“You don’t really care for music, do ya?”
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“You don’t really care for music, do ya?” book
I have elsewhere had good occasion1 for arguing that during the heyday of the sexual revolution, which also for good measure included women’s ‘liberation’ (if we may speak of that failed undertaking in that way),2 when it was popularly protested that women ought not perhaps be regarded as sex objects, men were fond of countering with the assertion that they would love to be sex objects. And they claimed this then, as they would like as not repeat the claim, not because it was “true,” but because they were keen on what they called “free love,” sex without strings (and sex with strings of the S&M variety was not, until k.d. lang’s singing of Cohen’s Hallelujah, any part of Cohen’s reference to the real anxiety, the unmanning threat consequent to being tied to a kitchen chair, as in the circumstance that that was for Samson himself).