When I wrote once that Valentine’s Day, which is just around the corner, had always reminded me of Stalin, I received some sarcastic letters from readers. But there it was. My coming of age in Eastern Europe coincided with the last years of the pockmarked Caucasian bandit’s reign. I was around 18 when Stalin died. To say that by then my contemporaries and I were sexually awake is putting it mildly: We were sexual insomniacs, dressed for the party, with no place to go. Literally.
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