Dear Joanie,

Darling, sad news – Stanley passed away in the night.

I’m sorry for announcing it so bluntly – but I’m all red-eyed and exhausted, and have, for the moment, lost my usual knack for diplomacy. Of course we knew it was imminent – there’s only so much a body can take. He was old and worn, basically. But even when you know the end is near, part of you doesn’t want to believe it, don’t you find?

Dr. Harman dropped by early in the evening, bless his soul, gave Stan a sedative, and told us to sit with him, be close to him, and that was all we could do for him. “But it is a lot,” he added. And yes, for that I am grateful. Stanley didn’t die alone.

In the middle of the night, he let out an odd grunt, then panted frantically for several minutes, his eyes bulging from the effort. I could see his extreme discomfort, and the sedative had worn off, but Burke said I shouldn’t call dr. Harman. I didn’t want to argue over Stanley’s bed, but I think it’s a doctor’s duty to do anything he can, even if it’s the middle of the night, and I do think I should have called him – even if he really couldn’t do anything, it would have been a reassurance to have him by the bed.

Don’t you agree?

Then  came the death throes. L ‘agonie, as the French call it. Oh darling, so awful! I don’t think I’ll ever be able to erase the image from my mind – Stanley half-conscious, half gone to a better world, yet in obvious distress…He was so far away from us, and then suddenly, his eyes opened, and there was a moment when I knew he recognized me. It was very brief. I think he knew – he knew that he was going to die.

Thank God I was there for him. But of course, in the end, we all die alone. No one can help us through the transition.

And now, we are left with the pain. Even Burke, who used to pretend he didn’t much care for Stanley, and shooed him off the couch quite brusquely many a time. But I know that deep down he adored Stan. He’s been digging a grave all afternoon, didn't want for dr. Harman to take his little body away.

Darling, I am heartbroken…Will write more, soon. Right now I need a Valium.

Love,

Lisa

Dear Joanie,

To get back to the topic of fidelity – do you have the same problems I do? Could you not?

Your Averill isn’t the most physically alluring man, if you’ll forgive my saying so…I’ve always warned that choosing intellect over body entails great dangers. It seems so appealing, at first – here is this man with this great mind. I know. I’ve been there. It was that way with me and Bentley. I stupidly thought the attraction would last.

And then, of course, it doesn’t. After so many years (or months), the fascination wears off. His bon mots don’t seem so fresh, anymore. His witticisms have become tedious. His repartee, which you once thought brilliant, now drives you to frantically varnish your nails while he speaks. This is the point of extreme danger. Now that his mind has become wearisome to you, all he has left is the physical trapping, and that physical trapping, with men of intellect, is usually lamentable.

I know I have argued the reverse, one evening when you and I were both drinking just a little too much. That a pretty face can grow tiresome, too. This is a fact. After you have quenched your thirst for his body, a handsome man with no conversation becomes a stupid doll. Oh, it may take months, years even, but the moment will come. And then you’ll find yourself wanting to shake the wretched doll, shake it till its sawdust brain gives out.

And yet – how much more tragic is the relationship which once took off in a dazzling affair with the brain, a love for what was in the person rather than the flesh and blood hull, a spiritual affair, in other words…only to collapse onto itself and leave nothing but cold ashes and broken dreams…and a puny little man with glasses and no chest hair. Thank god Burke is not puny.

But you see my point, dear – yes, life with an inane doll will bore you frantically, after the novelty has worn off. However, you can still shag his brains out of a bored evening. But the man you once revered for his intellectual powers, who then deflates on you like a pompous balloon, will be of no use whatsoever. Unless he’s rich. And even then - I’m famous, as you know, for saying I prefer brains to money. And that’s only a slight exaggeration, a fairly minor deviation from the truth. Believe me, no amount of luxury can make you forget how appalling his once adored profile looks on your pillow, when you wake up in the morning.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you…

Lisa

Dear Marcia,

Have you ever looked up people with "similar interests", on the internet?

I am at present of course not in interested in meeting somebody, as I share my life with Burke and he seems, for the moment, to expect 'exclusivity' - but it's always nice to expand one's circle of acquaintance, isn't it.

Idly looking at Blog Profiles on Blogger.com, I found there was exactly one other person, among the hundreds of thousands, who has the Hite Report on Male Sexuality in his list of Favorite Books. And a man, at that. Who is this intriguing person? I thought. Could he be a soul mate?

I checked his profile:

I am a dissenting nonconformist working-class writer with a moral, intellectual, artistic and social voice of conscience! Please do not ignore my valid concerns about -- and accusations of -- malignity, wrongdoing, ineptitude, dishonesty, illegality, and perversity --against SAFTI military authorities (now retirees) who, in 1972, decided to implant me without obtaining my consent, approval, agreement or acceptance!

And so, you see, it doesn't look as if this gentleman and I have much in common, after all. It's certainly true that I am a nonconformist, and I believe I know a little about the working class life from my brief stint in the grapevines of Margaux, France.

(I know Burke told you I didn't finish my shift, there, but I did a full three hours of it, and have you any idea how absolutely back breaking and awful it is? I only did it to help out Papi, Jean-Claude's father, because he had to harvest everything before the thunderstorms began. It was brutal! You had to pick the ripe clusters, but leave the unripe ones and the ones with bunch rot. First I thought all my clusters were unripe, so I walked leisurely through the vine, and as it was a lovely day, I contemplated that the working life wasn't so bad. After all, I get to be in the house most of the time, bored and wan, while these people socialize and get tans.

