I don’t know
what made me think about J. Maybe
reading the Sunday newspaper and picking up the sexual undertones. A good deal of the conflict in the
modern world is between the cultures that have gone through the sexual
revolution and those who have not, and that got me thinking about actually
going through the sexual revolution, back in the day, and that lead to J.
This was on a scientific research vessel converted from a North
Sea trawler, and J. was a sort of bosun.
He was the senior member of the crew and he made the machinery go. He also made a lot of money playing
chess. The scientific party would
be inveigled into a game with this simple sailor and they would get their asses
handed to them; major money was sometimes bet. In any case, a formidable man, heavy jowled, mustached,
with a bad haircut of thick black hair, just going gray. He spent a lot of time in the galley
and we grad students would have conversations with him there, at slack times
while we cruised to a new station.
So we arrive at a port in a tropical nation. We have been at sea a while and
working, actually fairly dull work, dropping and retrieving trawls, taking
samples of the water, seining plankton and looking through microscopes to
distinguish between two virtually indistinguishable crustaceans or
whatever. To me, boredom itself,
to a taxonomist the most fascinating thing in the world.
That evening we went ashore to get a meal and explore the
town, a sleepy, steamy little port, the sort of place that a film company would
use as background for a bad movie about seedy remittance men and exotic
beauties. J. recommended a brothel. We went to the brothel. We returned to the vessel. How was it, asks J. Terrific, we say, great. (It was not great. It was far from great. It was as far from great as the present
space-time continuum allows.)
But we liked J. and wanted to show appreciation, and also to show we
were real men and not nerdy science types.
Then we got under way again. Then we had whore stories, a genre that had escaped my
notice until then. J. had
fucked a very, very large number of whores, it appeared, and he had a good
memory (chess!) and a vast store of anecdotes, often hilarious, often
horrible. According to J., the crown and apotheosis of whoredom was Germany in 1945. J. had served on tankers in the North Atlantic,
been torpedoed twice, had spent days in open boats, the whole nine yards. Now he was shipping peacefully the oil
that kept the Occupation running and he had plenty of shore leave, plenty of
money, and a twenty-three-year-old body. He told us, wonder yet in his voice, that you could fuck
anyone, anyone, for a pack of
Luckies. Everyone in the country
was whoring: you could fuck
blondes who looked like princesses, who might have been princesses, for a carton and a chocolate bar.
They he asked us what the brothel had charged and we told
him and then he told us we'd been ripped off and asked what we usually paid in the city where we were
based. Embarrassed looks; then one
of the scientists said that we didn’t pay for sex. Then we were all married? No we were not.
Nor, as he then jokingly proposed, were we homosexuals.
And then as we tried to explain that we got laid because
women also liked to get laid and if we liked each other we just did it, clouds
started forming in his eyes, and we turned the conversation to safer ground:
he was not a fellow you wanted angry at you. Because he thought we were making fun of him. He thought we were implying that
Germany, 1945, without the cigarettes had become the permanent condition of people under thirty, which
was impossible, unthinkable, because it would mean that women liked sex, in
which case many of the assumptions on which he had based his existence were
incorrect, for example, that no woman would have sex with a man unless she was
paid off in some way. Guys like
that may be extinct in the US now;
or maybe not. There is
certainly a great deal of prostitution.
So many separate moral universes exist in any society and it is hardly
surprising that the mores adopted by the chattering classes (as reflected in
the Sunday papers) may not obtain in all of them. I suppose that’s one of the reasons for novels.
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