Joan Sewell would rather eat chocolate, read a good book, read a not-so-good book, maybe even scrub the sink. In other words: not tonight, dear. In I'd Rather Eat Chocolate, her alternately shameless and brave tell-all, Sewell dishes about her profound indifference, bordering on distaste, for sex, a condition she thinks many women will relate to. The issue almost ended her marriage, landed her on a therapist's couch, and led to some tortured dealmaking with her husband. (''I've got my pornography,'' he tells her at one point. ''That'll be enough.'') Fessing up to a low libido may be a sexy new topic, but Sewell's TMI account is also TLA: too little analysis.
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