Back in Berlin for a week, during a lovely dinner at Mittendrin, a friend in Berlin quoted VS Naipaul as saying something to the effect that making love to an American woman is like boarding a moving train. I can't find any evidence of this quote on-line, but while surfing, I have learned that VSN was apparently a real shit, albeit a very experienced one. I guess he would know.... This week I learned that 1) although I am really 20 years too old for it, if I am to have any future as a dominatrix, my arms will most definitely need more work, 2) I appear older than another woman who I'm sure is at least 5 years my senior (something to do with my skin that I don't quite grasp), and 3) I am the least relaxed of his eight current lovers, which I suppose is where VSN's quote enters into the picture. Yes, you guessed it, Mr. Performance Artist is putting in another appearance on this blog, doing his part to keep up his membership in the Misogyny Section of The Men's Club. It would appear that I am expected to believe that if it weren't for my big ass, it would be simply impossible for him to, shall we say, execute the required follow-through.
Ah well, as a 20-something, I was known to dream of disfiguring accidents because I was so fatigued by the incessant attention I got, particularly in Latinamerica. In my 30s, I caught on to the facts of life; that all of that was not going to last forever and I should be grateful for what I still had. Now in my early 40s, I have to say that I'm still waiting for the day in which I become invisible to men. I don't wish for that day, but I contemplate it with resigned equanimity.
Especially because of the beautiful N., goddess of hospitality (why am I so lucky to have so many friends who love visitors??), it was a good visit. Even spending half the time at Mr. PA's flat ended up being a good thing, despite the drama (or maybe because of it: moving to a country where one doesn't know a soul is really difficult for a confirmed drama queen). It reminded me both of the things I like about him and what I simply cannot abide. Demystification is always the best strategy, of course, in those cases when absence might tempt the heart to grow fonder. With that little tendency now neatly nipped in the bud, I can turn my hand to the more serious business of getting on with my life at hand. Including, particularly, a real effort to not immediately eschew any man who might offer any sort of normalcy and/or stability. This means NO MORE ARTISTS!