Romance Page #3

Jacuzzis are in, so I have one.

It's a theatre...

The pedestal over there is a stage,

I have rehearsals.

I'm a luxury tramp: Don't have

anything, am not good-looking...

Nevertheless, I've had more than

Why me?

Because you have to talk to them.

Nobody even bothers

to talk to women anymore.

You talk to them,

they listen to you...

They get so close to you.

And you put your hand,

where it belongs.

Without foreplay.

That's how it works.

Somebody has to make the first step,

after all.

The only opportunity

for love with women...

emerges from rape.

Women easily give themselves

to the next best guy.

Even when they make the unfortunate

one, who really loves them, suffer...

The one who'd sacrifice his life

for them, who respects them.

That's how it works.

By the way, do they really

want to be respected?

In a certain way... they do.

But it's the kind of respect,

one shows for objects.

They are waiting

to get into one's hands,

so they want to be taken.

I had 10.000 women and really can't

remember all of them.

But I always wrote down names,

age and circumstances.

Women's c*nts...

None looks exactly like another.

Just like the faces, that one remembers.

But take 10 men, cut off their d*cks,

and put these in a basket.

Not one of them will recognize his own.

I was once featured in a programme

on France Culture.

They came to verify

the evidence afterwards.

They did...

They counted them all.

Dr. Weil, psychiatrist and sexologist,

got to know a Casanova or Don Juan,

a man who may be even more successful,

the Cavalieri of seduction...

Why does she say Cavalieri

of seduction? How absurd.

I have never seduced.

Not a single woman.

I know, that I'm not

handsome.

I probably even am...

rather unpleasant.

But it's a fact,

I had 10.000 women.

Several every day.

I was a seducer in the true meaning

of "se aductere":

Taking something along.

That's the true meaning of seduction.

"Se aductere":

Taking something with you.

We have verified,

we have counted...

He keeps a record

of his achievements.

I have something,

that might be of interest to you.

I once bought it... I knew,

one day I'd make you read it.

Here it is...

I want you, to read

out loud one particular sentence for me.

Today, books should not be lend,

women should read them out to us.

In that we can make sure,

they actually read it.

I hate reading out.

Read that out.

Women should read out to us.

While the MOTHER creates the SON,

the SON creates the MOTHER.

His act creatively and entirely

accompanies the whole process.

The creation of the MOTHER

is her purification.

Purifying and being purified,

uno acto.

And still, the whore of Babylon

becomes transformed into a VIRGIN.

I become embarrassed near you.

Why is that?

Although it seems,

you don't feel comfortable either.

No, I feel very well.

See?!

I don't know what you mean.

But yes... you act coy.

I behave, like I always do.

That enormous awkwardness...

I am, like I always am.

...is stimulating.

It's a part of the game.

The slow blending of words

into gestures is necessary...

Otherwise we'd too hastily say:

Hands off!

That's what it's all about:

A trivial contact...

a particularly bashful contact.

Why do the men, who disgust us,

understand us much better

than those, who attract us

und who we love?

What a shortcoming in orthography,

exposed in front of the whole class,

but nevertheless, you want to teach.

Yes...

an exposure...

Yeah...

You just can't believe, that

my fingers are rubbing your p*ssy...

But it's really happening.

I'm not even aroused yet,

but you're already wet.

'Cause you just can't believe,

that it's me.

That's how it works.

Beautiful women like to be

taken by ugly men.

Of course, nobody admits that.

There has to be a force of attraction.

And that attraction is not between a man

and a woman... That would be too simple.

That attraction is between

beauty and ugliness.

Beauty is nourished by disgracefulness,

there's a friction between them.

And I am there,

to profit from it.

That's how it works.

It's not my fault.

Do you want to serve me?

Open your eyes.

Should I gag you?

This requires, that one has to go further,

than a woman would normally accept,

from a logical point of view.

Of course, this might lead to a situation

she in fact cannot accept anymore.

But since one desires,

what one doesn't accept...

Sexuality...

is the clash

of triviality and divinity.

Strange...

Women don't mind obscenity.

Is it too firm?

Remove it all...

I can't stand it any longer...

I wasn't aware...

You should have told me...

I thought, I could take it

that far with you.

I can tie you up less tightly, you know.

Or... we could have sex the normal way.

It's okay...

It's me...

It's my own fault.

See...

I've never been put in bonds before.

I've never done it.

Really? Never?

I always wanted it so much.

We'll do it again,

and I won't make it that firm.

No.

It's fine.

It's got to be this way.

Really? You enjoyed it too?

It was great for me.

Really good.

But I want to please you,

and when you cry...

I get the feeling,

of having done something terrible.

No, it's fine.

First...

you feel your hands going numb...

and you believe,

that you can take it...

and suddenly, it becomes unbearable.

As if Death was coming...

A galloping Death.

You get the feeling,

your hands are about to fall off...

an then gradually you slowly turn

into carcass...

and then...

it's got to stop immediately,

it must not last a second longer.

I got anxious, you wouldn't

understand me, because of the gag.

That was driving me crazy...

But the gag was okay?

Anyway,

I don't like to talk about these things.

When I returned, Paul was not at home.

It was enough

for making my world collapse.

That has nothing to do

with what I've done.

Done is done. It's history now.

I keep a clear head.

That's the only thing I am capable of,

anyway:

Existing in my own head.

I believe,

my body does not belong to me...

It's an anonymous appendage.

And in my head... there's Paul.

He could have

reconciled me with my body.

But he didn't want to.

Because, and that's the point...

because I didn't love my body,

I was like a sitting duck.

A victim.

All in all...

women are

the expiatory sacrifices of men.

I always masturbate

with my legs crossed.

Only very rarely I spread them.

I can't even make my body

a present to myself.

I rape myself.

Yet, the satisfaction I feel,

is only superficial,

causing nausea

and the revengeful thought, that I'm

able to achieve it without a man anyway.

It was agonizing,

to readily rest on his bed.

Deposited in stock...

like an undeliverable parcel...

unclaimed property...

And the more time passed,

the less I could endure it.

I had to rush out into the street,

like unclaimed property.

The etymological meaning of unclaimed

property:
It belongs to anyone.

The only thing that was persistently

repeating, like a lousy equation:

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