This book is as honest as it is imaginative—at last a sex memoir that explores religion, the history of painting, history itself!—and that finds in sex the connective tissue of all our experience.
Zakaria comes when he wants, and leaves when he wants. He is the unpredictable lover, but he brings something unique. Not quite love and not just sex. The one-night stand has gradually become an affair that hides but lasts. Until the religious ban and ghosts get involved. And the complicity becomes infected. What kind of relationship should be invented so as not to lose everything?
Under the triviality or mechanics of the sexual act, isn’t there a hidden river where everything rolls with revolting mysteries? Beyond the inevitable transports of love and frustrations, it is this unnoticed river that tries to find this tale that could be described as erotic.
Pussyboy is not a book about homosexual sexuality but about the confusion of identities in the experience of the body. It is also perhaps the trace of an imaginary that seeks the moment of its white square; that is to say, of what censors or cannot be represented, and whose body opens the unknown door in us. (PA)