In the sack with Sartre
Gstaad Mind you, for the father of existential- ism to be lousy in the sack is pretty ridiculous. As Joseph Moncure March wrote in his sexy jazz poem, The Ty, Lid Party, 'Some love is fire; some love is rust: but the fiercest, cleanest love ,is lust.' Sartre, alas, was all rust. He gasped, he lurched, he pawed, he grasped, but could not deliver. Oy veil! Sartre was a philodox, someone in love with his own opinions. A philodox is by nature an unmitigated disaster au lit. As they say, it takes two to tango, but according to Simone, Sartre went at it all by his little own self. In fact, Sartre was a philodox as well as a macrologist. The latter is the type of dullard that works for the Guardian and indulges in prolonged discourses with little or nothing to say. Philodoxy plus macrology equals the worst lay in the world. We Greeks invented those words in order to define lousy lays and help the weaker sex to stay away. No one spoke more rubbish and no one was more in love with his own opinions than the late, unla- mented Greek prime minister Andreas Papandreou, Ali Baba for short. A veteran Athenian hooker once told me that going to bed with Ali Baba was like listening to his speeches. All talk no action but lotsa promises. His widow Mimi, the one with the bigga tits, lost no time in replacing the e mphysematous sounds of Ali's love-mak- ing. With another actor, needless to say, this one of the silver, rather than the politi- cal, screen.
But back to Sartre and his inability to please. The existentialist posed as an infra- caninophile — or champion of the under- dog — but in real life he was a monster. He treated women like the proverbial dirt and showed as much tenderness as Lavrenti Beria; still he got his share of you-know- what despite his flaccidity. This is because of Guardian women. The lousier the lay the more these ipsedixidists (persons given to dogmatic assertions) swoon and go all shaky at the knees. No wonder the Draft Dodger owes his election to the chrono- phobic (those who dread the passing of time) sex. And speaking of the man who has given fellatio a bad name, there is no way this crypto-socialist could be a good lover. I've heard of unsubtle approaches, but dropping one's trousers and telling a woman to kiss it must be the romantic equivalent of a holiday in Zaire Needless to say, many Brit lefties suffer from the Sartre syndrome. As do many Tory wets. Whereas la Beauvoir and Sartre indulged in a ménage a trois with a much Younger woman, a lesbian, the Brits prefer a menage a trois with — preferably — a third man. Sartre could only get it up with two women and then just for a little while. British lefties and wets can only get it up with two men and a woman watching. Still, things could be much worse. Over In the land of le fromage, philosophers can get downright mean when their libido fails them. One noted French philo was said to have throttled his wife at the end of a bad day. He got off and is now as busy as ever arguing logical proof and fictions of purity.