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By Nicholson Baker

Shandee unearths a pleasant arm at a granite quarry. Ned drops down a gap in a golfing direction. Luna meets a guy made up of gentle bulbs at a tanning parlor. So starts off Nicholson Baker’s fuse-blowing, sex-positive escapade, House of Holes.  Baker, the bestselling writer of The Mezzanine, Vox, and The Fermata, who “writes like not anyone else in America” (Newsweek), returns to erotic territory with a gleefully over-the-top novel set in a excitement inn, the place common principles don’t follow. viewers, pulled in through their ingesting straws or the dryers in laundromats, can endure crotchal transfers . . . make like to bushes . . . stopover at the Groanrooms and the twelve-screen Porndecahedron . . . or pussy-surf the White Lake. It’s very dear, in fact, yet there are work-study courses. answerable for daily operations is Lila, a former clinic administrator whose breast milk has strange regenerative properties.
Brimful of good-nature, wit, and surreal sexual vocabulary, House of Holes is a modern day Hieronymous Boschian bacchanal that's certain to shock, amuse, and arouse.

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It shouldn't make his dick harder. But it did. And the feel of her response ripped through his senses. Sarah bent her knees, unashamedly parting her thighs and allowing Ethan access to her intimate flesh. What he was doing was threatening to destroy her. He was playing with the little ball at the end of the curved metal piercing the hood of her clit, rolling his tongue over it, stroking it against the little bundle of nerves. Sarah found herself so lost in the pleasure, the spiraling, the incredible hot sensations, that she could do nothing more than writhe and moan beneath him.

She needed this. "I missed you, Sair," he groaned, lifting her until he had her on the small center island, pushing between her thighs as he pulled the shoulders of her dress over her arms, along with the straps of her bra. His lips zeroed in on her nipples, covered them, pulled at the little rings piercing them until she felt shudders of need racing just beneath her flesh. The things he could do to her. The ways he touched her. It was unlike anything she had told herself it could be. It was potent, addictive.

Yes, Ethan would have come here to work, for the quiet, to brood perhaps. She could easily see him brooding here. She turned back to him slowly. He had stripped off his T-shirt and dropped it to the couch that sat against the wall, beside the bed. He toed his boots off, the amber in his gaze deepening as she slid her sandals from her feet and her fingers began to unbutton her shirt. Removing it, she quickly unhooked her bra and dropped it from her shoulders. She needed him. Needed him until the ache was like talons of hunger tearing at her.

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