LETTRE A SON TRAVAILLEUR SOCIAL.

LETTRE D’UNE PROSTITUÉE À LA RETRAITE À SON TRAVAILLEUR SOCIAL

Chère Madame Defarge,

Je me suis bien acclimatée à mon nouvel appartement de banlieue. J’ai été à la recherche de travail, ce qui est difficile … mais je reste optimiste car j’ai déjà travaillé dans les magasins (avant d’avoir abusé de mes cartes de crédit et de recourir à la prostitution). En attendant, je suis reconnaissant pour l’aide financière que votre bureau m’accorde.

J’évite de passer pour une prostituée, de peur d’être refoulée dans la vie quotidienne. Ici, tous les autres hommes que je vois dans la rue ou dans un café ressemblent à des proxénètes potentiels. Bien que j’essaie de m’habiller de façon conservatrice – a mes yeux, du moins – Je sens le regard des hommes, des femmes au foyer et Des vieilles mémés me scruter lorsque je les croise dans la rue. Celle-ci (les femmes) ont toujours un regard acide … celui qui trahit l’envie et la méfiance.

Ce n’est pas comme à Paris, où de nombreuses femmes se sentent libres de se comporter comme elles veulent, certaines faisant les salopes, mettant les machos et les féministes extrêmes à leur place. Ici, les hommes se permettent de lancer des propos salaces dans la rue. Et les femmes n’en font même pas un cas, tournant la tête pour me suivre des yeux. Je sens leurs regards brûlants derrière moi longtemps après les avoir dépassées.

Pas plus tard qu’hier, j’ai été approchée par un homme dans la mi-trentaine, alors que je marchais près d’un café non loin de mon appartement. De la façon dont il s’habillait, et dont il s’est approché de moi, je sentais qu’il était soit de la ville ou qu’il était de passage. Je tremblai un instant, et me mit à marcher plus vite, alors qu’il prétendait que nous nous étions rencontrés auparavant. Je l’ai détrompé, lui assurant que je ne l’avais jamais vu auparavant. Il a ensuite répondu, avec un éclair dans les yeux, qu’il pouvait se tromper, mais que j’avais l’air familier … qu’il m’aurait vu ailleurs. J’ai haussé les épaules et lui ai dit que je n’avais pas le temps de bavarder, et que je n’étais pas du tout intéressée par les hommes. (Plus tard, j’ai regretté ce mensonge car on aurait pu me croire lesbienne, et cela m’aurait certainement cause des ennuis, surtout ici où l’on n’ose pas vivre ses fantasmes.) J’ai poursuivi ma marche à grands pas, et, jetant des coups d’oeil furtifs en arrière, je mes suis aperçue que l’homme ne m’avait pas quitter des yeux.

Je voudrais que les gens cessent de poursuivre les paranoïaques que nous sommes. J’aimerais parfois me mettre dans la peau de quelqu’un d’autre. C’est alors que vos sages paroles me reviennent à l’esprit: “Agissez selon votre conscience, et surtout, n’écoutez pas les imbéciles!”

Cordialement,
Amélie

Treat yourself or someone you love to two great reads …

“Under the Shirttails of Albert Russo” modernizes the concept of the biography away from Boswellian “every ladder rung is vital” structure, and straight to “the good and meaningful stuff — that defines who a person is … and why.”

BOOK DESCRIPTION:

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With laser-like precision, Adam Donaldson Powell bores into Albert Russo’s psyche, while in parallel he analyzes the work of a lifetime. But more often than not, there is a process of cross-fertilization, whether it is clearly identified or on the sidelines. He interviews his subject, not always in a linear fashion, scanning the latter’s important stages of life: there is first Central, Eastern – the former Belgian Congo (now, DRCongo), Ruanda-Urundi (now, the two countries of Rwanda and Burundi) and Southern Africa – Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) and South Africa, where the author was raised, completing high school at the Interracial Athénée of Usumbura (now Bujumbura), studying with European, Congolese, Hutu, Tutsi, Asian and American classmates, both in French and in English (he also went to an all-boys’ school in Salisbury, now called Harare). We then find him in the Big Apple at the age of seventeen, attending New York University, after which, he pursues his studies in German at the Collegium Platinum in Heidelberg. The subject is asked very intimate questions about his private life, with which he is faced for the first time. And he reveals facts he never thought could one day be thrust into the open. But still, he complies, candidly. Mr. Powell illustrates with excerpts of the author’s novels, poems and short stories, which are all either clearly or subconsciously related to Albert Russo’s life, as well as photos, letters and book reviews from Albert Russo’s personal archives. Mentioned are his AFRICAN QUATUOR, the collected poems in the CROWDED WORLD OF SOLITUDE, volume two, his collected stories and essays in the CROWDED WORLD OF SOLITUDE, volume one, and finally, his GOSH ZAPINETTE! series, of which David Alexander writes: “… Be warned, Zapinette’s gems of insouciant wit tend to become infectious. This wise-child’s deceptively worldly innocence takes the entire gamut of human endeavor in its compass. Hardly anyone or anything escapes unscathed. Michael Jackson,Vittorio de Sica, Freddy Mercury, Mao Zedong, Bill and Hill, the Pope, Fidel Castro, and even Jesus of Nazareth all come under Zapinette’s delightfully zany fire as she “zaps” from topic to topic in an irrepressible flux. As the century of the double zeros is with us, we have seen the future and the future is sham. As a healthy dose of counter-sham, Zapinette should be on every brain-functional person’s reading list.” After America, the subject moves to Northern Italy where he will reside nine years, then to Brussels. He spends half of his life in Paris, France, before finally settling in Tel Aviv Israel. When asked what his roots are, he replies that he is a humanist born in Africa, with his virtual roots being the languages which he speaks: English, French, Italian, Spanish, German, vernacular Swahili, as well as those he can only read: Portuguese and Dutch. He will soon add Hebrew. Those cherished languages are much more than forms of speech, they are his planet, from which he extracts much of the sap of his writing. So, don’t be shy. Get Under the Shirttails of Albert Russo. See order details HERE!

