This novel should come with an X rating

The advance reader’s edition of Israeli writer Maya Kessler’s debut novel, “Rosenfeld,” arrived on my doorstep with a warning label. On its cover was an “R” like the one used to rate films, and beside it the tagline: “A Grown-Up Love Story for Grown-Ups.” Its publisher, a division of Simon and Schuster that mostly publishes high-end fiction and nonfiction, pronounced it “brazenly sexy” in its marketing materials.

Finally, something to distract me from reality!

(Avid Reader)

It turns out that R probably should be an X. From the moment 36-year-old aspiring filmmaker Noa lays eyes on Teddy — the “Rosenfeld” of the title — she’s in unrelenting lust. The 55-year-old CEO might objectively be “fat,” “despicable” and “ugly,” but in Noa’s view his flaws make for a fertile erogenous zone. When Teddy smiles at her for the first time at the wedding reception where they meet, he displays “a disorganized set of teeth, canines slightly pointed inward, somewhat obscuring the other teeth. I find that mouth so beautiful,” she observes. They aggressively flirt, and before long make their way to a bathroom stall, where they don’t exactly … consummate anything.

During the next month and a half, Noa’s desire for Teddy builds to a frenzied pitch, but he holds her at arms’ length, confining their interactions to horny texts and verbal sparring, which Noa likens to fencing. If it is, she’s on the defensive. When Teddy doesn’t call or text her for an entire day, she feels “proud of myself for having managed to keep from writing him.” (So much for a grown-up love story.) Whether Teddy’s resistance to giving in to Noa stems from his poor past record with women or from her raging immaturity is impossible to assess. But at long last she finally penetrates his guard, and the ensuing consummation occupies five pages consisting mainly of words I can’t repeat here.

To say that Noa makes Isadora Wing of “Fear of Flying” look like a prude is an understatement. She’s utterly insatiable, and Teddy knows exactly how to please and to play her. On the other hand, unlike Isadora, Noa isn’t in it for a zipless anything: She wants to consume Teddy, and to be consumed. In this dynamic, sex is power, and it’s anybody’s guess as to who will end up on top.

“Rosenfeld” was first published in Israel in 2022, where it became a viral sensation, spending 30 weeks on bestseller lists. Its popularity can be traced primarily to Kessler’s mastery of the sex scene, and for nearly 400 pages, we are subjected to scores of them. Much of the dialogue between Noa and Teddy is charged; it’s less conversation than foreplay. The novel is narrated in first person from Noa’s point of view, which adds to its voyeuristic tingle. That said, the subplots intended to add dimension and texture to the main characters — for instance, that Noa’s mother abandoned her as a child and left her permanently wounded — read as interludes devised so the reader can rest up between rendezvous.

At various points, Noa’s insecurity reaches epic heights, and she turns to alcohol, cocaine, weed and chain-smoking to quell her self-doubts and loosen her tongue. She is rarely off their text thread — which she uses as another might a journal — so Teddy is fully cognizant of her instability, which every moment threatens to terminate their volcanic bond. Noa is as unquenchable in her need for Teddy’s reassurance as she is for him to want her carnally: “We move to the bed … maybe we’re not as angry anymore, and I’m trying to get a promise out of him, a declaration, or I don’t know what, but I can’t get him to say the words I’m looking for.” I looked at this younger woman and thought: Get a grip!

About halfway through “Rosenfeld,” I found myself skipping over the initially titillating — but increasingly tedious — sex scenes to get down to the heart of the matter. Or was there one? Still, I wondered, will these two end up together? I won’t spoil that reveal, for those who might stay for the cheap thrills (there’s nothing wrong with that). What this hopelessly romantic reviewer will say is that this mostly seductive novel would have benefited from a little less intermingling of fluids and a little more merging of souls. As it is, for me, this was more of a one-night stand.

Leigh Haber is a writer, editor and publishing strategist. She was director of Oprah’s Book Club and books editor for O, the Oprah Magazine.