Mon plaisir, ainda

Naquela noite ele quis mamar, então levantei minha camisola. Eu não preciso fazer nada, meu peito tá logo ali, ele chupa. Isso sempre me faz sentir tristeza e sede. Mas elas são invertidas; a sede tem a profundidade e o tom que a tristeza deveria ter: é sede como uma dor, um lamento, um soluço. E a tristeza é pateticamente limitada ao nível da sede, é só um gole de emoção, muito encolhido num franzir de rosto, saciável. É provável que essas sensações se resolvam de um jeito lógico quando há leite no peito. Pude sentir a ereção de Carl contra meu joelho, mas esperei e, depois de um tempo, ela acabou. Ele se separou do mamilo e ficamos ali deitados na semi-escuridão que me acostumei a considerar nossa.

(trecho do conto "Mon plaisir", de Miranda July)

Mon plaisir

Mas você ainda gosta do nosso jeito, não gosta?
A gente pode fazer agora?
Fizemos do nosso jeito. Carl mamou e eu fiz ele gozar com a mão. Então virei de bruços e me masturbei enquanto Carl dava palmadinhas na minha nuca. Gozei e a mão de Carl escorregou para o lado dele da cama.

(trecho do conto "Mon plaisir", de Miranda July)

Lesbian sadomasochism

Por sugestão do Paulo, li um artigo interessante na New Yorker sobre um grupo de lésbicas separatistas na década de 70. Segue um trecho:

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"During yet another fight among the Van Dykes over who was sleeping with whom, Heather recalls, Judith left in a huff and caught a ride to San Francisco. There she met the sex radicals Pat Califia and Gayle Rubin, who had started a lesbian sadomasochist group that they called Samois, for the house of torture in The story of O. "She hooked up with those women and when she came back she said, 'You're going to love this'," Van Dyke remembers. Judith was not mistaken: tofu quickly gave way to leather in the vans. The Van Dykes loved the drama of sadomasochism, the way it gave them license to play power games - which, really, they have been engaged in all along."

(The New Yorker, 02/03/09)

Aline Kominsky de calcinha

Trecho da entrevista de Aline Kominsky, mulher de Robert Crumb, na revista Heeb:

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So being Jewish is different than being white?
I can’t help it, you know? My best male friends are Jewish, but as far as attraction—forget it. Terry Zwigoff and I were really good friends. One time I was wearing a pair of leather pants and asked, ‘Terry, how do I look in these pants?’ He said, ‘You look like a couch.’ That’s typical of how I felt growing up in high school when Jewish boys were real snotty. They were these short, skinny boys who wanted little blond girls. Those boys all grown up still make me feel like a Jewish monster. Whereas when I’m with a goy, I feel exotic and sexy and voluptuous. The most popular girl in my high school was Peggy Lipton, the actress who was on The Mod Squad and Twin Peaks. She was Jewish, but she was tall with straight blond hair, and a thin, pug nose. I adored her. She had a brother who was my age. He was dumpy and curly-haired like the rest of us, and I would help him with his homework so I could go over to his house and see Peggy.

The way you draw yourself and other women sometimes borders on the grotesque.
I used to keep notebooks of drawings of people on the street—these disastrous looks, strange body shapes and disgusting makeup. I started doing that in the ’50s and early ’60s when people wore bubble hairdos and white lipstick and go-go boots. Then when the ’60s came in, everything became natural, I stopped setting my hair on orange juice cans and putting Dippity-doo on my bangs and gluing them to my forehead with Scotch tape. I saw Joan Baez and Judy Collins and I realized there was a way for me to be myself. It was an incredible salvation for me. The natural Jewish thing became sort of okay and guys started finding me attractive, too.