Nude, Kate Millett would still seem in disguise. The eyeglass frames are porthole dense. Much long hair, shot with grey, will swish around to mutton-chop her face. You get the impression, mostly, of ownerless teeth—as faces look when seen upside-down: too mouth-important. A footlocker body: something that should be palletized for easy handling. Like a Muppet on its way to menopause, in fact: one of those shaggy, earnest monsters that nod—uh-yup, uh-yup—all the time. And maybe there’s a dexterous hand working inside.
Kate Millett, of course, is gay. Just so, Jacob Javits and Lowell Weicker are Republican. Oh, Kate may have booked passage on one or four or 44 Sapphic relationships: it doesn’t matter much. My pheromone-sensitive nose tells me that lesbianism, for Kate Millett, is an idea, an adjunct to style, a photo caption, a mail-order degree. Her inclinations (or reclinations) are most likely listless, mimeographed: fern-passionate. (Sexual Politics; political sexuality.) Which is why, I guess, she flew to Iran for her expensive cheap thrills.




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