A literary sensation when first published in , Fear of Flying established Erica Jong as one of her generation's foremost voices on sex and feminism. Nearly. download FEAR OF FLYING: How to Overcome Fear of Flying (fear of flying help, fear of flying tips, help with fear of flying, how to get over a fear of flying): Read Editorial Reviews. Review. “SOAR is more than a program of effective exercises to treat fear of Kindle Store · Kindle eBooks · Health, Fitness & Dieting.
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Sep 3, A literary sensation when first published in , Fear of Flying This ebook features a new introduction by Fay Weldon, as well as an. Read "Fear of Flying Fortieth-Anniversary Edition" by Erica Jong available from Rakuten Kobo. Sign up today and get $5 off your first download. Bored with her. Feb 26, 'There were psychoanalysts on the Pan Am flight to Vienna and I'd been treated by at least six of them': so opens Erica Jong's iconic.
I taught a couple of days a week and wrote the rest of the time.
My teaching schedule was light, the writing was exhausting, and by the time Bennett came home, I was ready to go out and break loose. I had had plenty of solitude, plenty of long hours alone with my typewriter and my fantasies. And I seemed to meet men everywhere. The world seemed crammed with available, interesting men in a way it never had been before I was married. What was it about marriage anyway?
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, no danger. And you longed for an overripe Camembert, a rare goat cheese: luscious, creamy, cloven- hoofed. I was not against marriage. I believed in it in fact. But what about all those other longings which after a while marriage did nothing much to appease? The restlessness, the hunger, the thump in the gut, the thump in the cunt, the longing to be filled up, to be fucked through every hole, the yearning for dry champagne and wet kisses, for the smell of peonies in a penthouse on a June night, for the light at the end of the pier in Gatsby Not those things really—because you knew that the very rich were duller than you and me—but what those things evoked.
The sardonic, bittersweet vocabulary of Cole Porter love songs, the sad sentimental Rodgers and Hart lyrics, all the romantic nonsense you yearned for with half your heart and mocked bitterly with the other half. What a liability! You grew up with your ears full of cosmetic ads, love songs, advice columns, whoreoscopes, Hollywood gossip, and moral dilemmas on the level of TV soap operas. What litanies the advertisers of the good life chanted at you! What curious catechisms!
And the crazy part of it was that even if you were clever, even if you spent your adolescence reading John Donne and Shaw, even if you studied history or zoology or physics and hoped to spend your life pursuing some difficult and challenging career—you still had a mind full of all the soupy longings that every high-school girl was awash in. Only the surface trappings were different. Only the talk was a little more sophisticated.
Underneath it all, you longed to be annihilated by love, to be swept off your feet, to be filled up by a giant prick spouting sperm, soapsuds, silks and satins, and of course, money. Nobody bothered to tell you what marriage was really about. You expected not to desire any other men after marriage. And you expected your husband not to desire any other women. Then the desires came and you were thrown into a panic of self-hatred. What an evil woman you were!
How could you keep being infatuated with strange men? How could you study their bulging trousers like that? How could you sit at a meeting imagining how every man in the room would screw? How could you sit on a train fucking total strangers with your eyes?
How could you do that to your husband? Did anyone ever tell you that maybe it had nothing whatever to do with your husband? And what about those other longings which marriage stifled? Those longings to hit the open road from time to time, to discover whether you could still live alone inside your own head, to discover whether you could manage to survive in a cabin in the woods without going mad; to discover, in short, whether you were still whole after so many years of being half of something like the back two legs of a horse outfit on the vaudeville stage.
The zipless fuck was more than a fuck. It was a platonic ideal Five years of marriage had made me itchy for all those things: itchy for men, and itchy for solitude. Itchy for sex and itchy for the life of a recluse. I knew my itches were contradictory—and that made things even worse. I knew my itches were un-American—and that made things still worse. It is heresy in America to embrace any way of life except as half of a couple.
Solitude is un-American. But a woman is always presumed to be alone as a result of abandonment, not choice. And she is treated that way: as a pariah. There is simply no dignified way for a woman to live alone. Oh, she can get along financially perhaps though not nearly as well as a man , but emotionally she is never left in peace.
Her friends, her family, her fellow workers never let her forget that her husbandlessness, her childlessness—her selfishness, in short—is a reproach to the American way of life. Even more to the point: the woman unhappy though she knows her married friends to be can never let herself alone. She lives as if she were constantly on the brink of some great fulfillment.
The solitude of living inside her own soul? The certainty of being herself instead of half of something else? My response to all this was not not yet to have an affair and not not yet to hit the open road, but to evolve my fantasy of the Zipless Fuck. It was a platonic ideal. Zipless because when you came together zippers fell away like rose petals, underwear blew off in one breath like dandelion fluff.
Tongues intertwined and turned liquid. Your whole soul flowed out through your tongue and into the mouth of your lover. For the true, ultimate zipless A-1 fuck, it was necessary that you never get to know the man very well. I had noticed, for example, how all my infatuations dissolved as soon as I really became friends with a man, became sympathetic to his problems, listened to him kvetch about his wife, or ex-wives, his mother, his children.
After that I would like him, perhaps even love him—but without passion. And it was passion that I wanted.
I had also learned that a sure way to exorcise an infatuation was to write about someone, to observe his tics and twitches, to anatomize his personality in type. After that he was an insect on a pin, a newspaper clipping laminated in plastic.
I might enjoy his company, even admire him at moments, but he no longer had the power to make me wake up trembling in the middle of the night. I no longer dreamed about him.
He had a face.
So another condition for the zipless fuck was brevity. And anonymity made it even better. During the time I lived in Heidelberg I commuted to Frankfurt four times a week to see my analyst. The ride took an hour each way and trains became an important part of my fantasy life. Much as I hate to admit it, there are some beautiful men in Germany. Fear of Flying still soars above tabloid outrage Read more One scenario of the zipless fuck was perhaps inspired by an Italian movie I saw years ago.
As time went by, I embellished it to suit my head. It used to play over and over again as I shuttled back and forth from Heidelberg to Frankfurt, from Frankfurt to Heidelberg: A grimy European train compartment Second Class. The seats are leatherette and hard. There is a sliding door to the corridor outside. Olive trees rush by the window.
Two Sicilian peasant women sit together on one side with a child between them. They appear to be mother and grandmother and granddaughter. Across the way in the window seat is a pretty young widow in a heavy black veil and tight black dress which reveals her voluptuous figure.
She is sweating profusely and her eyes are puffy. The middle seat is empty. The corridor seat is occupied by an enormously fat woman with a moustache. Her huge haunches cause her to occupy almost half of the vacant center seat. She is reading a pulp romance in which the characters are photographed models and the dialogue appears in little puffs of smoke above their heads.
This fivesome bounces along for a while, the widow and the fat woman keeping silent, the mother and grandmother talking to the child and each other about the food. And then the train screeches to a halt in a town called perhaps corleone. A tall languid-looking soldier, unshaven, but with a beautiful mop of hair, a cleft chin, and somewhat devilish, lazy eyes, enters the compartment, looks insolently around, sees the empty half-seat between the fat woman and the widow, and, with many flirtatious apologies, sits down.
He is sweaty and disheveled but basically a gorgeous hunk of flesh, only slightly rancid from the heat. The train screeches out of the station. Of course, he is also rubbing against the haunches of the fat lady—and she is trying to move away from him—which is quite unnecessary because he is unaware of her haunches.
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