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The multitalented artist Miranda July has written a wildly sexual book about a woman approaching menopause, so of course it’s time for a square old man to pass judgment.

At your service.

But first, is it getting hot in here?

I’ve never reviewed such an explicit novel before. I felt so self-conscious reading “All Fours�� on the subway that I tore off the cover. July, 50, seems determined to cure the inhibitions of middle age by stripping away every censorial impulse and plunging us into a bubble bath of erotic candor.

Although such a description may invoke the spirit of Anaïs Nin, July is too funny for that association. In these pages, she’s outrageous and outrageously hilarious. With “All Fours,�� perimenopausal readers finally have their own “Portnoy’s Complaint.�� But even that comparison doesn’t capture the immediacy of July’s prose, its infallible timing, its palpable sense of performance. Indeed, several unforgettable (and unquotable) sections have the snap and swoop of a transgressive stand-up routine.

The unnamed narrator �� “a woman who had success in several mediums�� �� is a close approximation of July, who’s published books; directed, written and acted on stage and in films; and currently has a solo art show in Milan. Although “All Fours�� is labeled a novel, the space between the author’s life and the story’s protagonist is often no wider than a bra strap.

To read the rest of this review, go to The Washington Post: