“The struggle for existence and hatred are the only things that unite people.”

—Anna Karenina, Tolstoy

“L’enfer, c’est les autres.”

—No Exit, Jean-Paul Sartre

I’m back in Pornland, and not a moment too soon. I was starting to frighten myself. After being so lonely for over a month, I was talking to the ether, and what I had to say wasn’t pretty. Mostly it was along the lines of “Fuck you you goddamn idiot FUCK! Stop talking to me, looking at me, following me, grabbing at me! Keep your FILTHY French hands off me you ASS!”

“In our country it is customary that when we see a beautiful woman we want to speak to her and get to know her and grope her and make her feel threatened and won’t you make love to me even though I am a stinky hog enduring my middle age as a class-less, despicable slob?!”

“Yeah, IDIOT FUCK? Well in my country we sue and jail for such things. I am not flattered. Au revoir.”

I don’t know what it was, but my patience dried up totally. Maybe it was cuz I was getting sick, or because I had had such an unexpectedly warm welcome in Morocco that returning to the Eurofucks was a slap in the face. Who knows. But I was not in the mood to flirt with or be hunted by grody geezers every minute of every day. I even started composing a vehemently anti-sex column(!) in a gorgeous royal park in Sevilla. I was enthusiastically spewing vitriol across the page when I was interrupted by another cockless forty-something “I’m-a-professor-at-the-uni-what-is-your-name?”

“Viva. Vamos.”

Then he tried to kiss me on the mouth.

Ugh, those Euros.

They do, however, put on some great cabaret. And contrary to feminist theory, the only time I encountered chivalrous, gentlemanly, respectful men on the Continent was at a titty bar in Paris.

I spent one beautiful May evening at the Crazy Horse, which, since 1951, has entertained Eartha Kitt, Alfred Hithcock, Grace Jones, Martina Navritalova, Mick Jagger, Al Pacino, etc, etc (celebrity visitors are listed on the wall. Check for Viva las Vegas next time ya go!). The audience was fifty-fifty men and women, mostly Parisians, but plenty of tourists, too, including a horde of Japanese pleasure-seekers WITH their spouses!! The $40 cover included two fat drinks, and for $60 more you got dinner. The joint was velvety and red, with very professional, very French waiters dressed to the nines. The crowd of two hundred was dressed quite formally, too. In front of me sat a mother in her fur and what appeared to be her son, maybe 14 years old, in a tuxedo.

The show was fabulous. Although I missed the grit and personality I’ve become accustomed to in the States, the fifteen girls, including Aria Crescendo, Crispy Suzette, Fuzzy Logic, Luna Lunatic, Pussy Duty-Free, Roxy Tornado, and Volga Moskovskaya, made up for it with brilliant costumes and routines perfectly designed for desire. All of ‘em appeared in military “costume” (barely there) for the introduction, and stomped along in unison in combat boots so that their tits and asses jiggled for five titillating minutes. Yummy! Another highlight was a super-hip movie of the girls getting ready in the dressing room. I’ve always thought that titty bar dressing rooms are among the most sexy places on earth, and I was glad for the peek into the Crazy Horse’s.

After the two hour show, the polite and respectful men, and the two shots of whiskey, I was on cloud nine. I walked the two miles home to my hotel, along the Seine, with a full moon on the rise and the Eiffel Tower at my back. I even refrained from hissing, spitting, and swearing at unwanted advances for a few hours. But the next day it was Tolstoy and Sartre all over again.

But at least I tossed that anti-sex column, realizing that the open-sexuality I championed last month wasn’t responsible for the misbehavior of all the eurodudes. For all my philosophies, those guys just can’t be excused. In the words of bartender Patti at the Magic Garden, “They’re just jerk-faces.”

And in the words of Judy Garland, “There’s no place like home.”

More Viva!

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Dec. 99
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