originals of letters + journals re AR 1

DO WATCH ‪”The Age of the Pearl”, extracted from my new biography “Under the Shirttails of Albert Russo”

READER COMMENTS … regarding UNDER THE SHIRTTAILS of ALBERT RUSSO:

UNDER THE SHIRTTAILS of ALBERT RUSSO ‘can perhaps be likened to skipping a small rock across a pond – creating ripples and reverberations which both reflect the greater omnipotence of the water and temporarily alter its periphery and identity.’ Such is Adam Donaldson Powell the master weaver behind the literary tapestry that is the life & times with a view into poems, novels and picture gallery of one brilliant international award-winning multilingual poet, novelist, essayist, historian and photographer – Albert Russo – a man with a claim to no country yet a citizen of many soils – in his sensitively scripted yet profoundly penetrating work unveiled as ‘an alternative biography’.

— Jeanette Skirvin

This biography crowns five decades of my father’s very prolific writing. Both my brother Alex and myself are immensely proud of our father’s literary achievement. From his very deep insights on the history of Africa, to the birth and struggles of the Israeli state, his poems and immensely entertaining short stories, humorous novels for teenagers, short stories covering the complexities of human nature, there isn’t one topic that my father hasn’t masterfully addressed in his writings.

— Tatiana Russo

We have the pleasure to see all the beauties of literature, poetry and photography of Albert Russo in Adam Donaldson Powell’s brilliant and memorable book “Under the Shirttails of Albert Russo”. Russo’s profound and well-ordered imagination helps him to create great works of literature. Russo never writes his great poems and novels according to any mechanic rule. He has perfected his writings due to “the existential qualm for which my heritage is responsible: Africa, Judaism and Italy. They exist and coexist in cycles, in a fashion so inchoate that I am never quite sure which will take the upper hand.” Powell, the immortal poet famous for his classic “Three-legged Waltz”, points out that Russo “began life as an outsider; the offspring of refugees to Africa from Nazi and fascist persecution then became an outcast via his self-proclaimed ‘gaytude’.” No doubt, this fact has provided the perfection of tone in all his creative endeavors, and this will certainly entice all readers. The true essence of Russo’s writings and photography is revealed by Powell in this unique book. Adam Donaldson Powell’s latest powerful book “Under the Shirttails of Albert Russo” is a tour de force in biography and literary criticism.

— Dr. Santosh Kumar, Editor, Cyberwit.net

​To avoid any doubts or confusion, this book by Adam Donaldson Powell is NOT just a biography of the life of Albert Russo, nor is it a synoptic overview of his massive and prolific collection of works of prose, poetry, and photography. This book is something far more than either of these literary vehicles could ever be. Through literally decades of conversations, correspondence, and collaboration between these two very talented authors/artists, Adam Powell gives us a glimpse into not only the very diverse heritage and globe-trotting life and experiences of Albert Russo, but also a glimpse into his very psyche and incredible intellect. In other words, this book lays bare for the world to see what makes Albert Russo one of the few true renaissance men of our times. Russo’s collection of works bridges gulfs of heritage, culture, philosophy, and more – often with more than a hint of his sometimes quirky and off-beat sense of humor. For anyone who has ever read and enjoyed ANY of Russo’s works, this book is a must-read to fully understand the man behind the true art of his words, ideas, and imagery.

​– J. Richard Davis, B.A., J.D.

