I was born and raised Catholic. They’re all about sex:
1. And 2. Fifty Shades; It took two books in the series before I began to yawn.
3. The adventures of Fanny Hill.
4. A Pick-up artist book that I bought in the airport whose title escapes me. I learned everything I know about flirting from this book.
Shortly afterwards I go to the library and I do just like the book says. A cute doctor came over and gave me his number.
This book has a high shame factor.
5. Anaïs Nin. But that’s okay because it’s acceptable in polite society nowadays as literature. Low shame factor.
6. If I hurriedly put Comfort’s Joy of Sex back on the shelf (Boy, does that speak volumes about repression?) and only read it in the dead of night in that beautiful townhouse in London when the family friend at whose house I was staying was sleeping soundly, does that count?
Oh symbols, how coldly and cruelly you leak your truth to me!
This is another reason why I write, the words reveal to me a person that I’ve never met. Just like that video I saw once.
“WHO dafuck is that strange woman playing easily and happily with MY kids?”
Or judging my reflection when I don’t realize that it’s my reflection.
After I wrote that article, I saw narcissi everywhere even on the postage stamp I bought for the card-with-authentic-piece-of-Berlin-wall:
To be continued…
In the meantime: