Friday, May 29, 2015


Like many of his generation, my good friend Currado Malaspina carries with him the imprint of the Parisian 'Génération 68.'   From politics to sexuality, Malaspina is indelibly marked by the frenzied anarchy of those tumultuous times.

Unfortunately for him, the times have changed and the cranky romance with universal redemption has long since lost its sheen . Human nature, with its clinging fidelity to survival and self-interest has proved unsuitable for radical transformation. Our vital signs are measured not by our passions but by our worth and it seems that poor Currado just doesn't seem to get it.

But just because he still votes for the Parti Socialiste, his alleged hold on noble virtue is very flimsy at best. It seems he only absorbed the A-side of La révolution sexuelle, the part about amour libre. 
The other part, the one about strong, assertive feminist agency somehow eluded his grasp.  

He still holds the suspicion that behind every opportunity for congress lies the dreaded menace of the Vagina Dentata. And though this suspicion consumes him with a near fatal dread he still finds something exhilarating about the teasing proximity of mutilation and violence.

His fears are mixed with lurid fantasies besotted in a hazy sfumato of Sadean perversion. He confessed to me recently that this past winter he experienced a series of recurring dreams that seemed straight out of the mind of Sacher-Mosoch.

He wasn't particularly troubled by this.

He actually seemed quite pleased.

I worry about my dear friend Currado.

None of this seems healthy for a man of advanced middle-age. Knowing now what I know, I would think twice before inviting him to a baptism or an innocent family picnic. Who knows what deviance is entertained behind his impassive stare?

Then again, who am I to judge. 

 With Currado these days, the sharper the rapier the happier he gets.

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