 

Adam Donaldson Powell, author

 

 

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Review of Adam Donaldson Powell’s book “Entre Nous et Eux”, by C. Richard Mathews, USA.

Adam Donaldson Powell’s new collection of works, Entre Nous et Eux, displays his multiple talents and concerns in a series of brilliant and engaging pieces. Powell is an activist, essayist, fiction writer, visual artist, poet, who writes in four languages, though English is the predominant one in this volume and an inability to read French, Norwegian or Spanish will not detract from a reader’s understanding and appreciation of any of the pieces.

The book is divided into four sections: poetry, a novella titled “Entre Nous”, a short story titled “Death Poem” and another, longer novella called “The Stalker”. While the works deal with many themes, the overriding one for this reader was the issue of how societal and political forces affect — often adversely — an individual’s development, sometimes to the point that she or he does not or cannot understand or accept who she/he is. A major factor in this, it is suggested, is the inability of others in her/his family and in greater society to respect and accept a person’s differences (the “other”).

The book begins with Powell’s great strength: his poetry. Interestingly, in the three works of fiction poems appear as well. In both the stand-alone poetry and the fiction, poems allow Powell to focus the reader’s attention immediately on his themes and concerns. The first group of poems involves children in a presumably Western European (Parisian?) context and their shock at how the world interacts with their innocence: a child playing hopscotch confronting a pedophile, a young girl taunted because she has “two mothers”, a young hijab-wearing Muslim girl also subject to jibes, problems for a child of “color”, a presumably Muslim boy’s trauma at the hands of police after talking of ISIS, the treatment of gypsies and their plight and ostracism, the shock of exploding bombs in an unnamed war zone.

Although much of the poetry deals with “social issues” in one sense or the other, there are purely lyrical moments as well, such as the poem “Jeux d’Eau”.

At a number of points the issue of suicide is introduced: the inability of the characters to accept themselves or others’ perceptions of them. Thus, in the first novella, “Entre Nous.”, a friend of one of the main characters dies of an overdose (deliberate?) days after they’ve had sex with each other. And the beautiful short story “Death Poem”, concerning two young Japanese men, involves the presumed suicide of a father over his son’s homosexuality, and the son’s own subsequent suicide himself. As noted above, the use of poetry, and references to poetry, permeate Powell’s fiction writing and in this moving story he introduces us to a specific Japanese form of poetry relevant to the taking of one’s life.

Both novellas involve casts of characters that are followed through some years of their lives. “Entre Nous.” is presented partially in an epistolary form. The story involves the interaction of several gay friends and various sexual escapades in a number of Western cities — Paris, London, New York — that the author is obviously familiar with. As in some of the poetry, especially the collection of interlocking erotic poems “tu sais je vais….t’enculer (love letters)”, the writing about sex is explicitly detailed, a means for the author to “épater la bourgeoisie” in the mode of Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Genet and other French writers. Their cumulative effect is, ultimately, powerful and meaningful. These passages are part of his subtle analysis throughout of various types of love and physical and emotional attraction.

The second, longer novella, “The Stalker”, concerns a young woman and her lover, a transgender man who, at one point discovers that he may be “a lesbian in a man’s body” (294). The overriding theme is one of identity — despite society’s pressures, finding it or creating it and then having the flexibility to change it or allow it to modulate as circumstances and feelings may urge or dictate.

The reader should not miss the great amount of humor and wit, and pure literary pleasure, in Powell’s writing which, as in Proust, may be overlooked if one focuses merely on “the story line” or themes. Be ready for a wonderful turn-of-phrase, or the startling juxtaposition of images. For example, in “Une Lettre d’Une Prostitue…” the letter writer states, “J’aimerais parfois me mettre dans le peau de quelqun d’autre…” Or, “mots doux et traitres a la fois…” (37). Or: “lips part revealing your lizard tongue” (63). Or: “blood-red sugary tension of domestic rape” (55). Or: “the relentless fantasy is more than the sum of reality’s individual parts”. (78)

Especially delightful are the “echoes” one finds between different parts of the works through the use of literary devices similar to Wagner’s leitmotifs. Thus, there is a reference early in “Entre Nous.” to Donald O’Connor and Marilyn Monroe singing “a man chases a girl (until she catches him)” and then much later the reader comes upon a scene of Karol/Mariusz showing his poetry to a closeted priest in which he has written “I delight in chasing straight boys until they catch me” (172).

It should be noted that in both his poetry and fiction Powell’s writing style is clear and precise without being pedestrian or boring. It is a style that is able to draw in and engage the reader quietly and without showiness, leaving one with a sense of pleasure, even when the subjects at hand are very serious ones.

Powell’s book is highly recommended for its many pure literary pleasures but also for its profound insights into aspects of modern life that are often obfuscated or ignored by other writers and media in our contemporary world oversaturated with often meaningless written and visual distractions.

