In the interest of full disclosure, I did not finish this book. I didn't even get halfway through. The story he tells begins at the end, when he sells his and his roommate's furniture--all of it, sofas to stereos--for a couple hits of crack. Then Simmons returns to his childhood. He was raising primarily by his grandmother in a poor area of Savannah in the '50s and early '60s. At an early age, he was raped by a neighbor. This seems to be where he thinks his downward spiral really began. Who knows.
All I know is that after 120 pages of being told, in graphic detail, about lots of different kinds of sex, with men and with women, I just couldn't read further. The only people who won't find this book repellent in the extreme are people who like their stories told in excruciating detail using lots of four-letter words.
I feel for the guy, but he could have used an editor to move his story along coherently.
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