One of the less fortunate literary repercussions of the women's movement is hyped-up enthusiasm (and lowered standards) for women writing explicitly about sex; to wit -- Lynda Schor, a darling of Ms. Magazine whose eleven stories here demonstrate a speck of talent (mostly in the form of a fair ear for urban-Jewish humor) drowning in crude sexual politics, tedious sexual play-by-play, and a swarm of technical deficiences. All of the stories go on too long, none take on a satisfying shape -- so even the better thematic notions become tiresome: ""Love"" as gluttony (he ""buries his penis in cream cheese and onion-soup dip and then my mouth""); Snow White recast as a contemporary therapy-case (the Prince is a paranoid wife-beater); the liberating visit of Batman to a group therapy session: ""'Spread her legs,' ordered 'Batman,' who was commencing rubbing his prick with one hand . . ."" Only the Woody-alienish ""Tooth Fairy"" almost works, being short enough to let its gimmicks go comparatively unbelabored: a masturbating man's erection produces a genie -- the Tooth Fairy of his childhood fantasies and the embodiment of assorted female sex-roles. But otherwise these stories of Sex with the Professor, group sex, Sex with a Transvestite Husband, etc. -- plus one openly romantic outpouring, the worst story of all (""Peeling an orange reminds me of you, walking through grass reminds me of you . . ."") -- substitute hang-ups for insights, clinical detail for skillful prose, and awkward parody for genuine comedy. Result: mostly dullish, droning porn (with a few funny lines), which will draw trendy attention only because it's written by a woman. And what could be more sexist than that?