C. Richard Mathews
New York-based art historian, writer and attorney

Recension du recueil ‘Entre Nous et Eux’ de Adam Donaldson Powell,

Le nouveau recueil de Adam Donaldson Powell intitulé Entre Nous et Eux reflète les talents multiples de l’auteur et comprend une série de textes aussi brillants que jubilatoires. Powell, l’activiste, est à la fois écrivain, poète, essayiste, peintre et photographe.  En outre, il écrit en anglais, sa langue maternelle, mais également en français, en norvégien et en espagnol.  Le lecteur découvrira dans ce volume des textes dans ces quatre langues, ce qui, dans notre monde hyper-connecté est encore une rareté, mais en même temps une grande richesse.

Ce volume est divisé en quatre parties: Poésie, une nouvelle intitulée “Death Poem”, et deux courts romans portant les titres suivants: “Entre Nous” et “The Stalker”.

Alors que ces textes évoquent de nombreux thèmes, le fil conducteur est celui des effets de la société et de la politique sur le développement de l’individu, au point où celui-ci ne comprend plus ou n’accepte tout simplement pas qui il est ou ce qu’il risque de devenir.  L’auteur suggère que les autres, c’est-à-dire, sa famille ou la société dans laquelle il évolue, est inapte à respecter, voire à accepter sa différence.

Le livre a pour prémices la poésie de Powell, poésie dans laquelle il excelle. Ses textes de fiction sont eux aussi parsemés de poèmes, plus ou moins longs. Les premiers poèmes traitent de l’enfance ayant pour cadre une capitale européenne, qui pourrait être Paris.  Et des conséquences, insidieuses ou cruelles, que le monde alentour peut avoir sur eux. Voyez cette gosse jouant à la marelle et qui s’éloigne précautionneusement d’un pédophile, cette autre que l’on moque parce qu’elle a ‘deux mères’, ou cette jeune musulmane malmenée à cause du hijab qu’elle porte. Que dire aussi de ce garçon basané que la police menotte dès qu’il prononce le mot Daesch, du traitement odieux que subissent les gitans, de leur ostracisme. L’auteur évoque également le choc que produisent les bombes explosant dans des zones de guerre.

Tandis que nombreux sont les poèmes traitant de problèmes de société, ils possèdent tous cette touche lyrique si propre à Powell. ‘Jeux d’Eau’ en est un parfait exemple.

La problématique du suicide apparaît ci et là: certains personnages ont du mal à s’accepter, d’autant plus lorsque leur entourage les rejette.

Ainsi, dans le premier roman, ‘Entre Nous’, l’ami de l’un des protagonistes meurt à la suite d’une overdose (peut-être délibérément), quelques jours après que les deux ont fait l’amour ensemble.

Dans la magnifique nouvelle ‘Death Poem’, qui met en scène deux jeunes hommes japonais, le père de l’un d’eux se suicide, apparemment à cause de l’homosexualité de son fils, lequel à son tour met fin à ses jours. Que ce soit dans ses textes de fiction ou dans sa poésie, Powell évoque le suicide en utilisant des éléments particuliers de la poésie japonaise. Y percevrait-on l’ombre de Mishima ?

Les deux romans mettent en scène des protagonistes sur des tranches de vie. ‘Entre Nous’ est raconté en partie sous forme épistolaire. On y parle d’amis gays, de leur interaction, de leurs expériences sexuelles vécues dans certaines grandes villes occidentales, telles que Paris, Londres ou New York, villes que l’auteur connaît bien. Powell, n’ayant pas froid aux yeux, n’hésite pas à écrire des ‘lettres d’amour’ contenant des mots crus, comme par exemple: “tu sais je vais….t’enculer”. Et cela pour ‘épater la galerie’, à l’instar de Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Verlaine – qui, à l’époque écrivaient sous des pseudonymes -, Genet, ainsi que d’autres écrivains français. Mais là, il ne s’agit pas uniquement de subterfuges, ces vers érotiques, voire pornographiques, participent de l’analyse subtile de ce qui constitue l’amour pluriel, qu’il s’agisse de la simple attraction physique et/ou des émotions qui peuvent en découler.

Le second roman, ‘The Stalker’, qui est plus long que l’autre, est l’histoire d’une jeune femme et de son amant, un homme trans-genre, qui se demande s’il peut être “une lesbienne dans le corps d’un homme”. Le thème principal ici est celui de l’identité qui, envers et contre tout, tente de s’affirmer et de trouver un équilibre.

