For being a short story, this was a fun read. There was just enough characterization to make you feel like you knew these people. Granted, it's a little cliché for a girl and her best friends brother to end up together, but the way it happens is different than typical stories. There was a good amount of heat, but not too over the top. Overall, a good quick romance if you just want a little "pick me up" :) ** SPOILERS A’PLENTY **A breathtakingly bad book. There, I said it. It’s even an adulteration of the word to call this mess of words and pathetic erotic scenerios a book. It’s utter pure tripe, literary offal. So bad it offends all sentient intelligence merely by existing. It is without over-statement perhaps the worst book I have ever had the misfortune to read, so of course I loved it. Here’s why.Firstly let me explain that when I say I loved it, I say that in the sense of watching something so terribly bad it actually had something going for it. Just how it is that the written word can find new depths to stoop to is beyond me. Were Shakespeare alive today just a couple of paragraphs would be enough for him to willingly shuffle off (again) his mortal coil. To say that “Pleasure With A Purpose” is simply a bad book is not doing it justice, it’s much MUCH worse than that.The reader is given the plot pretext that the antagonist of the piece Heather ,complains of being sexually unfulfilled; aka an absence of screaming multiple orgasms (SMO) to her friend Brenda. Brenda just happens to be the sister of hot spunk Brad that Heather has had the hots for since…..and at this point I can pretty much leave everything else out. Note that all this happens on page 1 so I’m guessing Ms Lisa Renee Jones likes her books to hit the ground running. Sort of like watching the movie Titanic but having everything that happens prior to the ship sinking removed. It’s pretty clear that if “Pleasure With A Purpose” actually had a purpose, its nothing short of an excuse to inspire oneself to do….um…things to oneself. Of course much of the book deals with trying to build sexual tension between Heather and Brad in much the same way one might try to empty a well with an imaginary bucket; unsuccessfully. Oh of course he wants to talk to her and she to him, and he confronts her and she confronts him and all the while I am head butting the desk at how horribibly awlful this is. Douglas Adam’s Vogan Poetry has surely been usurped in the painful literary ordeals department. Were forks at hand by about this time I would have been willingly stabbing myself in the eyes. In fact it would have been the audiobook version of this expletive deleted that had Vincent Van Gough tearing off his ear in an alternate reality. And I can’t say I blame him.Well by now we are led to believe that Brenda’s advice is for Heather to give up her little battery operated friend (LBOF) and instead to have a fling with pretty much the next guy she sets eyes on. Possibly the worst piece of advice since the manufacturer of the Hindenberg Zeplin suggested “Hey what do you think of the idea of a smoking section in this thing?” Somehow we are given the understanding that Brad is somehow now aware of all this (can’t see how, unless he’s read the book he is in. And if somehow he has managed to escape the paper bounds of his reality he should have kept running!) and takes it upon himself to give Heather some stern “brotherly” advice. Think “brotherly” someone like Greg and Marsha Brady and you know where this is going. So Brad confronts Heather in her Lingerie store (oh I neglected to mention Heather supposedly sells the sexiest female wear on the planet? I must have been vomiting at this point so please forgive me) while she relaxes after hours by trying on a few of her things. Brad begins to chasten Heather for leaving the store unlocked (by which he snuck in, ironic much?) and she, wearing the sexiest, flimsiest almost nothings, turns quickly but not before realising one of her nipples as slipped its moorings and is staring right back at Brad. By about now even forkicide isn’t sufficient with which to punish myself for reading this shit, I’m actually starting to add reasonably priced torture equipment to my eBay watchlist.Well ladies I must confess right now that when it comes to the actual wearing lingerie I have little (zero) personal experience, and if you saw my legs you’d be thrilled to hear I intend to keep it that way. However I am going to put my neck right out there and suggest the statistical likelihood of a nipple going rogue simply by turning sharply (by any rate of orbital acceleration you would like to offer) is so exceedingly small that we shall round it up to nil. I’ll further suggest that had I the time and inclination to collect Albert Einstein’s original papers explaining general relativity I don’t doubt there would be a hastily scribbled footnote in the margin of his work confirming my suspicions. No single headlight, nip, cherry, raspberry, diamond cutter or pink pointer is ever going to come loose for this reason. Forgive me for being overly sensitive on the matter but to accept this point is less suspending disbelief but taking an entire giant step towards sheer lunacy. So picture the scene, a surprised heaving bosomed one nipple exposed Heather stands before angry-at-leaving-the-door unlocked but now surprised at seeing one aforesaid exposed nipple Brad. She looks at him, he looks at her and nipple and nipple looks at Brad. Surprisingly at this point Heather decides instead of doing something totally and completely insane, like pardoning herself and re-covering exposed nipple, for reasons that would defy the boffins that created the Large Hadron Collider she decides no. She refuses to make a move to cover herself because she feels that gives him the argument. Logic that only makes sense in those places with the padded floors and long wrap-around sleeves.Even less believable than this rubbish is Brad’s now strangely moving trouser legs. Sigh. Surely there will be a special circle of hell set aside for Ms Lisa Renee Jones and those who write rubbish like her. Far be it for me to have to point out yet another absurdity but when it comes to measurements and Brad’s um, well little Brad, it appears someone got it in their heads that little is the old black. When finally little (in name only) Brad is introduced, what is described is nothing short of an evolutionary impossibility. I understand that fisherman tell tall stories, but when it comes to erotic literature all too frequently the author is lying through her ever so slightly parted teeth. Not even if one scoured the planet watching every late night related subject matter infomercial in existence and stocked up on the complete compendium of pills, lotions and pumps would anyone come even close to what is described in these sorts of books. Keep it real ladies, try to keep some sense of reality, the numbers you throw about would scare livestock!Well after the exposed nipple huge member incident (and by huge I mean Nelson’s Column huge) all that you need to know is that the universe has been turned on its head and Brad wants Heather. Bad. So bad he arranges for a limo to take them both to a wedding, the wedding at which Heather was to have a fling with as per Brenda’s less than expert relationship advice. Instead before Heather can say “hey my dress is coming undone” Brad is showing her how very much he knows about SMOs (apparently), much to Heather’s new found pleasure. All this whilst travelling IN the limo on the way to the wedding. I know what you’re thinking but allow me to put your fears to rest, the driver has been paid extra to not watch or listen. Classy eh?Sadly dear reader our time together has come to an end, as by the recounting of this shit (really, I tried ever so hard to refrain from using that word) I strangely and suddenly fill quite nauseous. I feel quite ill indeed, so much so that I can’t wait to punish myself with more rubbish from the same author. With titles such as “Awakening the Beast”, “Wicked Werewolf Night”, “Beast of Desire”, “Damned Delicious”, “Breathless Descent”, “Exposed and Pleasured” and “Santa Baby” (God only knows what , Ms Jones used to ask Santa for, suffice to say it wouldn’t fit in a stocking) how can I possibly resist.
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You always want what you can't have! So cute!
—anestisha
