YAKUZA PERFUME, by Akahige Namban. New York: Blue Moon Books, 2001, 206 pp., $7.95 (paper).

This curious book is an American-published pornographic novel that purports to be written by a Japanese. Though its main aim is to excite, its interest lies in the cultural assumptions it makes, these rendered suspicious by the presumptions it displays concerning the character of Japanese women.

In all pornographic writings (at least those written by men) women are usually portrayed as insatiable. They must be if the designated quota of couplings is to be achieved. This varies but the number offered by Stephen Ziplow in his "Filmmaker's Guide to Pornography" -- 10 "money shots" per film -- seems average for fiction as well as film.

In Namban's novel, however, such scenes occur every few pages. There are, indeed, so many that they get in the way of the story and I never did find out what the "yakuza perfume" consisted of. Not that anyone but a reviewer would complain. One does not read pornography for plot content or character interest.

Indeed, any such detracts from reader expectations. Pornography has only one aim -- stimulation. It is designed for one-handed consumption and like that other single-fisted implement, the cell phone, is programmed to conclude with satisfaction.

If this book does not, it is because of its curious mixture of cultural messages. We are offered, for example, that old-fashioned and never-deserved assumption of Japan as a sexual paradise. Consequently there are too many available women -- so many indeed that the reader cannot keep them straight.

Nor, to be sure, is he supposed to. Women in pornographic writings by men are a commodity -- the more the better. Hence the 1986 finding of the U.S. Attorney General's Commission on Pornography that pornography is degrading to women. "It is provided primarily for the lustful pleasure of men and boys who use it to generate excitation," and is not at all respectful of the integrity of the female sex.

In the Namban book there is Michiko, the neighborhood policewoman; Matsuko, a member of her school's mountain-climbing club; Natsume, profession unknown; plus Chieko, Mayumi, and on and on. These constructs pair off with the men in the novel, and occasionally with each other, since male porn readers are said to like this kind of thing. None is a full character; all are metaphors for availability, a cultural message that can lead only to disappointment.

There is another reason for pornographic failure. Success assumes that the writer is honest in his attempts to stimulate -- we all want to be in helpful hands. Here, however, we have an obvious impersonation. The name of the purported author, Akahige Namban, translates as "Red Bearded Southern Barbarian," and this is an unlikely Japanese name.

In addition, stylistic evidence indicates a similar lack of Japanese participation. "Shacho," for example, is given as "sacho," and the diction is of that ridiculous English variety common to porn where you run out of nouns: " . . . forcing her tongue into his mouth then sucking his into her own oral cavity."

There are, to be sure, many attempts at local color: "He knew Japanese carpentry was solid, but Matsuko was no featherweight. ... "For a moment she felt like gagging, then managed to convince herself that the taste was not much different from the 'oden' she had eaten. ...

"Exact copies of their (organs) were made skillfully by a craftsman who specialized in such things in Kappabashi."

All of these, however, fail to persuade.

Though "the hive that is Tokyo" is spoken of knowledgeably, we are not convinced, and when the yakuza finally come on we are not even interested. This is what comes of mixing messages -- getting so many things wrong the author forfeits not only regard but reliability. All reading implies a certain trust and pornographic writing demands more than usual.

A successful pornographic novel suggests confidence. The writer knows what he is doing and he knows the rules for doing it. Namban, however, fails to inspire this trust. I read his entire book (what a reviewer will not do for his readers) and so can attest to a steady decline of interest. The men are creeps and the women are unlikely, the pace is all downhill, the rhythm is flaccid. The author does not know what he is talking about.

It is this kind of book that gives pornography a bad name. There is successful porn. Read John Cleland, or Guillaume Apollinaire, Georges Bataille or Stephan Berg. After reading their works (and washing your hands) you emerge fulfilled and at peace. This is not true of Namban's attempt -- it can lead only to cultural confusion.