Alternatives to Sex: A Novel by Stephen McCauley

By Stephen McCauley

Boston actual property agent William Collins understands that his conduct are slipping uncontrolled. because of obsessive-compulsive day-by-day cleansing binges and a penchant for nightly on-line cruising for hookups, he reveals his revenues figures slipping regardless of a booming industry. There's additionally his ongoing fight to gather the lease from his passive-aggressive tenant and his concerns approximately his ally, Edward, whom he's definitely not in love with. simply as he makes a decision to deal with his lifestyles, he meets Charlotte and Samuel, filthy rich suburbanites searching for the appropriate urban residence. "Happy couple," he writes in his notes. "Maybe i will be able to research anything from them." What he finally discovers demanding situations his personal assumptions approximately actual property, love, and wish; and what they study from him may perhaps get to the bottom of a budding friendship, let alone a truly promising sale.
jam-packed with crackling discussion introduced via a stellar ensemble of gamers, Alternatives to Sex is a great, hilarious chronicle of existence in post-traumatic, morally ambiguous the United States -- the place the will to do stable is consistently being tripped up by means of the necessity to think stable. straight away.

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The others were locals. They made a great deal of noise, singing and shouting with the jukebox, but they all seemed tired and depressed. It was not the rhythmic sadness of Mexican music, but the howling emptiness of a sound I have never heard anywhere but in Puerto Rico -- a combination of groaning and whining, backed up by a dreary thumping and the sound of voices bogged down in despair. It was terribly sad -- not the music itself, but the fact that it was the best they could do. Most of the tunes were translated versions of American rock-and-roll, with all the energy gone.

The manager seemed terrified at the prospect of welshers walking out on him. He followed us into the parking lot, cursing and pleading by turns. " he howled. "When will you pay?. . you'll see, the police will come. . " I thought the man was crazy and my only desire was to get him off our backs. "Christ," I said. " "Yeah," said Sala, bringing out his wallet. " "Don't worry," said Yeamon. " He tossed his coat in the car, then turned to the manager. " We got in the car. As soon as Yeamon started his scooter the manager ran back and began shouting to the men inside the bar.

Ever since I'd come to San Juan I'd been meaning to get out on the island, but without a car it was impossible. My furthest penetration had been to Yeamon's, about twenty miles out, and Fajardo was twice as far in the same direction. We decided to get some rum and stop by his place on the way back, hoping to get there just as he paddled in from the reef with a bulging sack of lobsters. "He's probably damn good at it by now," I said. " I laughed. "Not out there. " Sala exclaimed. " I shrugged. I'd assumed from the very beginning that Yeamon would sooner or later be killed -- by somebody or some faceless mob, for some reason or other, it seemed inevitable.

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