Review for “what purpose did i serve in your life” by Marie Calloway
Rating: No rating
I can’t unwrap my head around this one, other than to say that I wish I could unread this book. I wish I could delete it from my Kindle and act like the front cover and the title didn’t intrigue me to download it in the first place. But I can’t. Boo.
As a feminist I wanted to like this, as I’m always interested in feminism and sex-positive stories are always a plus for me. But there was none of that to be had here. This book is painful, twisted, and just…so…ugly. And it’s frustrating, because you can see Calloway’s point, buried somewhere in the muck of her detached realism and ridiculous online posturing. I don’t necessarily have a problem with her writing about casual sex with rapey losers she meets on the Internet, but why? Why is she doing this? She never really gives a context for anything, just a contrived, artsy, “I need to explore this” kind of attitude. It’s not even fulfilling sex, it’s cruel, painful sex with men she barely knows that humiliate and hurts her physically and make her feel subhuman. She clearly uses demeaning sexual encounters with less than stellar men to define her self-worth and cope with insecurities and past sexual abuse. She hints several times at having Daddy issues, but just as she gets to something interesting, the self dialogue stops and she abruptly stops the narrative.
Her refusal to connect the dots between her emotional detachment and her sexual encounters seem to suggest that Calloway is merely interested in exposure of a prurient variety, i.e., pathological exhibitionism. In that vein, this book gives more than what you need. There are shots of Calloway nude, of her covered in bruises from a “bdsm” encounter, of her with a mouthful of semen, you get the picture. There is nothing inherently brave or noble she achieves in showing us this–it just makes her an attention whore, and an honest one at that. I want to send a memo to Miss Calloway that writing about sex in graphic terms (with photo proof to back it up) while being young and female isn’t provocative anymore, nor is it particularly interesting. At 200 pages, given the topic, this book still manages to drag, and some sections I skipped altogether. I wanted to put it down many times, and not because it shocked me, but because it bored the hell out of me.
This book did nothing for me at all. What would be shocking for me would be an emotionally healthy Marie, writing about sex in a way that reflected that mind state. But being normal doesn’t bring Internet fame these days, does it? Tsk, tsk…