Study the face of the man pictured above, the prime minister of Serbia. It’s the face of a man who’s observing a pantyless woman uncross her legs (in the all too imitable style of Miss Sharon Stone). Are you surprised to see him smiling? You shouldn’t be. The leader of a nation cannot allow a female flasher to rile him. Imagine what would have happened if President Kennedy had got riled when Marilyn Munroe combed her cat-fluff during the Cuban Missile Crisis. The world as we know it would be a Mad Max movie in which Mel Gibson was one of the bad guys.
Now the Serbian premier was the victim of a clever hoax. A Croatian TV station had invited him to be interviewed by a reporter who was actually a Playboy model. They wanted to see if he would lose his composure after getting a glimpse of her lady-garden. Miss Branka Knezevic (pictured below) was hugely impressed by his unflappable reaction:
"He is a strong, real man, exactly the one who should lead this country," she told a Serbian tabloid after the interview.
Who could argue with her? A lesser political figure would have snorted like a bull before plunging his drooling face between her luscious thighs. Only a true statesman can keep his tongue in his mouth when an appetising dish is flaunted before him.
Basic Instinct is a film that taught me a lot about human behaviour. I later had to unlearn most of what I was taught, but that didn’t annoy me. You discover a lot about humans from their fables and fantasies. The enduring message of the movie is that a man can enjoy “the fuck of the century” and still not be satisfied. He has to wander around naked in the femme fatale’s house and trash-talk her lesbian lover. He has to ravish his ex-girlfriend in the butt for acting whiny. He has to let the femme fatale straddle him when he knows she’s got an ice pick under the bed. It reminds me of a saying of Old Melonhead (the semi-mythical ape who was Aesop’s role model):
Indulge not your desires, for verily they are insatiable. As one craving is quenched, yet another shall rise from the meat of your loins.
As for Sharon Stone, I thought her performance was a tour de force, and not because she exposed her snatch. A slightly furry vulva is neither here nor there to a gorilla. Her splendiferous achievement, in my eyes, was to show a whole generation of ladies how to fake an orgasm convincingly. Internet research indicates that virtually all women feel obliged to do this from time to time. I don’t blame them. Sometimes an outburst of caterwauling is the quickest way of cutting one’s losses and getting a good night’s sleep.
If I were the Serbian prime minister, I’d hold a Sharon Stone film festival in Belgrade this summer. When life has imitated art, you’ve got to embrace the connection and milk it for all its worth.
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