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I remember the pathos of the pedlar In the backstreets of Little India in Singapore, (where prostitutes sit half dressed in dim red interiors open to the street) I watch this old man anointing a wooden phallus which he cradles, optimistically erect, in his shrunken lap; a knot of gawpers stand round him apparently ready to disemburse for this Elisir d'Amore, listening to his patter:
"You are putting this on your private part and you can go twenty…thirty minutes…I am selling this from twenty years" etc etc

In Chinatown, Krung Thep I watch two Buddhist monks in saffron robes rooting around at a stall devoted to karaoke mikes and vibrators.

In Tokyo, outside a dubious looking shack with flashing lights in Shibuya, hopefully entitled: JOYFUL ADULT SHOP hovers nervously an elderly highly respectable, suited man with an umbrella. I feel the utmost tenderness towards him; for I too will become just another sexual unperson, a wraith weaving unseen through phalanxes of passionate youth in whatever Byzantium ("no country for old men, the young in one another's arms, birds in the trees,..." ) end my days.

   
 

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