One thing about sex. I hate comfortable rituals. I like all sorts of positions at a lot of odd times of day, & really feel terrific and made new from every cell when I am done. I actually wondered at one point if Ted was sick. Well, of course, how can one keep up that intensity & variety every day & night for over 6 years. A biological and psychological impossibility I would think. And I have my pride. I mean, I was not schooled with love for 2 years by my French lover for nothing. I have in me a good tart
But I must say, I get a terrific sensual pleasure in being light & slender & fucking as well...What I don't want to be is an unfucked wife. I get bitter then, & cross. And I feel wasted. And I don't just mean the token American what-is-it twice a week, front to front, "thank you darling' either.
Even as SP's work continues wrongly to be subjected to superficial analysis and as she is reductively labeled the Patron Saint of Sad Girls, let us praise Heather Clark for including these ^^^ journal passages and not letting us forget that Sylvia Plath fucked. Who else was doing it like her? I'll wait.
Also, SP's Platinum Summer was the blueprint for Hot Girl Summer. Megan Thee Stallion, who? Chet Hanks, who? Your faves are shaking rn and their wigs are snatched. Sorry bout it.