Malgré la gravité des sujets abordés, le lecteur pourra apprécier, tout au long du volume, la veine humoristique et spirituelle de l’auteur, à l’instar d’un Proust qui se ‘moque’ gentiment de certains de ses personnages. Powell joue avec les mots et s’amuse à juxtaposer des images, comme dans ‘La lettre d’une prostituée’, où l’auteur écrit: “J’aimerais parfois me mettre dans la peau de quelqu’un d’autre…”, ou encore, “mots doux et traitres à la fois…”. D’autres  exemples me viennent à l’esprit, tels que “lips part revealing your lizard tongue” , ”blood-red sugary tension of domestic rape”, ou encore, ”the relentless fantasy is more than the sum of reality’s individual parts”.

L’on trouve des passages particulièrement jouissifs tout au long de cette oeuvre si singulière, rappelant les leitmotifs de Wagner. L’un des personnages écoute un ancien vinyle de Donald O’Connor et de Marilyn Monroe chantant “a man chases a girl (until she catches him)”. Plus loin, il y a une scène dans laquelle Karol/Mariusz montre l’un de ses poèmes à un prêtre, où il écrit: “I delight in chasing straight boys until they catch me”.

Dans ce livre, qu’il s’agisse de poésie ou de prose, le style est clair, précis, et à la fois engageant, sans jamais être pompeux, même lorsque l’auteur traite de sujets graves.

Cette oeuvre mérite d’être lue pour diverses raisons. D’abord pour la belle phrase, un plaisir purement littéraire, ensuite parce que Powell aborde ici des thèmes de notre société contemporaine qui souvent sont, soit ignorés par d’autres écrivains et les média, soit négligés en raison de la quantité phénoménale de distractions vaines, aussi bien pseudo-littéraires que visuelles, que l’on nous bombarde quotidiennement.

C. Richard Mathews, historien de l’art, écrivain et avocat new yorkais

ORDER “ENTRE NOUS ET EUX” (PAPERBACK & EBOOK) HERE!


ebookcover

 

A7676AF6-A958-464C-94C1-61CF3264C0DC.jpeg

Men can be such cunts! (Les hommes sont des cons !)

LETTRE D’UNE PROSTITUÉE À LA RETRAITE À SON TRAVAILLEUR SOCIAL

Chère Madame Defarge,

Je me suis bien acclimatée à mon nouvel appartement de banlieue. J’ai été à la recherche de travail, ce qui est difficile … mais je reste optimiste car j’ai déjà travaillé dans les magasins (avant d’avoir abusé de mes cartes de crédit et de recourir à la prostitution). En attendant, je suis reconnaissant pour l’aide financière que votre bureau m’accorde.

J’évite de passer pour une prostituée, de peur d’être refoulée dans la vie quotidienne. Ici, tous les autres hommes que je vois dans la rue ou dans un café ressemblent à des proxénètes potentiels. Bien que j’essaie de m’habiller de façon conservatrice – a mes yeux, du moins – Je sens le regard des hommes, des femmes au foyer et Des vieilles mémés me scruter lorsque je les croise dans la rue. Celle-ci (les femmes) ont toujours un regard acide … celui qui trahit l’envie et la méfiance.

Ce n’est pas comme à Paris, où de nombreuses femmes se sentent libres de se comporter comme elles veulent, certaines faisant les salopes, mettant les machos et les féministes extrêmes à leur place. Ici, les hommes se permettent de lancer des propos salaces dans la rue. Et les femmes n’en font même pas un cas, tournant la tête pour me suivre des yeux. Je sens leurs regards brûlants derrière moi longtemps après les avoir dépassées.

Pas plus tard qu’hier, j’ai été approchée par un homme dans la mi-trentaine, alors que je marchais près d’un café non loin de mon appartement. De la façon dont il s’habillait, et dont il s’est approché de moi, je sentais qu’il était soit de la ville ou qu’il était de passage. Je tremblai un instant, et me mit à marcher plus vite, alors qu’il prétendait que nous nous étions rencontrés auparavant. Je l’ai détrompé, lui assurant que je ne l’avais jamais vu auparavant. Il a ensuite répondu, avec un éclair dans les yeux, qu’il pouvait se tromper, mais que j’avais l’air familier … qu’il m’aurait vu ailleurs. J’ai haussé les épaules et lui ai dit que je n’avais pas le temps de bavarder, et que je n’étais pas du tout intéressée par les hommes. (Plus tard, j’ai regretté ce mensonge car on aurait pu me croire lesbienne, et cela m’aurait certainement cause des ennuis, surtout ici où l’on n’ose pas vivre ses fantasmes.) J’ai poursuivi ma marche à grands pas, et, jetant des coups d’oeil furtifs en arrière, je mes suis aperçue que l’homme ne m’avait pas quitter des yeux.

