Hidden Bodies by Caroline Kepnes

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If you're the person who wrote the synopsis of Hidden Bodies on the book jacket, then consider yourself one of the lucky few who didn't actually read this novel by Caroline Kepnes, the follow-up to the darkly sexual You. Be thankful that you side-stepped this filthy poor excuse for a story (but still got paid).

The book jacket says that Joe Goldberg, Serial Stalker and Accidental Serial Killer, moves to Los Angeles for a fresh start, and to find love, but can't stop looking over his shoulder because "hidden bodies never stay hidden," when - in fact - Joe does not move to LA for a fresh start, he is most definitely not looking for love, and hidden bodies aren't actually a nuisance to Joe until the second-to-last chapter. This book - which is coated in a thin layer of ick - is a big fuck-you to Hollywood and everyone in the industry. It's a running list of rejected screenplays, and, yet, is somehow a tale of wildest dreams coming true, and it's the most unexpected representation of blatant sexism, Kepnes unabashedly portraying every male character as a simple-minded, blow-job obsessed, robot, including our hero, Joe. I'm not going to tell you the synopsis, and if you've watched the second season of You on Netflix, it's not that either.

The beginning is as you'd expect for the sequel to You - erotic and sinisterly sexy - but quickly turns dirty, raunchy, and just plain gross. As you power through the filth, and presumably shower several times, Joe is bitter, angry, and crass. OG Joe was our hero stalker, protecting Beck from Benji and Peach and herself, but LA Joe is on the hunt for revenge; a hunt for "Supercunts," the use of this word a little too prolific for my taste, but ultimately getting distracted by feeling compelled to murder everyone who irritates him. I've read trashy, grocery-store pseudo-romance novels, and I've watched porn, but this book is just foul; absolute garbage.

The only redeeming qualities of this book, if you can call them that, is that Joe has remarkably good luck and a remarkably fulfilling sex-life in spite of his penchant for killing people; he's moved on from simple stalking. And I agree with his sentiments about LA: it's claustrophobic, dirty, expensive, you spend an inordinate amount of time worrying about parking, you experience three different seasons in one day - mild spring in the morning, intense humidity in late morning, desert-like heat for the afternoon, and freezing nights - and although everything is literally leaning up against everything else, everyone drives everywhere even though everyone is worried about parking. Wow, I sounded like Joe there for a minute. But while a lot seems to happen to Joe, nothing actually happens; it's just the wanderings and bitter observations of a bitter man; hundreds of pages of Joe's melodramatic, narcissistic, bitching and moaning. I sped through it because, like bad sex, I was waiting for something interesting to happen, and when I eventually realized that that was never going to happen, I just wanted it to be over so I could move on to a good book, which is a true story involving the Holocaust, if that tells you anything about how much I enjoyed Hidden Bodies. ⭐/5 on my goodreads profile, and that's being generous. Will I continue to follow Joe's journey in You Love Me? Most likely no.

Maestra by L.S. Hilton

Well, this novel definitely falls into the I Don't Know What The Fuck I Just Read category. Maestra by L.S. Hilton gave me some very conflicting thoughts, not unlike the book itself; it's Fifty Shades of Grey without the whiny Anastasia, and Nancy Drew with extra naughty. And if there is one thing the book taught me, it's to never underestimate the underling.

Judith is a put-upon art house assistant whose talents are grossly overlooked and taken advantage of. When she accidentally discovers an impending heist, Judith sets off on a European tour that would make even the Hilton sisters green with envy (and scream from all of the spanking).

Maestra starts out interesting enough, though the uncovering of the heist is a bit confusing. It helps that Judith's work and her obvious display of intelligence are interspersed with erotic sex scenes with strangers who also happen to swim in the same circles, which is just the beginning of the various contradictions. 

Then Judith seems to put her Nancy Drew routine on hold while she high-end hooks from the French Riviera to Geneva. The book synopsis will have you believe that Judith sets out to reclaim what is rightfully her's when it's really more of something falling into her lap and she is just selfish enough to go after it. The story is empowering though degrading, overly complicated yet too easy, glamorous but trashy, and classy yet sleazy. The writing is pretentious and elitist even though Hilton has a proclivity for the word "cunt," and although Judith - as well as the book - scoffs at the idea that a woman embracing her sexuality is a result of trauma, she still peppers the story with snippets of Judith's violent childhood. Aside from that, we never get to know anything about Judith besides her fashion choices and how wet her pussy gets.

The writing - unlike the inside of Judith, apparently - is not smooth or fluid, and although Hilton obviously has a very broad vocabulary, it doesn't extend to her sex scenes. And what Judith makes look easy, Hilton over-complicates with her list of geographical places in lieu of any imagery.

Maestra is definite superficial erotic escapism in the way that is totally unreal and unbelievable. And even though Romance novels are always outside the realms of reality, I feel duped with this book for some reason; the execution just missed the mark. I won't rush out to the bookstore to continue the trilogy, but I won't turn it down if I happen across Domina at the Dollar Tree.

⭐⭐/goodreads CLICK HERE TO PURCHASE 

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