True, isn't it? But then Tanguy, Papi's rather rude helper, said my clusters were all just fine and I should go back and pick the grapes. Unpleasant little man. Within 20 minutes I was drenched. But you know how I am - never one to let people down. Poor Papi was moving around awkwardly and picking with bent back, and when he tried to straighten, he didn't - that is, his back hasn't gone back to normal in the past twenty-five years. So I carried on, wouldn't hear of stopping, and by God if I didn't put in those three gruelling hours! Then I was simply exhausted and went inside to make Papi a cup of coffee. I think several hours is plenty to get an impression of anual labour is all about. Let me tell you: I've been there, seen it, done it, and thank you, I don't need any more of it.)

I suppose I'd also agree I have "a moral, intellectual, artistic and social voice of conscience". The plight of our world hurts me almost physically, viscerally, sometimes. I really have no time for people without a social conscience. I suppose that's how Mommy raised me.

But apparently, this man has been "implanted" in 1972, and this without his consent. Or even his approval, agreement or acceptance. Quite apart from the fact that 1972 is of course before my time, I very much doubt I have been "implanted". But, who knows? You know what I always say: I know I've been abducted by aliens, because I don't remember it at all. This could be a similar thing. How does one know whether one has been implanted?

Lisa

Dear Joanie,

Dom is going to plead ‘not guilty’, on Monday. I mean Dominique Strauss-Kahn, of course. You know I’d never expected this of him? I knew him during my brief Parisian stint. He was quite fun to be with. I remember once at a social do he suggested we go into the Salle Henri Désiré Landru, adjoining the reception area, because of the marvellous paintings there.

Whenever a man has asked me to go into any room with him, it always ended in steamy groping, that goes with the territory. But this kerfuffle was too much even for my tastes. I slapped his face hard. If you think that stopped him, you don’t know French men. When those clammy socialist fingers went for my décolleté, I took off my high heel and rammed it you-know-where.

That was the end of the matter, there and then. A few minutes later we were conversing animatedly again in the Salle Philippine de Rothschild. And not half an hour later, another important politician asked me to come look at the paintings in the Salle Landru with him. That’s how it goes, in France! I said yes, by the way.

Love,

Lisa

Dearest Joanie,

So, Nadal won his 6th Roland Garros, last night. What a pity I don’t live in Paris anymore! I’d have taken the boy out on the town, for an evening he’d never forget. Although – well, now that I’m with Burke  (a not necessarily very fortunate relic of that same Parisian period, if you’ll forgive my putting it so uncharitably), I’m not really supposed to wine and dine gorgeous 24 year olds.

I quite see the logic in that, I must say. You know I don’t believe in monogamy, but when I’m with a man who is very adamant about the subject, I do try not to hurt his feelings by shagging some nubile hottie. On the other hand, an older man with indifferent physique is fair game, I feel. Not that I’ve discussed it with Burke, or with most of my better halves, but it would be absurd to call a night out with somebody very ordinary, with an ordinary body, cheating. Don’t you rather agree? I mean, how could one’s partner possibly be jealous? I don’t think it’s genuinely cheating unless you put your heart and soul into it, I always say. And that is such a rare thing with me, as you know.

I shouldn’t watch those tennis matches. It’s insupportable, as the French say – you see this perfectly built child-man sweating and running around rippling his perfect muscles, and the next moment you look at your own partner, and…Well, I don’t mean to be unkind. But one does tend to compare, doesn’t one? I’ve been urging Burke to go to a gym, but I should be realistic. I suppose it’s hopeless. At his advanced age they just can’t do the Nadal shape, can they, even if they work at it 8 hours every day. Which I'm just certain he will refuse to do, when asked. Stupid Mediterranean stubbornness.

More later!

Lisa

Dear Carmen,

Well, have I ever! You remember Otto, my German lover of…well, absolute ages ago? Having never really gotten over me (so tedious when they don’t!) he sends me pictures, now and then, of his boys. And the oldest of these – well, you should see his photo! Did that boy suddenly blossom, in the past few years…It’s Otto, only much younger and with a divine body. Exactly as I’d always wished Otto looked. I daresay I wouldn’t have broken up with him if he had been in the shape that boy of his is in.

But what do you think? Typical German lack of a sense of humor! I wrote a message to young Dieter – he has a Facebook page, and I thought he might like to hear that a woman who knows a little bit about the world finds him attractive. You know how these 16 year olds are – they can be so shy, and so troubled about their acne, can’t they. Of course Dieter doesn’t have acne, or I wouldn’t have written to him. I mean, what would I have said, in that case? 

So, just to lift his pubescent spirits, I flirted a little with the lad, made some quite muted remarks about his bodily qualities, and I suppose I suggested he learn the ropes from an older woman like myself – in jest, actually. I have far too much on my plate to put up with an insecure teen right now.

However, Otto took the matter completely seriously, and wrote me to say “Do not ever contact my sons again”, with a CC to his lawyers! I was furious. It’s not even as if I did it for myself…Can’t a person be nice to another person, without all hell breaking loose? Really, I’m amazed at German prudishness. One wonders how they procreate.

Oh well! Love for now, my darling, from

Lisa