REVIEW: Passion's Sweet Sacrifice by Melissa Hepburne (1979)

★★★★
We here at Cads & Whores have already become acquainted with the bodice ripper stylings of one Melissa Hepburne (aka Craig Broude). Now, having read one of the she-male's books myself, I think Fern Michaels just got tossed off her "OMFG, this poorly-written shit is crazy awesome!" pedestal.

Passion's Sweet Sacrifice, looked at objectively, is Utter Crap, written by someone with only a passing acquaintance with the genre based solely on cash principles.

But sometimes that can be an asset, because rather than being one of many retreads of the same old stuff, Hepburne/Broude's ineptitude has a reckless and clueless fun about it that ends up making it stand out from the pack.

Or maybe that's just me. I know I won't be forgetting this one for a good long while. Probably never. No doubt I will still giggle about a crate of coconuts on my deathbed.

And then someone will decide it's time to smother me with a pillow.

There are no words to describe this book. Literally no words. I'm finding it difficult to even begin this review. Where do I even start?


Well, first off: the cover. That's Lord Larry of Olivier sportin' a Blue Max and canoodling with Marilyn Monroe. Cover artist be using The Prince and the Showgirl as inspiration.

Is the cover even remotely related to the story itself? Well, yes, "related" as in "being so very not like it." The Germans in the story? Bad guys. Very bad guys. Kinky bad guys. (Which suits me fine, but that's beside the point.) Where's the hero on this cover? This is a first for me: a cover where the heroine is draped over the villain.

And the planes? Well, yeah, there are Sopwiths and a Fokker Dreidecker in it, in a totally historically inaccurate way.

And yes, the heroine is indeed a scantily-clad showgirl. So 2 out of 3 ain't bad and I guess it is more correct than not. Sorta.

But it's not what's on the cover that rates it 4 solid stars. It's the relentless, crazyass WTFery inside that kept me glued and LOLing from nearly the first page to the very end. Ol' Craiggers doesn't pause for coherency or accuracy, and gives solemnity a kick in the nuts at every opportunity. This is vintage Fern Michaels crazy, but more tawdry and fun.

If I had to sum up this book in one paragraph, it would be:

The pink-haired Sabrina St. Claire gets pre-war raped in a Washington DC meadow by a nasty German, drugged, and married off. She then escapes from Tahiti in a crate of coconuts. In Paris, she becomes a spy and striptease dancer because the Heinies threaten to kill a British boyfriend, Mike. Meanwhile, she bangs an American Han Solo called Dallas Hunter. A mess hall of German officers do their kinky, ebil thing to Sabrina and a tied-down Mike. The Red Baron shoots all three of them down over the North African jungle, where they get all horny over each other. Sabrina gets amnesia and becomes a native tribe's sun goddess who gets routinely aroused by the best warrior and almost gets burned on a pyre. Dallas and Mike rescue her horny butt, she gets her memory fucked back into her, and they go back to France where the war is happening and stuff. More spy stuff! Devious French torture to our heroine's clitoris! A trial and firing squad and last minute rescue! Sabrina finally chooses which guy she wants to have impale her loins for all time.

And then I could finally breathe again. It's been a long time since I've laughed so hard and I enjoyed every minute of it. Sabrina is almost charmingly naïve, and her traitorous body keeps things humping along. Dallas Hunter really was awesome and I'm psyched that he got his own book (although the price tag on it in the used book market is outrageous). Mike was so typical Tally-Ho Brit defending virtue and honor that I looked forward to the next "Eh what, you blighter?" thing he'd say next.

Even though I quickly got the tone of the book, the totally whack history kept throwing me for a loop. I had no idea just when the story was taking place. Historical events and real people mentioned simply didn't match up. It didn't annoy me, however; merely left me utterly baffled.

The story itself doesn't pause to think or make sense. It just does stuff and moves on. As nutty as that pithy little summary is, it doesn't do it justice. This is something that has to be read to be believed. Read it with your tongue in your cheek, just like the author wrote it.