No one wants to be treated like a sex object all the time, except perhaps most men and some hookers.  So I feel I should speak out about The Standard Hotel, which gained notoriety as a destination for kinky, voyeuristic or dirty sex before it was even completed.  Publicity reached as far as newspapers in Australia as couples and groups booked partly finished rooms while construction was still being finished.  How I wish I’d known about it then, but better late than never!  I won’t argue that the fabulous retro/semi-nautical design and flattering lighting doesn’t make a great backdrop for throat fucking.  Or that it isn’t wonderful to have a 180 degree view of the Hudson whilst sitting atop a lusty young professional in bed.  But, like the rest of us (except most men and some hookers) The Standard isn’t just about sex.  There’s the bathtub in the middle of the room, a toilet with floor-to-ceiling windows and you can get a truly amazing steak frites in the lounge.  

 

 

I’ve been metaphorically bound and gagged these past few months

 

In contrast to a lack of physical knots. 

 

You restrained me simultaneously with care and hostility

 

And you always pushed just beyond my threshold

 

So the next time I could take a little more

 

Anger.

 

And since I’m not a true masochist, I don’t like this kind of pain. 

 

It’s not fun anymore,

 

There are no intermittent kisses. 

 

You don’t wave at strangers in the street and ask me to stand in construction holes

 

Or ask me how I am

 

And listen.

 

 

I’d care about your cold but that will just alienate you,  

 

You’ll think my orange juice is sour and tell me so. 

 

So I’m ignoring you and writing poems instead.

Richard Avedon, 1992

 

 

 

Years ago in an art class, the professor asked for thoughts on a Robert Mapplethorpe still life of a flower.  I knew little of Mapplethorpe’s work at that time and what I honestly saw was a tulip, stem drooped over, petals pierced by a thorn.  I didn’t think beyond that, looking  only at the visual beauty of the image, as Mapplethorpe was an extraordinary photographic craftsman.  The professor suggested that the image was a phallic symbol and others in the class agreed.  I was annoyed by the proliferation of penises in art at the time, so much of which seemed like attempts at provocation rather than substantive statements on sexuality or anything else.  I insisted that the flower was just a flower and I think the teacher actually laughed at me.  Of course, he was right, and how things have changed. 

 

Last night I found myself in a private cigar club with twenty or so men and a couple of women for a professional meet up.  Cigar smoking has become a symbol of traditional masculinity and power.  Friday night poker wouldn’t be poker unless played in a cuban haze.  Nor would the tough-talking Texan oil magnate be quite as menacing without a stogie permanently affixed under his tongue.  King Edward VII, who, upon assuming the British throne in 1901, famously announced a break with the smoke-free policies of his mother, Queen Victoria by uttering the words: “Gentlemen, you may smoke.”  As I puffed away on a cigarillo, listening to the alpha male of the bunch, who had everyone captivated with a monologue on interest rates, I saw in my minds eye the spectacle of these men sucking away on their own phallic symbols.  Perhaps I’ve been reading too much Freud, or not getting enough of phallic interaction myself, but I concluded that this ritual is a thinly veiled social custom that allows men to maintain their heterosexual masculinity, while indulging subconscious homoerotic desires.  Freud himself was no stranger to tobacco products–he is known to have chain smoked his way through decades of psychoanalytic sessions and was ultimately killed by smoking-related illness.

 

While I couldn’t imagine a cock in a Robert Mapplethorpe ten years ago, today I see them in cigars as easily as in my English breakfast sausages. Has the pendulum swung too far the other way, or is it just the way things really are?  

 

 

This morning a wonderful girl I met earlier in the week, a friend of P’s, arrived at his apartment  to take me to the airport.  I barely know her but this act of generosity is not unusual for her, just unusual in my world.  There’s a certain defensiveness in New York, people are afraid of being taken advantage of.  They want to be careful where they expend their generosity and keep careful track of its reciprocation.  Friend of P’s is a practicing Buddhist and incredibly giving soul, brightly radiating whatever positive state she’s managed to meditate herself into over time.  I think she’s in her forties, without a wrinkle to be seen on her beautiful, childlike face.  I always find the relationship between one’s inner state and outward appearance to be interesting.  I’m reminded of a yoga teacher I once studied under who was in his seventies, with wrinkles of course but the body of a twenty year old.  Someone who flows easily into conversation with random strangers, I listened with bemusement as my Buddhist friend chatted with the airline clerk in Polish, and suddenly I had an upgrade to first class.  She’s a great convincer, with the best and kindest of intentions.  It’s a treat to be taken care of, especially when you’re used to taking care of yourself.  She’s inspired in me the intention of doing more of my own random acts of kindness.

