I'm a frog. You're a princess (RE:sex, guns, etc.)

[Hakki Alacakaptan]

I was going to skip my usual comment but the part about Piaf & her boxer
beau reminded me once again of womens' passion for lethal male lovers,
whether they are armed with guns, knives, or just their fists. At the height
of lovemaking Turkish women moan: "Crush me, tear me apart" , French women
used to say "tue moi" (maybe some still do) and orgasm is called "la petite
mort". Is this a deep insight into the dialectic of life and death brought
about by an overedose of sex hormones? Is it a yearning to have the
"character armor" pierced (Reich). Or is it, as I tend to think, because
being penetrated and overpowered is great fun, and a brutal lover is someone
who penetrates every part of you - body and mind ("Take that, slut", etc.).
There's also the pre-coital adrenalin rush of vicarious danger: Men are
testosterone-programmed to foolishly throw themselves in harm's way (e.g.
driving like a nutter and hanging out with schools of barracudas like me)
and women, not being so fucked up, get their adrenalin rush vicariously by
hanging around with them. Whereas adrenalin in men is a de-erector, it is
definitely a pantie-creamer for women.

Hakki

http://www.guardian.co.uk/Print/0,3858,4356271,00.html

(...)
We also now know that the average French couple claims to make love three
times a week, that the man with whom most French women would like to have
sex in public is George Clooney (for men it's Sophie Marceau), and that
fully 70% of the Gallic population would describe their performance in bed
as "substantially above average".

There's even an annual literary award, the Prix St-Valentin, for the most
movingly told love story of the year. This year, rather embarrassingly, it
went to a Swiss author, Thierry Luterbacher, for his steamy opus Un Cerisier
dans l'Escalier (A Cherry-tree on the Stairs).

The top gift book for Valentine's day this year, however, was the recently
published letters of the late lamented Ms Piaf and her boxer husband, Marcel
Cerdan. I haven't in fact read them, but everyone says they amount to about
the most passionate epistolary exchange since the poet Apollinaire wrote in
torment to his lover: "Four days, my love, and not a single letter from you
..."

Thankfully, it's not all tat. The smart and always readable left-leaning rag
Libération publishes an annual supplement every Valentine's Day featuring
some 800 hugely entertaining lovers' declarations.

Among this year's finer efforts, loosely translated: "Love drives you mad
and costs a fortune. Paying 46 euros, taxes included, to a left-wing
newspaper to say so only proves it. But oh, what joy to love you, Sabi," or
"You're a princess. I'm a frog. You're supposed to kiss me, dammit" or even,
"I think of you once a day for approximately 24 hours."

The ultimate Gallic St Valentine's Day experience, however, is by all
accounts reserved for the 285 embarrassed inhabitants of the village of that
name down in the Indre département. Every February 14, up to 6,000 visitors
descend on the place, most of them intent on getting up to no good at all.
It's a good thing George Clooney and Sophie Marceau are otherwise engaged.