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Lewellyn's fiction is, as many have noted, a kind of nihilistic erotica where sex and the emptiness of death commingle in truly disturbing ways. Great stuff. Unfortunately, the narrator has a way of making all the dialogue sound either whiny or cartoonish, and the repetitive rhythm of the reading does no justice to the horror of the tales, instead making them seem perfunctory.
I almost always finish my purchases but could not get through this one. The writing seemed amateur, like written by a freshman creative writing class. The second story was so bad, I kept skipping ahead. The sex scenes played like old seventies porn. And I did not care for the reader who sounded like the old late night TV ads for phone sex numbers. And her vocal fry was so bad, almost unlistenable. To women readers, please clean up your vocal fry before publishing an audio book. This is the second book I've experienced with this problem, the other one being The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake.