|A long time ago, I cut my teeth on poets. That was then. I fuck philosophers now, even though they talk too much. With delectable precision, philosophers delight themselves no end tying you up in traffic. Circles, jams, and lights. The endless propositions. The turtle-necked casuistry. But when they come to the panties, they go wild. That's when you hear them huffing and puffing Schopenhauer. I get down on the floor and shake it with the last school of thought that bumped and ground its way into this poor schlub's philosophizing heart. I don't care if it's yesterday I'm spreading them for.
I don't care either what their stuff is made of. As long as their logic is airtight, I consider any stiff wunderkind, any old bratwurst, any baguette worthy of a romp. Arendt you glad I didn't say "banana?" As long as they save the unknowability routine for the timeless questions, I'll fuck philosophers time and time again. Is it any coincidence we do it Western style, my Nietzsche's up over my head, panties pushed to the side like everything south or east of Greece? Philosophers - they can't think their way out of a rib-cage but oh the infinite splitting of the hairs, the ever-nerveless hairs. Hey girl, let's go down to the annual convention: Hobbes, knobs, and Engels. Quad Erotic Demonstratum. If you don't like the fragments or should I say the fragmentary nature of my discourse, you can kiss my Aristotle. Which looks and feels and tastes so good. We won't let a little thing like a podium get in our way - or will we?
I prefer philosophers at breakfast, better yet before dawn - less conversation, at least until the coffee kicks in. The light of Descartes is dangerous and seems to open the way for bursts of unsolicited commentary. A risk worth taking on the whole, but on the other hand, fuck philosophers, with their right way to do this and that. Around evening time, they try to get colloquial with me. Pull up to my bumper, baby, kidding around, quotation marks. Fuck philosophers. With their assessment of the way I turn a phrase. Assess this, I say, and I roll the tip of my tongue across my perfect teeth.
Fuck fucking philosophy, an occupation I used to find unusual in a man. Until I was nineteen. Not to mention a woman. More baloney logicians out there than you could shake a stick at. But why would you? That's the kind of joke you're likely to hear from the Analytic types. A little shop talk never hurt, but sense of humor can be a problem. When it is, I say, take it to the movie theater, Wittgenstein, blow it in and out your own ear on the head of a pin in the dark. Just another Freud Day afternoon matinee, matey.
What we got here, this here's a party, a big savage party for me and my philosopher friends. It's the most fun when I can get them to let their Kierkegaard down. One swings by another's house in a horn-rimmed automobile to pick him up and bring him to the party, about half past eight, hazards flashing, singing, "Now dearie, don't be Plato." They wanna be there when the glands start playing.
"Who's there?" Or would it be Hume in this case?
Enter nineteen philosophers. I greet them in a little black number with a see-through tautology. Cerebrate, cerebrate; dance to the music. It's a little awkward at first, but I give them high Marx for trying. Why it gets good, though, this party's rhetorical. Rhetorical the way a philosopher, once stony now stoned, commands me to take off my shirt. Now I tug at one sleeve now tug at the other, freeing my shoulders, my tits, and my ribs, binding my arms to my sides with the neck of my shirt stretched kinky at my elbows. Rhetorical the hooting and Husserl in a circle of which I am the putative center. Rhetorical the Shake them, baby, shake them. I say, Now we're talking. Rhetorical the Give us some pussy. I say, Make me. I don't mean it, I'm just heightening the suspense. I dance, half naked: hemline, free will, and nipples. Boldly the first one, shyly, the next few, the philosophers whip out their Schlegels; now they're heightening the suspense. Working my hands around to the front, I suddenly flap my skirt. Up. Yup, the panties do it again. Pandemonium. Rhetorically we go to bed, since the literal bed is too small for all of us and the floor will do as well. Guess what we're batting around now, not just good ideas.
Yes, they drive me crazy, but when it's an argument I'm looking for, philosophers deliver. When I want to hear it broken down, why I should give it up. When I want to be begged, pleaded with, or otherwise cajoled. I like the fucking better when the foreplay is well-reasoned. I get off on hearing about the degrees of torture, akin to Aquinas of thirst, that this highly particular philosopher would suffer if he or she could not get into my pants. Oh the miscarriage of justice, they complain, when I send a lousy carpe diem packing. You can put a better Spinoza on it than that, I say. For I am a connoisseur of seduction lines and textual proclivities. I've collected them for ages: philosophers and their come-ons and pretexts (and whatever comes next), but they have to be good. Philosophers're not ideal, they talk too much, but at least they talk enough.
The last three years, a thousand nights of persuasion, while I worked up to nineteen of them. The thousand nights of passionate pleading. The new meaning of "make believe," which would have exhausted Scheherezade. The thousand nights of making my lovers make me believe they want to sleep with me, they need to sleep with me, and my favorite: it'll be the best thing that ever happened to me. Ergo. Apparently infinite variations thereon. If you can make me believe it, I'll open up the curly gates and we'll have a Heidegger time.
Next morning, after a quick breakfast,
out they go. Bundle up, I say, you'll catch your death of God.
And come back now, you hear, when you're ready to rev it up
again with a brand-new, flawless, paradigm-shattering proof
that I have a hot ass and you absolutely have to have it too.
In the meantime, I go upstairs and I rinse out my panties.