You have to court women, W. says. You can't just jump into bed with them. He courted Sal for eight months, he says. He plied her with gin, and she made him mix tapes. It was best of times, W. says. The uncertainty. The intoxication.
But what would I know of all that? There's no tenderness in me, W. says. Lust, yes. A kind of animal craving. Foam on the lips. I'm like one of those monkeys in the zoo with an inflamed ass – what are they called? Oh yes, mandrills. I'm the mandrill of romance, W. says.
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