Now this is a reading list I can get behind: Playboy’s Twenty-Five Sexiest Novels Ever Written.

It’s actually an interesting list, if a bit unsurprising. There are obvious choices: D. H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover, Pauline Réage’s Story of O, and Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita. Then there are those books that didn’t make the cut. Dashiell Hammett’s The Maltese Falcon may not be explicit, but Brigid O’Shaughnessy, who’s quite possibly the sexiest woman in literature, oozes more sex appeal than any adult-film star. But the list also begs the question of what exactly makes a book sexy. I’ve never found graphic sex to be particularly sexy or interesting; I much prefer a subtle air of mystery, a little anticipation—after all, doesn’t sex appeal largely hinge on leaving something to the imagination?