So dogmatic a title hardly befits a personal memoir, and Perrin should know that she can't speak for all women--or for all lesbians either. But, bent on filling a literary void, she generalizes (even proselytizes) as though licensed by her own, quote, ""inversion"" and her work. Perrin runs a classy lesbian nightclub in Paris, where--after repatriation from the French Indochina of her birth--she earned a law degree and met the man she married, unaware of the implications of her passionate adolescent infatuation with other girls. Now pushing 50, Perrin is still making up for time lost before her revelation some 25 years ago: as she proudly parades the conquests that may displace one another with the turn of a page, Perrin showcases a lifestyle at odds with her defensive pronouncements on lesbian mores (lowlife, promiscuity, infidelity). She supplies erotic scenes aplenty, including an ultra-graphic opener, but revels mainly in oral love-making: ""Why in the world would we want to adorn ourselves with. . . ersatz monstrosities?"" (dildoes). As for the genuine article--""that smooth-skinned puppet with its stupid look""--Perrin's visceral antipathy extends even to a previously-penetrated female partner of her own; besides, there's the clitoral-orgasm argument, which belongs in the manifesto department. On and off, Perrin seems like a not-very-nice lady who protests overmuch; guessing about gaps in her story wears thin at about the point when nothing new is to be added but another pretty face.