Chapter 23: What Kind of Vehicle are You Using?
Hearing you speak the other morning, it finally came to my consciousness that I am sexually repressed.
I can’t remember being sexually repressed before the AIDS scare started. Also, being rejected sexually by a boyfriend has contributed; although I share the responsibility for that - or try to.
I can remember a time when, with no boyfriends, I would feel my sexual energy and yet it would need no outlet. It would stay in my body and I would feel orgasmic all over.
But now I feel imprisoned by repressed sex and need your guidance.
Shunyo, you are simply confused. You are not sexually repressed. You are simply an English lady. It seems you had forgotten it.
Just a few days ago a drunkard was arrested in France. He was making love to a dead woman on the beach. When asked, he said, “I thought she is English.”
Don’t be worried about repression. And moreover you are coming to the age when everybody feels disturbed, particularly women from the West. Middle age is a troublesome and anguish-creating state.
A few things for you to contemplate.
First, one has to recognize that one is getting into middle age.
Middle age is when you still believe you will feel better in the morning.
Middle age is when you want to see how long your car will last instead of how fast it will go.
Middle age is when you are home on Saturday night, the telephone rings and you hope it is not for you.
Middle age is when you change from stud to dud.
Middle age is when you stop criticizing the older generation and start criticizing the younger one.
These are just symptoms I am telling you, so.!
People who have been here with me for almost ten or twelve years cannot be sexually repressed. That is my whole condemnation all over the world; you can call it my reputation. And asking me a question about sexual repression is just destroying my reputation!
Two men sitting in a bar were commiserating about married life. “I know a man,” says one, “who has been married for thirty years and he spends every evening at home.”
“That’s what I call love,” says the other.
“Oh, really?” replied the first, “the doctor called it paralysis.”