It is a privilege to be read by women like this.
“If the internet is our cultural ego, then the darknet is its id. Within its parameters lies the purest anonymity and, with this divestiture of identity, the divestiture of social responsibility.”
– from my review of Eileen Ormsby’s new book.
So much going on at the moment – articles to be published, book-related news, etc. – but no time to report. Until then, just some of the coverage for #1 Amazon motherhood bestseller on its release Mama: Love, Motherhood and Revolution – not that I’m suggesting you buy a copy for all the mothers in your life for Mother’s Day or anything, although it would, along with a hologram of Lord Byron and a month at Claridge’s, make a SMASHING gift. Mama: Love, Motherhood and Revolution is available on Amazon or bookdepository.com x
My review of Don Winslow’s new blockbuster can be found here.
Other that Guns and Penises, The Force was the only possible title, really, because tough guys need to surround themselves with things that make them feel tough. Titles like Ideological Dinosaurs Still Roam The Earth or My Knob, My Rules or American Fuckwit just didn’t have the same commercial punch. Some quotes from this new classic of modern literature?
What passes for a compliment:
How the hero expresses his anger towards a woman:
Malone gets up, goes for her. “You fucking cunt!”
Because real men don’t need to explain their anger in a respectful way – they just get abusive.
What passes for love:
“It was her voice, low and soft, even more than her looks, that first drew him to her. A voice full of promises and reassurance. You’ll find comfort here. And pleasure. In my arms, in my mouth, in my pussy.”
Mouth, pussy and arms/arse: these are the most important attributes of any woman. Listen to Don, children. He’s old and wise. The man knows what he’s talking about!
What passes for humour:
“‘… then he wets his dick in thousand-dollar pussy, comes out and says, ‘Don’t tell Amy’!’ They all crack up again.”
Because ninety dollar pussy is for losers, and because it’s really, really funny to feel bad about fucking a woman other than your partner. It is, in fact, it is so funny that all the male characters “crack up”. As if a real man would be honest, faithful or respectful with a woman! D’oh!
How women talk to the men they love:
“You smell like pussy, you motherfucker. White pussy, some ratchet?”
I have yet to finish calculating the value of white pussy in relation to black pussy – taking ratchet and non-ratchet variables into account, of course … over to you, Don!
Observations on the younger generation:
“So much young pussy around these days and they give it away for an iTunes download.”
Did anyone say “blonde moment”? These girls need to enroll in the legendary business course “Bang for Your Buck: Valuing Pussy 101” pronto! Subjects covered include:
– Explore how to make pussy appraisal decisions and valuation!
– Examine the workings and efficiency of pussy markets!
– Master the principles of cock structure!
– Perform valuations of pussies using real-world cases!
– Learn how to put a value on any pussy in a global context!
Base your future decisions on the knowledge of pussy markets, cost of lingerie, cash flow modelling, liquidity, intellectual governance, cross-gender transactions, optimal aesthetic value and analysis of oral technique. A baccalaureate in pornography is, of course, is essential.
What real men do on a Saturday night:
“You don’t go bowling. That’s just a cover to pig out, get drunk and fuck cheap whores.”
As if! Our hero only fucks expensive whores.
What passes for romance:
“You were never ‘some whore I fucked.’”
Golly. Is it hot in here, or have I just been staring at Don Winslow’s jacket photograph?
Why all women should be euthanised at the age of thirty:
“… the smell of old garbage and stale urine, sweet, sour, sickly and corrupt as an old whore’s perfume.”
Yes, “old” (prob over 28) whores smell like “old garbage and stale urine”, but old johns are very different. Old johns are what EVERY piece of thousand-dollar pussy wants – and the older, the better. What kind of freakish young woman would want a gentle, respectful, beautiful guy her own age? Gimme sumdat sugarstick, Methuselah! Sixtysomething men, in fact, offer a pleasure so intense that, like Precambrian poster-boy Hugh Hefner, they require multiple young partners simultaneously. Yes, ladies, they are SEXUAL STEAM ENGINES. Don’t believe me?
“Harry was sixtysomething, I dunno,” Russo says, “but fucking like he’s nineteen. Two girls at a time, three, he’s a steam engine. Girls are tag-teaming, he’s wearing them out … So this one night … there’s Harry, in the sack, hookers standing around him weeping like he’s Jesus or something.”
As it happens, Don is 63. (I’m still trying to work out what that means in relation to the quote.)
What passes for an evening out:
“… usually just an excuse to get drunk with your buddies or bang some whore, or both.”
Yes, that’s right, children: “some whore” – a thing, an object, three holes and an invoice.
And people ask why I married a much younger man.
Is misogyny a construct or is the genital hierarchy real? My review of Professor Catharine MacKinnon’s Butterfly Politics here. More on the gender wars soon. Antonella x
My double review of two compelling books – medical historian Sarah Chaney’s “Psyche on the Skin: A History of Self-Harm” and writer Jenny Valentish’s “Woman of Substances: A Journey into Addiction and Treatment” – is in today’s Weekend Australian. Read it here.
When I posted this photograph I took of Stanley Spencer’s Double Nude Portrait: The Artist and his Second Wife (1937) on Instagram and Facebook, the response was, for the most part, one of incredulity and revulsion. The level of discomfort was notable.
Artist Patricia Preece is the woman in this intensely erotic painting. Her indolence is a world away from the insecure, manipulative posturing we now understand as arousing. With a cool, almost ironic expression, she taunts her husband with her nakedness. Her body is flaunted in what we perceive as all of its imperfections. That which we fail to understand is that the imperfections are not hers, but ours in failing to see the beauty that so captivated Spencer.
For his part, Spencer’s desire is incandescent – this is symbolised not only by his stiffening sex, but by the burning coal fire behind him. The raw leg of mutton by Preece’s body is a metaphor for the depth of his carnal appetite for her: he would consume her if he could, make her part of him, finish her off. Her value to him is high; she is flushed with pinks and streaked with gold, whereas he paints himself in the wan colours of a bruise. The space she takes up in the portrait reinforces her emotional importance; he surveys her as a king would his kingdom. The responsibilities of this sovereignty, however, may be more grim or troubling than he would like, as his downturned mouth suggests.
Double Nude Portrait is magnificent because it captures the desire fuelled by intimacy and the complexity that such desire can entail. As a culture, we no longer recognise this; the only sexual desire we feel permitted to acknowledge without being considered lesser is that inspired by bodies which conform to the transhumanist ideal. Authenticity and emotion are irrelevant. The context of marriage is, in itself, now widely regarded as antithetical to arousal, so dreary that we require new sexual partners – even only in a visual format – to become aroused. Desire has become confused with social aspiration and, in the case of pornography, with stress relief.
We have forgotten what it is to feel desire based on intimacy rather than appearance.
In this portrait, Spencer and Preece are neither young nor beautiful, which, to us, makes their nakedness – and the nakedness of his desire – strange and overwhelming. Yet there is no more beautiful a portrait of a man’s conflicted sexual appetite for his wife: Spencer’s desire is specific rather than general, based on intimacies, grievances and experiences to which we are not privy. He wants her as she is, arrogant in her display, teasing, without pose or artifice. Her lack of nurturance is shown by the shrivelled representation of her breasts; there is no enfolding here, but he still wants her. More than anything, it is his lack of idealisation that is mesmerising.
Spencer doesn’t care about the viewer’s – or the culture’s – tastes; in Double Nude Portrait, his sexual interest concerns the woman he has married, a woman he could devour like a leg of mutton. And it is, perhaps, the elemental intimacy of his desire that so unnerves us.