This from debauchette:
"Over dinner, he said, “It’s kind of weird that we met at a fivesome. I didn’t even know your name.” He didn’t even know my name, and yet he’d explored nearly every part of my body. I really like meeting people this way, sex first. No games. No small talk."
If she can post so openly about such things, why am I still mired in conflicted feelings about such anonymity? And about the immediacy of trusting the first flush of pheromonal response?
Am I Isadora Wing at the end of Fear of Flying? Clinging tenaciously to the vestiges of anxiety regarding the psychic ramifications of that proverbial "zipless fuck"?
Would that I were as evolved as I purport to be. As I hope to be.
WTF? A moment of self-doubt? Me? This never happens.
Never mind. I concur with debauchette. No small talk, please. Real talk is OK, though. Preferable, even. Real and expository and plentiful and plumbed up from the deepest recesses of your soul, please. Please. We can be naked, if that would make you more comfortable.
NB: The wikipedia entry about Fear of Flying and the zipless fuck doesn't really acknowledge that, at the end of the novel, Isadora finally gets her zipless fuck and she feels violated! She hates it and it makes her feel victimized. Isn't it funny how Third-Wave Feminism has co-opted this phrase to denote female ownership over our own sexuality and yet, in its source, it's as deeply enmeshed with internal conflict as any of us. Oh, it's a complicated study, it is.
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