The novel presents a cityscape inhabited by a sub-species of homo urbanus:
young men and women who embody an obsession with sex so bizarre that sodomy
is merely the platform from which they bungee jump into a moral void of
alarming practices where the tattoo gun, the scalpel and the needle are key
tools.

Cheri Blossom had her nipples cut open so that she can use them as candle
holders for her floor show; Bing Beiderbixxe is a bald undergrad nerd whose
imagination works exclusively in the realm of pornography; Ponyboy is a
late teen coiffeur-conscious deadbeat who improbably drops toothpaste drool
on his backside. Kenny, a gay virgin whose childhood was spent touring pawn
shops with his wacky gambling aunt, picks up our young hero in his
dilapidated “FBImobile,” makes inept passes at the kid and, equally
ineptly, offers to take him home, an opportunity that Newell half-heartedly
rejects. This leaves Kenny stuck with an increasingly delinquent Newell as
the night proceeds.

“What am I supposed to do,” Kenny asks at the end of the book, not only on
his own behalf but in the name of lost and confused humanity. “Just what am
I supposed to do now?” All these characters stand alone in paranoid
isolation, even when they are having sex with each other.

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