Yes, that was James. I suspected as much, but received final confirmation last night. As I told him when I saw him, I’ve been itching to yell at someone for weeks, and, grand contrarian that he is, he provided me with an excellent opportunity to do so.
(Incidentally, James is no more a postmodernist than I am a ballerina. I mean, the man still believes in aesthetic value, for chrissake. And you should see the way he dresses...)
In other news, I have decided to treat myself to a massage this week, which is, I suppose, the female version of treating oneself to a prostitute. There is one notable difference, however: I have absolutely no intention of engaging in conversation with my masseuse.
I’ve asked sex trade workers about this phenomenon, and they’ve all said the same thing: the johns always want to talk afterwards. I find this revealing, since it flies in the face of the standard line: i.e., that men want sex and women want intimacy. Such utter nonsense, and yet people persist in believing it, even when presented with clear evidence to the contrary.
Whenever we argue about this, which is surprisingly often, James insists that I am an exceptional case. I have suggested to him that he needs to get out more, and perhaps also to keep better company. Having done neither, he remains unconvinced.
In any case, I will have a massage this week, which will have nothing whatsoever to do with intimacy. I trust that my masseuse will understand.