Tenderness

It’s not sex, it’s not your good looks, it’s tenderness that wins a man’s heart, and honesty. You may have looks and style. You may sigh or scream just the way he likes to hear when you come, or something along those lines. That certainly doesn’t hurt, but, by God, it’s tender loving care he wants, just like you. And in keeping with that spirit: loyalty, faithfulness, no matter what goes down. No matter what.
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Rock ’n’ Roll

How do you define rock ’n’ roll? I define it as sex. Indeed, it was originally a slang word for the sexual act. The sexual act? Which one? There are so many possibilities…
Which begs the question: is sex about procreation, or about eroticism? You may argue that the one has nothing to do with the other, but I challenge you to substantiate your arguments to a most surprising degree, for you will find it very difficult to convince me that the two are not inseparably entwined in the human psyche. Even though I do not wish to produce further children (for heaven’s sake, I already have enough of the little rascals), I still want to make love.
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I? I want to…? Or is it my body that wants to rock ’n’ roll? Gotta be careful there, because there are animal desires which control you, you little porcupine. Basic human needs that are genetically encoded so deep in our psyches that we can’t grasp them intellectually. The need to procreate. Never forget that humans are animals… spiny, squishy, crazy little animals. Perhaps part of our craziness lies in the need for more than simple procreation. In fact, I don’t even think we are alone in this, in the animal world. Plenty of animals show a need for more than the simple sexual act. So perhaps we are at least not the only crazy animals. Perhaps all animals are crazy. Perhaps life itself is just an insane anomaly.
Yeah, but now rock ’n’ roll is just a kind of music, which is pretty damned funny when you think of the original meaning.
Listening to Na Hui from Leningrad.

Sex

Sometimes I wonder if my last relationship was simply based on sex. I put a lot of effort in to it (the relationship. Well, I put effort in to the sex too, of course…), I mean, like, love letters, poems, with plenty of pathos and eloquence ladled on. I know that sounds very cynical now, but I meant it, I was dead earnest, and I put a lot of mental energy in to writing my feelings.
In the end, though, I have the feeling it was a chemical thing. Like I was attracted in spite of myself, in spite of my intellect. The woman was something of a bitch, in retrospect, and intellectually not even my lousy equal. She herself complained that I could argue circles around her. But she smelled good. It was something completely new in my experience.
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My music? It wasn’t her music. My taste in Films? It wasn’t hers. The books I read? Well, she hardly read anyway… Okay, there was a certain area where we overlapped, for some reason we liked the same art. So, it seems like it was mostly chemistry… damn she smelled good, and she still does, in my torrid fantasies. And she was wonderful when she was in good spirits. But we couldn’t get along, not even day for day… arguments about stupid little things, arguments about nothing. Arguments about arguing.
Room Full of Mirrors from the Pretenders, lot of help that song is… has nothing to do with it, just happened to be along the way in a random selection… meh.
So, what is love, what is just chemical? I alway thought love is the nonplus ultra. The few relationships I had made this, actually, clear. Though they were not for all time, they were damned long. For me they were for all time, it was just the fucking women who didn’t get it (sorry, you women, I don’t mean it personally, uh, generally… and probably it was all somehow my fault, anyway).
And now, off the whole fucking beat, because today is a random day, I can recommend a song from Adele (God knows I hardly recommend anything truly mainstream, but there are exceptions…), Rumor Has It. Affengeil, as the Germans would say.
And, to make the randomness complete, Saragina Rumba, from 17 Hippies.