Navigating My Autonomy with Erica Jong’s Fear of Flying

Fear of Flying recently marked its fiftieth anniversary in November, boasting over 20 million copies sold since its initial publication. Upon its 1973 debut, the novel positioned author Erica Jong as a torchbearer for mapping the landscape of contemporary feminine consciousness. I initially encountered the novel’s twenty-nine-year-old protagonist, Isadora Wing, in my mid-twenties, and at that time, I didn’t particularly resonate with her character. However, as my forty-first birthday loomed, Isadora beckoned to me again, urging, “You’re in a different decade now; give me another chance. You’ll see me through different eyes.” Intrigued, I heeded her advice and retrieved the worn copy my bookshelf. As I boarded a plane for a birthday getaway to Las Vegas, I mused, “I suppose I’ll revisit this during the trip.” There was a profound urge to examine how Jong’s twentieth-century narrative resonated with my life as a twenty-first-century woman entering a new decade of self-curiosity and fascination.

Jong’s novel served as a poignant reminder to the literary world of the existing void in literature addressing feminine pleasure. Contrary to societal observations throughout history, the book suggests that discontent is not an inherent prerequisite for the feminine experience. Fear of Flying unraveled a Pandora’s Jar, shedding light on women’s sensuality and the intricate aspects of the feminine psyche. At the heart of the novel is the concept of the “zipless fuck,” Isadora’s idealized sexual fantasy characterized by passion, anonymity, brevity, and civility. This notion not only defined the book’s popularity but also became a provocative catchphrase, enticing or dissuading potential readers. Beyond its surface, the book encapsulated the essence of the sexual revolution of the mid-twentieth century, particularly for middle- to upper-class white women seeking fulfilling lives that included great sex. Initially dismissed as erotica, Fear of Flying probed the inner life of a woman, challenging the prevailing perception that such exploration was frivolous, a viewpoint that, in some instances, persists to this day. However, the narrative extends beyond Isadora’s titillating escapades and encounters with cisgendered men. Readers are offered a front-row seat as the protagonist grapples with her aspirations to be more than a wife, challenging the societal expectations placed upon her by the contemporary environment.

Isadora and I crossed paths while I served as an active-duty Air Force member stationed overseas, experiencing life away from U.S. soil for the first time. In the initial pages of the novel, I detected a certain connection between us. We aligned as we both embarked on European journeys—me newly arrived in Italy, and she landed in Heidelberg, Germany, accompanying her therapist husband, Bennett Wing, to a psychoanalyst conference. Initially, I harbored a dislike for Isadora. It was challenging for me to embrace a character who seemed emotionally scattered—a privileged white woman in perpetual distress. She started by pondering the monotony of her marriage, later creating a web of triangulation and drama involving herself, Bennett, and another therapist, Adrian Goodlove. Choosing to leave Bennett for Adrian, she eventually decided to return to her marriage. My 2003 Signet paperback edition spans 425 pages and chronicles Isadora’s constant instability and unease. During that phase, I derived no satisfaction from experiencing or reading about such unsteadiness, particularly from a feminine character.

Furthermore, Jong and Isadora represent a disposition only white women are permitted to have, and the exploration of white women’s personal unhappiness has been a focal point in American sociopolitical movements such as Suffrage and Women’s Movements. Black women and women of color are not acknowledged as multidimensional human beings with intricate emotions, desires, and narratives beyond societal expectations. As I delved into Jong’s work, I knew that I wouldn’t encounter representations of myself. For me, a Black woman, embracing Isadora’s professional, academic, and personal ambitions was political. Yet, I found solace in Jong’s writing style—her artful sentence compositions and her ability to convey feminine sensuality without resorting to vulgarity or hyper-sexualism. As a young woman navigating my identity and shaping my life, I resonated deeply with the novel’s revelations, finding them both relatable and honest. The arrival of Saturn’s Return at my Italian doorstep marked a moment of recognition; Isadora and I were on a shared journey of self-actualization. And so, I continued reading.

In hindsight, as I revisit those moments through the lens of a seasoned woman, I recognize striking similarities between Isadora and myself. Back then, I harbored a strong aversion towards her rooted in my disdain for the very traits I found mirrored in my own reflection. Revisiting journal entries spanning my tumultuous journey from nineteen to twenty-nine, I am confronted with the realization that I, too, was tangled in a perpetual state of emotional turmoil. During that pivotal decade, I grappled with the profound discomfort of my romantic endeavors, desperately seeking a gentleman worthy of admiration yet repeatedly falling short. The incessant pursuit of my desires and rightful aspirations was met with frustration, leaving me in a perpetual state of agitation. I yearned to establish myself as a formidable academic and writer while being hindered by an inexplicable fear. In essence, Isadora and I were kindred spirits, bound by the shared struggles of navigating the complexities of emotions, unfulfilled aspirations, and the perpetual quest for self-discovery.

When Isadora embarks on a train journey from France to London, she is captivated by the conductor's seemingly noble behavior. Despite this, her thoughts circle back to her initial desire for a carefree, uninhibited sexual encounter—a “zipless fuck”—where she can engage in unguarded and unfiltered intimacy with a man on her terms. In the spirit of full personal disclosure, I often envision safe and reciprocal sexual relationships with men without feeling compelled to surrender my personhood. Isadora's yearning for an innocuous, spontaneous sexual moment with a kind and decent stranger devoid of obligations resonates deeply with me. This theme mirrors Jong's fictional character, embodying a temperament I have long aspired to—an ownership of sensual freedom without external allegiances. However, when Isadora is presented with the opportunity to fulfill this desire, she unexpectedly rejects it. This response is multifaceted and can be understood from various perspectives. One perspective suggests that, for women who are emotionally and physically autonomous, the boundary between sexual exhibition and potential violence is dangerously thin, if not entirely non-existent. As the conductor arranges her cabin, to Isadora’s shock, he attempts to sexually assault her (Jong 415-416). The conductor misinterprets her vibe, as Isadora understands that a truly “zipless” encounter necessitates consent and safety with someone of her choosing.

While celebrating my forty-first birthday in Las Vegas, I strolled down the Strip en route to my hotel. Suddenly, a bold man stopped me, propositioning casual, no-strings-attached intimacy. I couldn’t help but chuckle at the audacity of the situation, especially considering it was two o’clock in the afternoon, and I just spent the morning reading Isadora’s longing. Although it seemed like the perfect kismetic opportunity for a spontaneous encounter, it wasn’t the ideal partner for my envisioned carefree experience. The man offering himself to me didn’t quite fit the bill for my desired zipless affair. Unlike Isadora’s experience, I engaged in a brief and benign yet amusing tete-a-tete with my offeror before I declined his proposal. He graciously accepted my refusal, and we both continued in opposite directions.