Even as confessional memoirs go, David Sterry's Chicken stands out from the rest. Alternately farcical, grotesque, brutal and sad.
Sordid, painful and often hilarious.
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Be it spring cleaning in a see-through apron while two wealthy women have sex or performing with ‘Tinker Bell’ while ‘Peter Pan’ whips her, the life of a teenage prostitute in Beverly Hills was never dull. Often dark, sometimes hilarious, but never dull.
Arriving in LA to attend college, but desperate for money, Sterry met a pimp who established him as a male prostitute serving a wild variety of well-off women (and occasionally men). This is his unflinching account of the twisted Wonderland of post-Sixities excess he encountered: peppered with frank descriptions of the work of a ‘sex technician’.
Sterry writes with comic brio . . . he's honed a vibrant outrageous writing style and turned out this studiously wild souvenir of a chequered past.
Unflinching and perceptive without being mawkish, and often very funny.