Backstage Pass by Olivia Cunning
My Rating: 3/5 Stars
When your wife’s away, it’s nice to read about somebody getting laid. BACKSTAGE PASS, however, takes the term Boy Band Ass to a whole new level commensurate with flashing lights and gleaming beacons and beautiful girls in black lace bras and thongs. If that’s not enough to get your mojo running, there’s also a Human Sexuality professor who not only heightens the overall sexual experience to a mind-boggling level, she’s got the body of a porn star.
Had I read this book in my teens, I’d have probably dropped out of school to become a rock star, even though I’m devoid of all rhythm, can’t carry a tune to save my life, and have no inkling of any musical talent whatsoever. But the fans, man. The fans. You might have to play a few dive bars in a few dive towns and sleep on a couch and drink directly from a faucet and pee in the bushes when the neighbors aren’t looking, but that’s a sacrifice many a man would indeed make. Because the girls are young and uninhibited and filled with lust and love and starry-eyes and butts that could stand up to Jennifer Lopez.
The makeup might be a bit too thick and the eyes a bit too black and the skirts a bit too short, but that’s all just a part of the wonderful, inebriated experience. I’d have to say that this book might indeed be filled with crack, or some other illegal substance. Because the writing made me laugh out loud at times, the dialogue had a serious aftertaste and more than a little cringe to it, the plot lacked a certain amount of sophistication, and the characters felt a bit too stereotypical and one-dimensional. But I seriously couldn’t stop reading. I mean, seriously.
This might as well have been book porn, as the porn factor seeped through the pages and into my living room. It had the trademark bad dialogue, a lack of plot, and characters who probably needed a Happy Meal and a brain transplant (other than the sexually liberating professor). I had this entire list of things to do today. But none of that particularly mattered, as I read onward and upward with a glazed look in my eye and my mouth hung at a slight angle, as I waited with bated breath for the next scene to pound away at my senses. And I might have even stood up and cheered if I wasn’t already glued to my seat.
When I need some more book crack or book porn, I’ll tear off another jacket or miniskirt and hold on tight for the wild ride. In the meantime, I plan to get as far away from romance novels as possible for the foreseeable future, otherwise there’s a more than good chance I’ll spontaneously combust, and my wife will be picking herself up from the airport.