Ayn Rand’s heroines all had lots of sex
I like Ayn Rand a lot. Maybe I would have slept with her even though I don’t think she was pretty and I didn’t meet her until she was over 70. She admired pretty girls all her life but didn’t think she was ever pretty. She was right. Proves how honest and right she was.
She would disapprove of some of the things I write and do. But, as I think I’ve said many times, I don’t like smoking and she smoked so I would disapprove of her right back. Still, smoking was a very racy and dangerous thing for a woman to do when she was young and she was a romantic to the hilt so I can’t blame her.
She would disapprove of my language. But I think words are just words. There is none better than another. Not any more than a pipe bomb is better than a scalpel. They each have proper and improper uses.
She would disapprove of my tattoo of her name. She would disapprove that I occasionally wear a goatée. This is her one Freudian fault (I say Freudian in the sense that he ascribed personal foibles to be universal). She was from Revolution torn Russia. Many hatable figures of that time and place wore goatées so I think she doesn’t like them because of that.
My friends said she was sad person. That was not my experience.
I met her in New York City on my first trip there when her health was beginning to fail and she had already lost her husband. She was quite mobile but didn’t like to go out much so we stayed in. I brought up some Gemelli in pesto for us to share. She’d never had that kind of pasta before. Italian food in New York and Italian food in Italy are a little different but like most European things that Americans take, I think it compares quite favorably. She loved the pasta. That’s why you should always keep meeting new people, even when you’re 70. Probably they’ve done something fun that you don’t know about.
We discussed many things. Heated but happily. She was absolutely unfamiliar with my writings and as I was clothed she was unfamiliar with my tattoos. She did not disapprove of me an iota. Not one King James version jot. She complimented my hair twice: when we met and when I left.
After we’d talked for awhile she told me that she should probably give all the rights from her books and her fortune to me. I was embarrassed. I stayed silent. She said then that she’d already promised her young student Leonard and it would break his heart and love was the exception maker. I said it was okay because I didn’t want any help from anybody. Not even her. It made her cry because she was too old to take me to bed for saying such a lovely thing to an old objectivist. I wanted to cry too because though she was never pretty she was plenty close enough when she’d been young. Except for this slight break she was one of the happiest people I’d ever met. I’d cry too if I were 70 and dying and a pretty young woman wanted to have sex with me one more time but I wasn’t young enough.
She said, “I’m sorry I’m giving everything to Leonard.”
“It’s okay,” I said, misunderstanding, “I don’t really deserve it yet anyway.”
“I know. I’m sorry because neither does he.”