Artists are always measuring dicks.
I had it harder than they did. In Hemingway's case,
literally. He said Zelda tried to ruin Scott Fitzgerald
because she was jealous of his talent. She tried to
put him out of business. Why would she do that?
She was the vindictive female? Surely, that's a
stereotype. An old wive's tale. A bugbear.
Not if it's your hang-up, it isn't. He reports
his friend said his wife accused him of being
sexually inadequate because his pecker wasn't
big enough. Hemingway looked, and assured him it
was average. About like a statue in the Louvre.
You mean Scott had never seen a statue?
He had never seen other men? In locker rooms,
or at the old swimming hole? Now, in men's magazines.
On any corner. There's the old hedgehog himself, Ron Jeremy.
He isn't average. He is big. Did Hemingway show him his?
I think the whole thing was made up. Who's around to say?
I don't think Hemingway is reliable. He says he made love
to Mary five times on his 50th birthday. Or was it six times on
his 60th? Why? What's the point? What is he proving? To whom?
It sells books. Gossip, scandal, People magazine. We don't have to ask
where all the tawdriness came from. It's right there in front of us.
We want to know. We want to see it.
Show me your dick.
And I'll show you mine.
I react. I'm a prude. I'm old fashioned.
I don't like all this Hollywood phoniness.