Je voudrais que les gens cessent de poursuivre les paranoïaques que nous sommes. J’aimerais parfois me mettre dans la peau de quelqu’un d’autre. C’est alors que vos sages paroles me reviennent à l’esprit: “Agissez selon votre conscience, et surtout, n’écoutez pas les imbéciles!”

Cordialement,
Amélie

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FICTIONAL LETTER TO ANNA ARDIN, FROM AN ANONYMOUS FAN

Dear Anna

My name is “Pru” … short for Prudence. I have read about your case against that “DickyLeaks” guy, and I felt compelled to write to you. While you do not know me, I feel as if I know you. I am sitting on my terrace here in Arizona, watching the bees rape the morning glories on the trellis, which are now in full blossom.

And I am furious.

I know that it is a symbiotic relationship, necessary for pollination … but it reminds me so much of a poem I once read, which has provoked me from the first time I read it – and which I can never be finished with:

THE RAPE OF THE DAUGHTER OF ALCATHOUS.

Purity of white fleshes outward
With the subtlety of wind chimes
Swaying lithely in the seabreeze …
Sublime fragrances of jasmine and
Virginity meld unwillingly
With sweat and fear
Engendered by threat of violation …
The scent of victimization
Only encourages animal passion and
Further increases the value of the prize …
Beauty – inviting – passion –
Creating – revulsion – increasing –
Attraction – begetting – fear –
Maximizing – passion …
Contorted faces and war-drum heartbeats
Distort humanity as minds are
Dismembered by occlusion …
Peace cannot prevail until
A victor is crowned and
Reintegration is impossible until
Silence shreds its hostility.

The reason I am sitting on the terrace and fuming is that I am sick and tired of not being able to express my need for gender equality and justice … at least not without being referred to as a sour bitch or a “feminazi”. I like masculine men … but I cannot bear misogynistic fools that use verbal and physical aggression – and the accompanying boasting humor – to “keep the bitches under control”.

Last night was a disaster. Cork, my twenty-seven year old live-in boyfriend told a stupid story at a dinner party that we had in our suburban apartment on the outskirts of Phoenix:

“I remember an incident in the apartment building I lived in in NYC, years ago. A woman on the floor under me had a Black lover that played around (she worked at the phone company, and he lived off her). Anyway, one afternoon I was entering the building when a White woman who was literally half-naked ran out of the building and exclaimed to me: ‘He tried to rape me. I’m gonna call the POLICE!’

I chuckled and seconds later the Black neighbor ran out onto the street butt-naked, screaming ‘I’m cumming baby, I’m cumming!’

Well, I quickly went inside and locked the outer door – knowing that he had neither clothes or a key on him. He looked back at me and I just smiled, and went upstairs.

Days later an elderly Ukrainian neighbor was in the hallway and she asked me if I had heard the ruckus. I said: ‘Yeah, and saw it too!’

She then replied: ‘Yes, me too. He rang my buzzer to get into the building. It seems he ran out without his keys.’

After a few seconds of silence, she whispered to me: ‘I have never seen one so big … and so black before!’ “

To be honest, I did not particularly like the guests anyway. They were all colleagues of Cork from his job at Ernst & Young. Cork was the “new guy” at the firm, and he attempted to impress everyone with his special stories from the Big Apple. After two hours of cocktails, wine, appetizers, main course, and dessert — all slavishly made by moi – the “boyz” felt brazen enough to turn the conversation from niceties to conquests.

It began innocently enough, but it soon became a match to determine who had the most brilliant feathers amongst the cocks. Of course, Cork – in his attempt to both assert himself and also to ascertain the strength and cockiness of his colleagues (and competitors) managed to twist the conversation into a sexual context. The three male colleagues listened attentively and laughed all too haughtily at Cork’s story – hoping to both size up this emigrated Englishman, and to show their own worldliness and manhood. The only other female at the dinner party was Cynthia, who was Peter’s wife. Cynthia and I exchanged a few glances, acknowledging that this turn of events was both expected and hopeless. But neither of us dared to interject a protest, or to attempt to change the subject.

I had my own reasons for playing it off. Cork had recently suggested that I was prudish, and tried to make associations with my birth name: Prudence. Ohhh how I have hated that name my entire life. My well-meaning parents wanted to give me a special name, something old-fashioned chic but also with associations to what they equated with a cultured lifestyle. I was ridiculed already from the second grade, when my fellow students mocked my name and made up embarrassing rhymes that haunted me throughout elementary school. And so it was that I went by Pru most of my life, and from high school onward my birth-given name was conveyed only on a need to know basis and in official circumstances.

