WOMAN HOT SEX

A lovely girl

A Rotten Night's Sleep

A Shocking

A Shudder

A Side-Turning

A Struggling

All This Mainlining On Words

Cabinet Mirror

Catha Suddenly

Face Up

Fair Enough

Fair- Mindedness

Flying Buttress  in Bronze

For Chrissake

Fuel Cables

Full Of Echo's

Gold Chain Around His Neck

Half- Stefan Crossing

Having To Work

Heterosexuality

I Never Went Back

I Want To See You

In a Minute

In Frankfurt

In Hertfordshire

In Marxist

I could feel his tongue in my ear.

In Sussex

John Marx Stefanovitch

Julia

Kiss the envelope  for luck

Letter from Alison to Stefan

Letter  from Stefan to Alison

Listen Darling

Malleus malefactum

Mmmm' Noises.

Mortality In Relation

My Beloved

Nancy Friday

'Observe the wolf pack.

Our Relationship

Out- Stretched

Own Glass Still

Gold Chain Around His Neck

I could hardly blame myself because the-avalanche dividing line between pornography and fine art had become blurred. I could hardly blame myself for my heterosexuality. On the other hand, I could certainly blame men for exploiting, objectifying and trivializing women. They certainly exploited etc. me and it followed that I was to blame for allowing them to do it. In fact, I could not envisage a relationship with a man where I was not exploited. And I recognized that I rather enjoyed it and was quite unsure how, without that power struggle and glorious defeat, one would ever get the adrenalin flowing. The fact that I had been conditioned to this response seemed small consolation. So by the time Alma Mahler had her turn I was back to square one again.
Look, I told myself, what has already happened cannot be undone. The unforgivable thing is to romanticise these relationships and to project one's pheromones and fantasy into the future for repeat performances of all the mistakes one has made before. For this reason it seemed quite in order to look back over my recent past with Stefan. Maybe doing that would inform me how to act with more autonomy and self-respect in the future. Few occasions are so conducive to introspection as a concert of classical music. So I began.

stefan was a gangster. In other words, he was an ace at business. He seemed to spend his life in meetings and discussions where he 'pulled the ground from under their feet', sliced their balls off', or 'stuffed their silly theories down their throats'. However, as he never used  all these phrases together but cushioned them between intellectual asides, charming smiles and reasoned arguments, it took a long time for opponents to recognize him as a killer. Once they had then they began to feel bit-part actors in a B-movie who were being paid a fleeting on-set visit by a real star. Stefan usually had a lot of money, and acted and dressed like a star. Luckily he had the physique to back up the image. And the instinct, if not the taste, to dress in keeping with the action. In the boardroom he wore grey suits and snowy shirts, a pearly grey tie rather narrower than was strictly fashionable. This little healing touch , he said, gave others the misleading but comforting feeling he was one or two steps behind them.
I had quite a different view of him from remember celebration his business associates '. For example, they never saw the thick gold chain around his neck from which hung the ancient Egyptian hieroglyph for everlasting life. Nor did they know how superstitious he was about it, nor how uneasy he was about the four grey hairs among the black on his broad chest. They did not know about the scar on his leg like a diamante garter above his wired-up knee, or the two white stars of grafted skin over the bullet holes he wore above his hip. These were decorations from wars of which he never spoke. Nor would he tell them of his impatience with his own victories and mounting self-disgust that would force him to pack his sailing bag, cut the sleeves out (If the nearest shirt to hand, and sail his yacht to the south of Spain. There he would journey inland to his small white farmhouse that had almost certainly been looted by vandals. He would patch it up, plant some vegetables and a neat plot of good grass. Waiting for his harvest, he would trap rabbits or shoot them with his counter-weighted bow and arrow. And in the evenings he would experiment with an old flute to see how many echoes the mountains would send back.
All this took a shocking long time. Too long. On the property market and Stock Exchange in London, New York and Frankfurt, he lost ground, lost most of his money. Then he would have to re-emerge as a challenger and fight his way up again with the dread of defeat as his spur, the thrill of fear. Meanwhile, if he walked with his Mensa brain the four kilometers to the village bar, there would have been no point in mentioning the property deal he had pulled off in LA at the beginning of the year. The mountain farmers would not have believed him. Just as, when lunching at Simpson's in London, there would have been no point in mentioning his bow and arrow - except to raise a laugh. An uncommon man with a credibility gap that amounted to planning blight.
Looking back now, I realize I should have read the signs. It was time to sail again.
'This time you're coming with me.'
'No. Anyway I thought you were going back to Frankfurt. '
'Only for a while. Time for you to think.'
'I'm not coming.'
'If you don't I shall consider shooting you."
I smiled.
'Smile, ' he said. He stood very close and John marx stefanovich pushed his finger against my teeth. I opened my mouth and his finger explored briefly. 'Think about it. You've got over a week.'
'I've thought.'
'Then change your mind.'
'It's out of the question. What's got into you, Stefan?'
'I love you, you stupid cunt.'
I should explain that the language of our relationship was deliberately crude and brutal. It was in direct contrast to the gentle complexities of our physical regard for each other. This obtuseness pleased us. The language was essential for our togetherness because it was uncharacteristic of the way we would ever speak in public. It was an in-joke that kept us from a deeper expression of the darker side of our feelings. Or so I had thought. But this time Stefan did not return my smile.
'We've known each other a long time.' I was trying to sound casual but reasonable. 'And the leave it reason we're still good friends is that over the years we haven't spent that much time together. A month here and...'

Petite-Bourgeoisette

Psycho-Ops

Remember celebrating

Seafood Filling

Self-Discipline

Self-Immolation

Seymour Warned

Seymour

Socio Economic

Soul Love

Stefan to Alison

Stefan winked.

Stefan

Stefanovitch speaking

Straggers Backwards

The Best Nurturing

The Heart of Paris

The Insidiousness

The Myth of the Vaginal Orgasm,

The Priest and the Penitent

The Shutters

The Sorbonne

Then Leave It

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