By Erica Jong
Any Woman's Blues, first released in 1990, is a story of dependancy and narcissism-the dual obsessions of ourage. World-famous folks singer Leila Sand emerged from the sixties and seventies with addictions to medicinal drugs and booze. Leila's most modern habit is to a more youthful guy who leaves her sexually ecstatic yet emotionally bereft. The orgasmic frenzies trump the betrayals, so she retains coming again for extra.
ultimately, Leila frees herself via studying the principles of affection, the Twelve Steps, and the main to Serenity in an odyssey that takes her from AA conferences to dens of sin, events with "names" worthy losing, and erotic gondola rides.
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Additional resources for Any Woman's Blues: A Novel of Obsession
Sometimes, when I think of this, I want to weep for Dart and change his name to something real—Daniel perhaps—and give him a real life, such as I would have wanted for my son. But I have no son. I have twin daughters, Michaela and Edwina. Dart became my lover and my son, a dangerous (and perhaps impossible) combination. This Wanderjahr continued after MOCKBA. Tokyo, Taipei, Hong Kong, Canton, Shanghai, Beijing, Bangkok, Borobudur, Singapore, Bombay, New Delhi, Abu Dhabi, Baghdad, Jidda, Cairo, Athens, Tunis, Nice, Lisbon, Bahia, Rio—but life in bed at a deluxe hotel (whether the Okura, the Ritz, the Peninsula, the Oriental, the Shangri La, the Goodwood Park, the Cipriani, the Bel Air, the Plaza Athénée or the Vier Jahreszeiten) is much the same everywhere.
The salt mines. Tennis. Outer space. Deep-sea diving. Basketball. Las Vegas. Another woman. It’s all the same flight. The man I love has constructed a museum to macho in my garage. Power saw. Punching bag. Motorcycle. Barbells. I love him in part because I cannot tame the wild creature that dwells inside him. For this is another paradox of the sexes: whatever we love in the other we seek to kill. My love is a con man, a hustler, a cowboy, a cocksman, an addict, an artist, a fancy dancer, a dandy.
Either they were as drunk and stoned as we were or we were drunk and stoned enough for both. From time to time, I (being the older and supposedly responsible party) would awaken and wonder if we were becoming drunks or drug addicts, but in that crowd, who could tell? All the artists drank and used that way. Or so I thought. The only time I really became upset was when Dart carried sinsemilla into the USSR—and without telling me. We had arrived at our grand hotel in MOCKBA, and we were about to fall into bed and reassert our primal connection (it had, after all, been seven hours since we made love in Copenhagen, and we were both in a state of deprivation that prisoners of war may know), when Dart smiled at me with his shy “love me” smile (practiced from childhood on his mother, his nannies, his sisters, and any other females he might meet) and extracted from under the insole of his cowboy boots two flattened joints of purest Humboldt County sinsemilla.