This book proves once again (as if I needed any further proof this far into our tiresomely exhibitionist century) that other people's sexual fetishes* make for extraordinarily dull reading, even when they are gussied up with exquisitely beautiful prose and oodles of (once upon a time) celebrity names.
This isn't "experimental" literature-it's a dragging, masturbatory ejaculation of pointless prose aimed at a fawning, self-congratulory readership ashamed of its own lusts (for gossip, fame, sex, gore, retribution).
For the real experimental, take-no-prisoners, literary thing roughly contemporaneous with Ballard check out anything by Ann Quin, Christine Brooke-Rose, or Henry Green. No celebrity, little sex, an absence of anatomy lessons (if I never see another reference to buccal orifices and children's perineums, I will die a happy woman) and mayhem kept to a minimum, but some of the best blow your head off writing available in English.
*Except for Bataille. Everybody needs to experience the sheer, world-twisting weirdness of Bataille, if only to say they read it and survived with some sense of sexual instinct intact.