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Jong in her sixties is at once too much and too little like Jong in her thirties. It is the voice of a woman who, for all her talk of love, has never learned to love. It is a cynical voice-a catty, peeved, snobbish, bored, and boring voice. The voice in Jong’s latest book, Seducing the Demon: Writing for My Life, is no longer the voice of her spunky first heroine. And spread over the decades, that salve gets both thinner and more bitter. But the only salve she’s offered over the next seventeen books is that of interminable adultery. “Even if you loved your husband, there came that inevitable year when fucking him turned as bland as Velveeta cheese: filling, fattening even, but no thrill to the taste buds, no bittersweet edge.” Jong put her finger on a real wound. “What was it about marriage anyway?” Isadora asked. It is this honesty, along with the protagonist’s boisterous energy and foul-mouthed wit, that once made the book remarkable. No? If not, it could only be because she knows the man she married is sufficiently weak to take her back without any elaborate rituals of contrition.)īut if Fear of Flying is hardly a tale of women’s emancipation, it nonetheless raises arrestingly honest questions about desire and commitment, fantasy and fidelity. “I wasn’t going to grovel,” she has Isadora boast as she reclines in Mr.
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(Improbably, Jong herself appears to mistake her novel’s closing scene for a vision of freedom. Not flying in the open skies, as the novel’s title (and Isadora’s surname) suggests she might-but waterlogged in the lavatory of a man. The heroine-naked and prone-awaits the forgiveness of her husband. As an image of female liberation, it’s hardly up to snuff. The end of the novel has Jong’s protagonist returning ruefully to her spouse: she stalks him around European capitals, begs a receptionist for the key to his hotel room, and admits herself into his bathtub in anticipation of his arrival. Far from being an inspirational story (as it is routinely billed) of a woman’s escape from a dead marriage and discovery of erotic pleasure and independence, it’s the tale of a woman who ditches her husband only to find in the arms of a lover first impotence and frustration, then heartbreak and abandonment. But here’s an irony: Fear of Flying demonstrates the unavailability of the zipless fuck. Firsthand accounts of women’s desire were at a premium.Įnter Erica Jong and her zipless fuck. The Joy of Sex appeared on coffee tables across the nation. Suddenly everybody wanted to know what they should be doing, and feeling, in bed. But with possibility came fear-not least, fear of ignorance.
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Many a young woman felt invited-or compelled-to embrace erotic experiment. The Hite Report confirmed as much a few years later. By 1966, Masters and Johnson had announced that traditional sexual intercourse was, for half the human race, anticlimactic. The birth-control pill had been approved in 1960. It was, after all, the middle of the sexual revolution. It is because of this availability that numbers of women left their husbands in the glory years of Fear of Flying, and that men sent Jong requests for underwear. Zipless because when you came together zippers fell away like rose petals … Your whole soul flowed out through your tongue.” “And,” she adds abruptly four pages later, “I have never had one.”īut the book’s whole mythology depends on the availability-and ecstasy-of the zipless fuck. “The zipless fuck was more than a fuck,” intones Isadora. This means the passage about “zipless fucks” in which Isadora Wing (minutely based, like all of Jong’s narrators, on herself) details her fantasy of elated anonymous sex-sex without strings, preambles, or consequences sex with a stranger on a train, an itinerant Romeo who comes, sees, conquers, and disappears into the mists of the station. It is my suspicion that the majority of the 18 million people who bought it didn’t read it, or read only the paragraphs on which its notoriety was based. And this even though-or perhaps because-its reputation departs radically from its reality.