A sweet I-work-at-a-bank-type guy once asked me if I’d read Tom Robbins. Well. I’d just left my complete Robbins collection (minus Still Life With Woodpecker) on my brownstone’s stoop because my new bookshelves couldn’t accommodate it. I’d sped through all his novels on high school beach trips. Unlike the book my mom gave me in lieu of explaining sex (Are You There God? It’s Me Margaret, by Judy Blume), Robbins’ novels—Woodpecker, in particular—made sex sound fun. I might never read Jitterbug Perfume again, but Woodpecker, definitely.