek ever more bizarre thrills.  (In SKINFLICKS, I quote UCLA psychologist Neil Malamuth who said “Our research shows that every time there is a satiation of themes, people to some degree lose their ability to be aroused by it.  Therefore, newer themes are introduced, breaking new taboos.”)

As bored viewers become disgusted with the phony moans and fake orgasms of professional porn stars, they yearn to see women in the throes of real emotions.  And nothing is more real than pain.

Here, PORNLAND dives into the sewers of sleaze. The examples below include text from their websites.

  • “‘bitches wouldn’t be able to walk for a week after the utter anal demolishing.'”
  • (Two white men rape a black woman.) “‘…we destroy ghetto hoes, and it be showin’ like a mutha fukka!'”
  • (In bukkake porn, a group of men ejaculate on a woman’s face. Though it seems legally daring, this genre of porn was actually created to conform to Japanese law, which forbade showing genital penetration.)  “‘…you’re guaranteed to get off when you see their dripping faces full of cum.'”
  • “‘We make them gag till their makeup starts running, and then they get all other holes sore–vaginal, anal, double penetrations, anything brutal involving a cock and an orifice.'”

Having seen “many Max Hardcore movies,” Dines presents the gloating sadist’s boast: “‘I also created the technique of cuming in a girl’s ass, having her squeeze it out into a glass, and then chuck the load down…I started pissing down their throats several times during a scene, often causing them to vomit uncontrollably while still reaming their throats.'”

Ye gods. And Dines makes a living studying this stuff.  (I hope she doesn’t become like Sargent Lloyd Martin of the LAPD Administrative Vice detail who became so obsessed with child porn that he kept a garage filled with it–just to show people how evil it was. As related in SKINFLICKS, the LAPD eventually fired him.)

Perhaps Dines’ ongoing studies of gonzo porn influenced her writing style. Here’s how she describes Caucasian male fans of the popular genre of black men screwing white women: “As the white man unzips, he steps out of the socially constructed cage of whiteness and into a thoroughly debauched world of huge, semen-filled black penises out to rip, tear, pummel, and hammer white women into the utter subordination of becoming a fuckee.”

Then there’s Dines’ correlating the film King Kong with the white man’s myth of black sexuality, calling the movie, “…the most dramatic rendering of black masculinity that this country had ever seen…”

Gosh. When I saw King Kong as a kid, I thought he was just an over-sized ape.

I would venture to say that when you study extremes of pornography for years on end, you begin to see its influence everywhere.  You become like someone who buys a yellow VW Cabriolet and suddenly starts noticing all these yellow VW Cabriolets on the road.

Dines writes,“We are so steeped in the pornographic mindset that it is difficult to imagine what a world without porn would look like.  It is affecting our girls and boys, as both are growing up with porn encoded into their gender and sexual identities.”

As examples of porn’s influence, Dines writes, “Whether it be thongs peeping out of low-slung jeans, revealing their ‘tramp stamp (a lower back tattoo just above the butt crack),’ their waxed pubic area, or their desire to give the best blow job ever to the latest hookup, young women and girls, it seems, are increasingly celebrating their ’empowering’ sexual freedom by trying to look and act the part of a porn star.”

I disagree.  I think they’re just expressing themselves as sexual beings.  We’ve come a long way from the Hays Office prudery that ruled Hollywood from 1930 to the mid-’60s.  And rightly so.

But Dines is correct about the need to somehow regulate the most extreme elements of the Internet. Left totally unchecked, the final step in pornographers’ race to be the most outre would be to emulate the Roman Coliseum and toss maidens to lions.

So, ultimately, what does Dines recommend?  She’s too savvy to slide down the Dworkin/MacKinnon slope of trying to ban pornography.  Instead, she invites readers to access her website, where two slide shows can be obtained for free.  Her aim is to unite people in a grassroots movement to battle porn’s excesses.

In the book’s concluding paragraph, Dines writes, “As long as we have porn, we will never be seen as full human beings deserving of all the rights that men have…in a just society, there is no room for porn.”

Hmm.  I Googled (or rather “Norton Safe Searched”) “Countries where women have the most equality.”  Answer: Iceland, Norway, Finland and Sweden.  (In Sweden, child porn was legal from 1971 to 1980.  Recently, a Swedish man was convicted of “aggravated child pornography [shackled children being raped].”  His sentence? Only one year in prison.)  In these Scandinavian countries, porn is freely available–though Iceland has a strong movement to ban the the most extreme “gonzos,” such as those described in PORNLAND.

Next, I Norton Safe Searched “Countries that stop Internet porn.” Answers: Bahrain, China, Iran, Kuwait, North Korea, Oman, Saudi Arabia, Qatar.   Hardly bastions of female equality.  And all pornography is illegal in Saudi Arabia, Iran and Pakistan.

Despite my differences with parts of PORNLAND, I believe that this is an important, educational and grimly entertaining book.  For anyone seeking an information-rich look at the “brave new world” of Internet pornography, without having to access its grand guignol of websites, I highly recommend PORNLAND: How Porn Has Hijacked Our Sexuality.

Next:  While doing my own research, I came across a strange fact. The European country with the highest rate of rape is Sweden.  That doesn’t sound like the Sweden I enjoyed visiting, where sexual freedom under the midnight sun kept Swedish men happy.  But there is a demographic development in Sweden that has become a growing crisis.

Next post: Sweden Raped