When my original flight was delayed and I decided to stay an extra day, I took a cab to a home in inner Warsaw, joining the dinner party of some pretty conservative, middle-aged Poles who reminded me of the suburban world in which I grew up.  The home was very comfortable and refined, food was served on delicate china and the conversation drawn from that list of subjects that are appropriate to talk about in bourgeois-ville.  They were welcoming of me, without needing to be, and I appreciated that warmth and kindness.  But with English being their second language, and unfamiliar to some of them, I found myself listening to hours of Polish conversation with little idea of what was being said.  Smoking is prolific in Poland, as in most Euopran cities that haven’t banned it indoors, and I decided to take it up as something to do with the time.  As the consumption of alcohol increased, the men began to tell increasingly ridiculous stories and laugh at each other, while the women became agistated and wanted to leave.  I’ve seen this pattern many times at dinner parties amongst my parents’ friends and my own childhood friends as they’ve grown up.  Some sense of silliness often gets lost in women and exaggerated in men through the playing out of a socially acceptable life.  

The next day I booked a massage at a hotel in Warsaw and waited in the ‘resting room’ for the massage therapist to arrive.  She was delayed in traffic but eventually swanned in in full force and sat down in front of me, looking directly into my eyes.  She had the appearance of an angel, with curly blond hair, wide set eyes and a ballet dancer’s body.  She talked of the importance of breathing throughout the massage and asked if I had any preferences.  I told her that I like it to be firm, to not be afraid to hurt me–my standard massage instructions.  She said that thin women always like a strong massage, then asked if I am a well-known tennis player!  These sorts of tangential comments seem absurd in one’s native language and environment somehow sound delightful in a foreign one.  Joanna was very spiritual in her approach and her openness and presence was naturally sensual.  Excess stores of my own sexual energy had been building up after a week of sleeping on P’s sofa, alone, and rose to the surface as she uncovered and attended to each section of my body. I found myself thinking that it would be perfectly natural for the massage to become a sexual encounter.  It wouldn’t have been at all out of place, in my fantasy, for her to climb on top of me and everywhere that her hands had been, she’d give kisses.  I rarely fantasize about women and don’t seek out homosexual sex, so this was unusual.  I guess it was the product of not being able to play out my intense sexual desire in the way I’d like to.  I’m resigned to it and to whatever happens.  My emotional mind is loyal but cautious, hopeful that my object of affection will become available.  In the meantime, I’ve found a fun and playful outlet in New York.  He’s younger than me and preoccupied with having a good time.  He’s a sweetheart and fun and likes the idea of fucking someone outside of his usual, Ivy League type crowd.  He’s a great lover in a very masculine way but with more sensuality and presence than most ambitious, young bankers tend to be–maybe it’s the South American heritage.  

On Saturday night I took the train back from Krakow and made my way to a club situated in an old, glass-covered train station.  The DJs were two guys with a couple of laptops who played the best dance music I’ve heard in a long time–80s electronica and techno pop.  People were really dancing, completely uninhibited.  There were no designer clothes, no state-of-the-art sound system, no no $300 bottles of vodka.  Just a great space and people really letting go.  I wish I could find that in New York.  I was hoping to see with Agata there, a girl I’d met several days before in Praga, a sort of hip, working-class section of Warsaw.  Agata is a force of nature, as P calls her, all of 23 and already an accomplished journalist and art commentator.  Agata is incredibly sharp, with the will and capacity to consume life with ferocity.  We share a radical feminist view that strength in sexuality is normal and natural, that promiscuity need not have negative connotations.  As a young, expressive woman and intellectual, finding compatible and worthy lovers is a challenge in the small world of Polish pseudo- bohemia.  I wish her luck and leave her with the thought that it will be the good fortune of her future suitors to have found her.  Read some of her writings at nuitssansnuit.blogspot.com  –her blog on art, design and culture.  

One last thing I must mention about Poland–the food!  I experienced some of the best soups I’ve ever tasted this last week–mushroom, chicken, dumpling, all intensely flavourful and hearty.  Duck is prominent on the menu too and Jewish gastronomic traditions enrich Polish eating.  Borscht is a favourite–preparation is simple yet rich. U Kucharzy is a restaurant in central Warsaw in the style of an old communist eatery where the walls are tiled and all preparation can be seen from your table.  The space is extensive and semi-communal, the food completely gourmet. There are two menus, one prepared by the female cooks and one by the males.  Steak tartare is prepared at the table, and other dishes are cooked in the kitchen but served in front of you.  Apart from the food, the best part of the experience was watching the interaction of the chefs and waiters, strong, young men with intensity of purpose and proletarian dedication to their craft.  The restaurant was reviewed in the New York times recently– http://travel.nytimes.com/travel/guides/europe/poland/warsaw/72637/u-kucharzy/restaurant-detail.html.