A Little Theory

After Martine had convinced me that nearly all of his books by Milan Kundera he had read in French, I decided to buy my own. Besides, I liked owning all my reading material. But of course I like it even more when I allow myself the liberty of owning the possessions of someone I adore. So I bought Laughable Loves today. In the process of this particular quest bumping into two girlfriends, one of which walked straight up before I ever noticed her (she’d changed so much, and definitely –definitely is not a strong enough word- for the gorgeous. I mean better) She came right up, and before I knew it, there were a pair of arms around me and a ‘my God, good to see you.’ That was a pleasant surprise. It took me a total of about half a minute to register that it wasn’t just some gorgeous girl picking me up at the train station. That would have been a first.

***

But on to Kundera’s ‘A Little Theory’.

That’s what Martin calls sighting. From his vast experience, he has come to the conclusion that it is not as difficult, for someone with high numerical requirements, to seduce a girl as it Is to know enough girls one hasn’t yet seduced.

Therefore he asserts that it is necessary always, no matter where, and at every opportunity, systematically to sight women, that is to record in a notebook or in our memories the names of women who have attracted us and whom we could one day board.

Boarding is a higher level of activity and means that we will get in touch with a particular women, make her acquaintance, and gain access to her.

He who looks back boastfully will stress the names of the women he’s made love to; but he who looks forward, toward the future, must above all see to it that that he has plenty of women sighted and boarded.

Over and above boarding there exist only one last level of activity, and I am happy to point out, in deference of Martin, that those who do not go after anything but this last level are wretched, primitive men, who remind me of village soccer players pressing forward thoughtlessly towards the other team’s goal. Forgetting that it is not enough to score a goal (and many goals) out of the frenetic desire of the kicker, but that it is first necessary to play a conscientious and systematic game on the field.

***

You may go ahead and consider it yourself and how this may apply to your life, but on my part, I actually think this is a fabulous way to approach sex, romance, and relationships, in general. However, I can say from a woman’s point of view, I’m not so concerned with the boarding as I am with the in-flight service after boarding (I like to provide good service, and encourage frequent flier miles, if you know what I mean. A little crude, but what the heck. I’d rather be flying often, then be docked half my life. Besides, being docked always is just a waste of a bird. I mean plane. I mean person).

Oh, nearly all men know this, and if you don’t, now you will. Women like sleeping with the same person. For all my promiscuity, I’m not so fond of un-covering and sampling a new dish, as I am with discovering more and more about a single individual. New things are always nice of course, but you get tired of the shallowness after awhile. And on my part, the feeling that I lack discipline in the area. Sighting’s fun of course, but most of the time I don’t just sight, I chat them up. I’ve actually got a lovely little list, and ‘having coffee’ with them when I have the time can be quite an engaging way to spend a lazy evening. Oddly, Élan aside, the ones I actually just chat with, I never feel like sleeping with. There’s too much about them I end up knowing and decide I do not like. But more then that, I think it’s because I’ve the feeling that they’ll be around for a long time (not because they will be around for a long time, but rather that they have already been around for a long time… how shall I put it, the older people get, the less they think they will die, simply because living has become a habit).

I love getting to know men that interest me, sleeping with them, and pretty much passively reading them, and feeling them, and making them happy.

Actually, it’s pretty much the same for cool girls, only I don’t actively seek them out and chat them up, because women, (and forgive me for making this allusion one too many times) only call each other sister when they have called each other a lot of other things first. But I’ve been having much fun with my girlfriends these days, and both Dee and the Princess are completely lovely to get to know better. The former, in particular. I cannot even attempt to make any sense of her, but I think she’s just the sort of girl people would write songs about.

I spent a few hours with Martine last night. I’m quite pleased with how things are actually, possibly because I’ve gotten used to how he does things. Getting kicked out slightly after mid-night is no longer a big deal to me, and I quite like it, because it pleases my parents that I sleep most nights in my bed. And me, because I just sleep better alone when not drug induced.

The mantelpiece by the hallway at the entrance of his apartment when I entered last night had been filled with the framed photographs of both him and Liz, and all the cards she’d given him. I thought it was odd, because they usually aren’t there, unless she was coming to visit. I asked him about it, and he looked at me, a little amused but at the same time, incredulous and a little affronted, ‘Since when did you decide it was your business to advice me on my interior decorating? But because you asked, the cleaning girl likes Liz, and the only conversation she ever has with me revolves around her, and those photos.’

I laughed and pushed him back onto the bed, firmly placing my hands upon his shoulder blades. ‘Don’t be stupid. I wanted to tell you that I really appreciated how you normally keep them away most of the week because you’re seeing me. Even though you know you don’t need to. I don’t feel jealous, just a little sad perhaps, when I wish I could be her in those pictures. And my artwork, instead of her cards. That is all.’

‘And you say I don’t need to?’

‘I’d still be crazy over you.’

‘Even if I didn’t exist, you’d still be crazy.’

‘While we were making love, you know, when you turned me over, why did you say I make you feel old? I think it’s absolutely unhealthy, you’re the only guy that keeps saying it.’

‘You’re so young, isn’t that obvious. You’re almost too young for me to make love to. In fact, I wouldn’t if I’d known, if you’d told me the truth.’

‘My age!’ I laughed sharply. ‘Aren’t you glad that I didn’t?’

‘Very. It makes me feel guilty sometimes. Partly Liz, partly because I feel emotionally spent…’

‘Jaded.’

‘A little bit.’

He told me something rather odd last night, that he’s told me once before. That I reminded him of Europe, and particularly where he grew up in. I told him that it was the strangest compliment any one had ever paid me. But why, and how in the world should I remind him of a continent I have no living memory off, outside Soppy Hugh Grant comedies and philosophical Linklater Sundance winners.

‘I don’t know. It’s many things. You’re a little bit of the girls I dated when I was younger, but endowed with so much more sense. Your age, that urgency in the way you live, the way you dress perhaps, your almost too conscientious with it…’

‘Would it be easy to write me a eulogy?’

‘Where the hell did that come from? But yes. It would be so easy, almost a pleasure. But not that I’d want you to die, rather, you know what I mean. You’re just fishing for compliments.’

‘And it flatters you to give them, knowing that I remember all.’

xoxox