Somewhere, Erica Jong is smiling. Actually, saucy minx that she is, she's probably grinning so wide the whole top of her head is in danger of falling off her neck.
I say that based on this item from the on-line NY Times and I make that 'on-line' distinction as I see little possibility that its subject matter comes close to the "all the news that's fit to print' motto they may indeed still have for the pulp paper version.
As a male who grew up in the vanguard part of the generational cohort that moved recreational sex to Olympian heights in terms of participation and rhapsodizing, I, too, have to smile as I'd argue we've come a long from the ship they call the Mayflower (and the moving van for that matter) yet that Puritan guilt trip, that fear that someone, somewhere, is having a good time, clings to us like cheap scent.
If all we are to ever be is what we have already been, what's the point of all of this in-between? Crying out for love could be like crying out for the moon, or pony rides on your birthday-something to say that simply has no meaning beyond the shell of yourself.
There's a quote in the article, you'll find it soon enough but here's the part that struck me as so Erich Fromm meets Robert Frost: "(H)aving somebody that you can call or you can like, whose house you can spend the night in if you don’t feel like you want to be going home alone..." Going home alone...