of fate. You’re liberated from any criticism. But I have never figured out what the terrible blow thatliberated my best friend was. The two of them just want to be cut slack. Which is why, despite their megatrauma, they don’t go to therapy—they can’t take the criticism they would get there.
My mind and my vagina are ready for an affair. I picture the two cousins in
The Tin Drum
as my model of a nondestructive affair. They meet up regularly, nobody notices—well, okay, nobody except maybe the Jewish tin drum salesman a little bit, and the woman’s son, Oskar. But otherwise the affair works great. I don’t care whether it’s incest or not. Cousins are distant enough that it’s not disgusting. Neither one of them wants anything more than they get. They meet up regularly, have wild, intense sex, and go their own way again. They both understand that they don’t want to screw up each other’s life. Neither represents a ticking time bomb to the other. Neither of them says to the other, “Be together with me now!” Balance is important.
In their case, things go well because they have a familial connection. In my case, I’ve decided that I need to choose a man who, like me, has a lot to lose. Preferably one with a career, perhaps even a high-flying one, one that keeps him somewhat on the straight and narrow. Someone in a stable relationship, ideally married, with children, and still together with his wife and kids. I don’t want any chance of it developing into a grand love affair, like what happened between me and my husband. I want to be better for my child than my mother was for me. Meaning not constantly leaving men, moving, and living a whore’s life. All of which later screws with the child’s head. I always say,
I am the sum of all my parents’ mistakes
.
My parents’ mistakes have already subsidized Frau Drescher buying her own apartment. She once asked me during therapy whether, since my husband and I often pay for sex, shealso represents something that can be bought. And I answered, “Well, we can’t exactly pretend that our relationship has nothing to do with money, Frau Drescher. I’m not
that
crazy.”
In any event I’ll stay with my husband until I die. But I’d like to get to a point before I die where I can sleep with another man openly, not secretly—be permitted to sleep with another man. The way hippies did. And not just with one other man. With other men. I’d like to do so with as little guilty conscience as possible. I imagine that the guilt I’d feel from doing it secretly would ruin the whole thing for me. I don’t want that. I’d like to be there freely and, when I finally have another cock inside me, to be able to think,
I’m allowed. I have the coolest husband in the world, and he permits me this
.
In my fantasy, my affair would never put me under the kind of pressure that would make me leave my husband. Or move out of our home. I just want to meet a man—and he can be even older than Georg—in a hotel room, have wild, intense sex, and then go home. At home I would hope to have a tiny feeling of guilt even though Georg had given me the okay and, as a result, fall even deeper in love with him. Sometimes a bit of guilt can make things more exciting than they were before. Because you no longer take everything for granted.
I would try to rinse the sperm of the other man out from inside me, even though that’s not something my husband would expect. Then I would sleep with Georg and my heart would melt from gratitude. And all because I was allowed to have more freedom than ever before and yet still retain all the benefits of our relationship. That would be so nice. Please, my dear husband, please allow me this, allow us this. You must let me go so I can come back of my own volition.
I have to be honest: this formulation originally came from Frau Drescher. Anytime I fantasize about sleeping with other men and sometimes other women, which I do constantly, as if I’m
My mind and my vagina are ready for an affair. I picture the two cousins in
The Tin Drum
as my model of a nondestructive affair. They meet up regularly, nobody notices—well, okay, nobody except maybe the Jewish tin drum salesman a little bit, and the woman’s son, Oskar. But otherwise the affair works great. I don’t care whether it’s incest or not. Cousins are distant enough that it’s not disgusting. Neither one of them wants anything more than they get. They meet up regularly, have wild, intense sex, and go their own way again. They both understand that they don’t want to screw up each other’s life. Neither represents a ticking time bomb to the other. Neither of them says to the other, “Be together with me now!” Balance is important.
In their case, things go well because they have a familial connection. In my case, I’ve decided that I need to choose a man who, like me, has a lot to lose. Preferably one with a career, perhaps even a high-flying one, one that keeps him somewhat on the straight and narrow. Someone in a stable relationship, ideally married, with children, and still together with his wife and kids. I don’t want any chance of it developing into a grand love affair, like what happened between me and my husband. I want to be better for my child than my mother was for me. Meaning not constantly leaving men, moving, and living a whore’s life. All of which later screws with the child’s head. I always say,
I am the sum of all my parents’ mistakes
.
My parents’ mistakes have already subsidized Frau Drescher buying her own apartment. She once asked me during therapy whether, since my husband and I often pay for sex, shealso represents something that can be bought. And I answered, “Well, we can’t exactly pretend that our relationship has nothing to do with money, Frau Drescher. I’m not
that
crazy.”
In any event I’ll stay with my husband until I die. But I’d like to get to a point before I die where I can sleep with another man openly, not secretly—be permitted to sleep with another man. The way hippies did. And not just with one other man. With other men. I’d like to do so with as little guilty conscience as possible. I imagine that the guilt I’d feel from doing it secretly would ruin the whole thing for me. I don’t want that. I’d like to be there freely and, when I finally have another cock inside me, to be able to think,
I’m allowed. I have the coolest husband in the world, and he permits me this
.
In my fantasy, my affair would never put me under the kind of pressure that would make me leave my husband. Or move out of our home. I just want to meet a man—and he can be even older than Georg—in a hotel room, have wild, intense sex, and then go home. At home I would hope to have a tiny feeling of guilt even though Georg had given me the okay and, as a result, fall even deeper in love with him. Sometimes a bit of guilt can make things more exciting than they were before. Because you no longer take everything for granted.
I would try to rinse the sperm of the other man out from inside me, even though that’s not something my husband would expect. Then I would sleep with Georg and my heart would melt from gratitude. And all because I was allowed to have more freedom than ever before and yet still retain all the benefits of our relationship. That would be so nice. Please, my dear husband, please allow me this, allow us this. You must let me go so I can come back of my own volition.
I have to be honest: this formulation originally came from Frau Drescher. Anytime I fantasize about sleeping with other men and sometimes other women, which I do constantly, as if I’m
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