If there’s no sex in a Cretan mountain house, who needs a Cretan mountain house? Give me Cretan day-at-the-beach eyeporn and the sun-primed eroticism that follows. Give me soft succulent flesh. I can suck figs for hours.
Here’s the thing: I swam in the Libyan Sea’s most crystal clear waters, was treated to the loveliest of blue Cretan skies, saw the most exquisite asses and ate massive amounts of mouthwatering pussy in Elafonisi, but I could never stop thinking about the cameras. This beach, this marvel, photographed, video’d, panorama’d TO DEATH. They walk into water with phone in hand nowadays. No joy. No smiles. Just poses. Model poses. I’ve said it before: Vain vulgar fuckers deserve vain vulgar fates. Rot humanity. Leave it to the cats and goats. Let prickly pear sing. Let olive dance. Rot humanity. You were never worthy. You are less worthy now.
III. Fresh Figs
All the people who keep telling me to stop writing about sex are having little or none. Which is to say: If I ate as many figs as I fuck and want to fuck, I’d write about figs too.
IV. Modern Chania
A seventy-year-old man pulls into the Venetian harbor on his bicycle. He turns to his wife riding beside him and says: “Let’s stop here and take a selfie with that lighthouse over there.”
V. No More Talk
Henry Miller dedicated The Colossus of Maroussi to the Greek poet Katsimbalis, a divine talker. Reading it, I grow jealous of Miller’s ears and I long for the divine talkers I’ve known. I’ve known four. Forty years and I consider myself lucky. Four human beings who craved my silence.
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