I wish I could say that I revered David R. Slavitt for the books and poetry he published under his own name. Alas, I cannot. He was Henry Sutton to me.
When the Times published his obituary today, I immediately flashed back to my mother's living room bookshelves which stacked his two of his titles, The Exhibitionist and The Voyeur. Both were published by Bernard Geis and Associates, which shepherded Valley of the Dolls, to the best seller list, and may have been selections of the Literary Guild. Mary, who hid from me only Portnoy's Complaint (in her lingerie drawer!), belonged.
I read neither of Sutton's books in their entirety, only the dirty parts, which I'm pretty sure introduced me to the concept of blow jobs, in a heterosexual context. of course. Still, these passages were revelatory (you mean someone will let you put this there?!?!) and preceded my furtive paperback acquisition several years later of The Lord Won't Mind, the gay romance by Gordon Merrick (also a bestseller) that expanded my horizons to include vicarious anal sex.
But Slavitt's novels remain, at least in memory, a stunning artifact of a time when words were far more accessible than images for a sheltered 14-year-old suburbanite who knew where to look for them. Thank you, Henry!
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