I’M NO SAINT

If this breezy account of one woman’s sexual escapades were a film, it would definitely be rated NC-17.

Hayt, a fashion writer for the New York Times, goes public about her private parts, not to mention those of her various premarital, marital and extramarital partners. She begins with her wedding, declaring that “it felt like the start of a long prison sentence,” then flashes back to her days as a promiscuous teenager. Predictably, marriage to the unadventurous Charlie foundered within a few years, and Hayt’s search for adulterous sexual fulfillment began. At 32, she got pregnant by another man and had an abortion; by the time she was 34, she and Charlie had separated. Still supported by her estranged husband, newly renovated by Botox injections, dermabrasion, plastic surgery and breast implants, she launched herself at a series of men: the art dealer who left his shoes on during sex and had cold, green reptilian eyes; the media mogul with an aversion to bathing; the billionaire politico who was a lousy kisser; the right-wing oil magnate who wore lizard-skin footwear. Guessing their identities should give readers some amusement. In addition to blind dates and chance encounters, Hayt tried finding men through personal ads in the New York Observer, at her synagogue and in the men’s department at Bergdorf Goodman; the results were frequently disastrous and, as told here, extremely funny. Her excruciatingly detailed play-by-plays of her sexual antics are not so amusing, and it comes as no surprise that her husband, on the verge of a reconciliation as the narrative nears its end, changed his mind after reading her tell-all manuscript.

A nasty little memoir of sex and self-indulgence, for those eager for some upscale titillation.