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I found myself staring at myself in print while reading this book: blouse ripped open, bra off, panties at my feet. Moctezuma is a talented writer with a foundation in journalism and literature. His writing isn't just flowery smut as some have said about him, but the gonads of the planet wrapped softly in a sweet girl's beautiful mouth (my mouth?). His writing de-robes, de-flowers, and destroys boundaries and conventions. He makes you feel sexy when you read because he worships the female form. By the end of the book I was touching myself, panties crumpled by my feet, yet feeling a syrupy nostalgia. This book is really a eulogy to old loves and is quite a beautiful read. There is nothing sentimental about it, it is direct and attacking, which makes it all the more touching.