Jane Handel: Intent on What She Is Doing.
Jane Handel Performance
By Suki O'Kane
Dressed for Sunday Afternoon Tea, Jane stood alone and fine-boned,
unnaturally still for an erotic poetess, and quietly reminded the
audience that the Marquis de Sade and Lydia Lunch share the same
"The Marquis, who must be turning in his grave at the commodification
of S&M," she continued from one of her essays, building a rant over the
course of a few pieces that flew over the heads of the modest crowd,
and made her skin tremble with truth. Telling the story of her sexual
awakening in the '60s, admitting the persistent lure of sex will always
be for her the "slimy exchange of bodily fluids," Jane painted the
picture of a changing erotic landscape that mitigates the distance
between our notions of sex as a dark cave filled with ambiguities and
sex as a source of profound creativity.
All of this in the voice of a minorly alarmed imperative. Dispassionate
and even, she could easily have been pointing out that the ash had
finally dropped from our cig onto our rayon, and her reproving glances
to the back of the club had no effect on the women quietly chatting
I began to worry Jane would explode if they didn't shut up. I felt
flushed and needled around the ears. I had no drink to take away the
dry in my mouth. I shifted my weight and breathed deeply.
Jane closed her notebook and peeled open First Person Sexual,
published by Down There Press.
In excruciating clarity, she unraveled an agonizing tale of watching
the onanistic porn video featuring a man who at that moment was sitting
in her kitchen, convivializing in low murmurs with a bottle of tequila
and another guest. Hostess gift or consolation prize, she mused. Then
the simple facts:
He Is Intent On What He Is Doing
And I Am Intent On Watching Him Do It.
I thought it would never end.
No, no. That was a good thing.
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