A short conversation with Cynthia in the kitchen revealed that she had her own strategy all laid out. She was two months pregnant and planned on revealing the “news” to Peter when they got home that night. That surprising news would surely nullify any bachelor-life longings and “guy-talk” residue that might be left over from the dinner conversation. She sat and smiled throughout the evening before she leaned over to Peter at ten-thirty p.m. and whispered that she is tired and needs to get home. Just to be certain that he would leave promptly without more prodding and drama she added: “Honey, I was at the doctor recently and I have something I need to talk to you about.” That clinched it, and Peter soon asked Juan and Ahmed if they needed a lift back into the City. Neither had taken their car that night, and the bus communication back into the City was infrequent at that late hour – so, of course, they said “Yes”; and by eleven forty-six the three were thanking their hosts and stumbling out the door.

Well, Cork was in a good mood, if not well-intoxicated – both by the French cuisine that I had prepared, the liquor and wine, and the feeling that he had “made the grade” with his colleagues.

This is how it all started:

“It went well, don’t you think Babe?!!”

“Yes, Cork. Your new work friends seem very nice. And …”

Cork had cut me off in mid-sentence and was recounting bits and pieces of the evening conversation – all the while analyzing what was said, the body language, the “male drive” of his colleagues. I continued to clear the table and stacked the dishes and silverware and glasses in the sink and on the kitchen counter. As you can probably understand, I was all too tired to do the dishes at that late hour, and there was no point in asking Cork to help tonight. A good night’s sleep and forty-five minutes of work in the kitchen in the morning – and all would be back to normal in our small two-bedroom apartment. Or so I thought …

Typically, Cork suddenly decided that he was in an amorous mood, and that he wanted to get laid. “Hey Pru! C’mon over here. I have something to tell you.”

I tried to mask my slight irritation at being disturbed by someone who was not helping me to do a thankless task, and replied: “What is it Cork? I need to organize things here in the kitchen so it will not be so much work when I clean up in the morning. Tomorrow is Saturday and I have lots of chores to do.” I added: “And I hope that you remember that I have to go visit my Aunt Martha at the retirement home in the afternoon. Just come into the kitchen and tell me whatever it is – while I finish up.”

Cork walked into the small kitchen, now already half-undressed, and leaned into me from behind. He nibbled on my neck, started to grind his genitals up against my bum and clumsily caressed my breasts before starting to unbutton my blouse. “I want to tell you that you are the most beautiful and sexy woman in the world,” he whispered into my left ear. I made a half-turn of my head towards him, gave him a quick peck on the cheek and said: “How sweet, Cork. Now go away and let me finish up here.”

But Cork would have none of that. “Leave it until the morning. I will help you.”

“Ha!” I exclaimed, thinking: “How many times had I heard that before?” Cork would not stumble out of bed before ten o’clock, and if he was really hung over then not before almost noon. I replied: “Go into the bedroom, and I will be there shortly.”

Cork then let go of me, brushed his teeth, got butt-naked and jumped into the bed, feeling great about the evening so far. Of course, in his mind, there was now only one last thing he needed to cap off the perfect evening: sex.

However, I had other plans for myself. I slowly and meticulously took off my make-up, had a nice long, hot shower, and put on my favorite flannel pyjamas before turning off the light on the night table on my side of the bed. I leaned over to give Cork a goodnight peck on the forehead, thinking that he had already fallen asleep since his eyes were closed and I could hear his drunken semi-heavy breathing. (I was relieved not to have him chasing me around the bedroom tonight. You see, I enjoy sex and enjoy being pursued … but my boyfriend still has not learned to respect a “no” for a “NO!”)

Alas, Cork was not asleep – he only pretended to be. He suddenly grabbed me by the head and pulled me close up to his face and plunged his tongue deep down my throat.

“Hey! Wait a minute!” I exclaimed. “I need rest and sleep now. We can do this tomorrow.”

But Cork wanted sex now. He playfully wrestled me down onto my back, pressing me firmly with his large and gym-trained body. His huge arms pinned my upper arms and shoulders down so that my only possible movements were to flail with my forearms and hands, and to squirm and kick with my legs. Cork then used his muscular thighs and calves to pin down the bottom half of my body as I screamed out in vain. “Stop it, Cork! You are hurting me. I don’t want to do this. Cork!”

But Cork only tried to muffle my protests by covering my gaping mouth with his own, thus burying my protests with kisses designed to shut me up. Before long, Cork had ripped my panties off of me and was trying to force his penis into my vagina. Anna, I then became desperate, but the more I resisted the more forcibly Cork exerted his aggressive libido … and the more excited he became. I bit him and I scratched him, and I even tried to punch him with my finally-freed right arm but Cork was too strong, and too drunk … and focused on “one thing”. That one thing that men always seem to want and need from women in order to feel masculine and powerful.

He won out in the end, or at least he felt as if he did. Directly after he ejaculated into my pussy, he flopped over onto his side of the bed – still panting, and exclaimed: “God damn! That was fucking hot, Babe! Wasn’t that great sex?!!”

I was sore, scared … and pissed off. I felt like a sardine in a tin … drowning in cold tomato sauce, with no escape from the blood-red sugary tension of domestic rape. I was outraged at the violation, and equally so that an act of love could be so emotionally and physically perverted into a boxing match requiring my ultimate submission. And all the while he acted as if he “knew better”, and would show me what good sex is really all about – almost as if it were an act of kindness for which I would thank him once I realized what I had been denying myself, and how badly I needed a “good lay”!

I answered him coldly: “It was … all right.” My jaws were tight. I wanted to grab the lamp on the night table and bludgeon him, again and again. But I knew that I could not win a physical fight against him. I would have to attack his ego, and his manhood.

“All right??! What do you mean by that?” retorted Cork.

I wanted to tell him that he does not know the first thing about how to turn on or satisfy a woman, and that poking his cockiness in and out of my vagina in a selfish and crude and insensitive way had nothing to do with romance, or even sex. It was basically just him getting off, and holding me hostage as his “cum dump”. But I was suddenly feeling too tired, and begrudgingly said — while turning my back on him and hugging my pillow: “Let’s talk about it tomorrow, Cork. I am too tired.”

Cork did not pursue the matter anymore, and I lay awake for hours watching over his heavy breathing and snoring … ready to spring from the bed at the first sign of him waking up out of somnambulance.

Men can be such “cunts” …

Good luck with your case, and best wishes from Phoenix.

Pru

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SATIRICAL FICTIONAL LETTER TO JACQUES BREL.

Cher Jacques,

Félicitations ! Ta chanson ” Ne me quitte pas ” est devenue un succès énorme. Tu fais sentir ta douleur … en utilisant la veine ensorcellante de Maurice Ravel, comme dans son ” Boléro “, où tu gardes le même refrain et le même ton calme, mais la colère en plus, dans tes mots. Et tu te protèges d’une manière si poignante en me demandant à plusieurs reprises de ne pas te quitter, à en devenir fou de rage. Ta chanson nous ravit, mais en même temps, elle a plongé le poignard dans le coeur de notre conte de fées. Si seulement tu n’étais pas si lâche. Pourquoi n’as-tu pas pu exprimé tes craintes et tes émotions dans la vie réelle, au lieu de me faire passer pour un citoyen banal? Comme ta stupide maîtresse, qui a voulu exploiter ta gloire et ta réputation ? Tu sais que je ne me suis jamais soucié de telles choses. Je t’ai simplement aimé. Et toi, tu … tu as seulement été amoureux du romantisme, du simple fait ” d’être amoureux “. L’annonce de notre ” enfant d’amour ” s’est avérée trop pesante pour toi. J’ai aussi eu peur. Mais tu étais un enfant, jouant à être un homme. Ma fierté ne m’a pas permis de porter les ombres que tu décrivais dans ta chanson. Et comment oses-tu inclure mon chien adoré dans ta chanson pitoyable…? ” Laisse-moi devenir l’ombre de ton ombre, l’ombre de ta main et l’ombre de ton chien. “

Tu exprimes ta colère et ta confusion tout en me priant de ne pas te quitter. La vérité est que tu n’étais jamais complètement là dans notre relation d’amour. J’étais un jouet pour toi, un joyau à chérir dans le secret … mais tu ne m’as jamais vraiment aimée comme un homme devrait aimer une femme. Je sais que je dois te sembler amère. En vérité, je ne le suis pas. Je me sens finalement libre de devenir la femme que je suis … libérée de cet homme immature qui me détruisait avec ses émotions toujours changeantes et extrêmes. Tant d’apitoiement sur soi-même, tant de colère et d’indifférence soudaine ! Non, notre ” enfant d’amour ” n’a aucune réalité et il n’existera jamais. J’aime ma chambre sans berceau. Pourquoi n’écrirais-tu pas une nouvelle chanson, Jacques ? ” La chanson des vieux amants … “?

Ne me quitte pas …
ne me quitte pas …
ne me quitte pas …
ne me quitte pas …
Assez !

Je ne t’ai jamais quitté … parce que je ne t’ai jamais eu.

Entendons-nous : tu ne me parles pas – et je ne te parle pas. C’est mieux comme ça. Tu peux maintenant écrire toutes les chansons que tu veux de notre amour perdu et devenir ainsi encore plus riche et plus célèbre.

Et je me contenterai d’épouser le plombier ou le charpentier.

Je pourrai alors chérir mes enfants, des enfants conçus avec amour.

J’aurais d’utiliser ce subjonctif que tu aimais tant, je regrette de ne pas y avoir pensé plus tôt!

Penses-y,
Zizou

(from my book “Entre Nous et Eux”)

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