Orgasm trouble

She was twenty nine, beautiful—and was having a little trouble with her orgasms.
As far as she could make out, this was what: Women could never have orgasms, they could only let themselves go. Relax. Like you could never force yourself to sleep, you could only let yourself go to sleep. Relax. Kind of give yourself permission.
Yes, but...apparently not quite what she meant.
What she meant, she means women can never force themselves to have orgasms. Force orgasm upon themselves. Like...You are unable to force yourself to love somebody. Love happened—or not.
'Sleep happens. Orgasm happens. Love happens. Just happens.'
She began to get emotional, seemed to be asking his help.
He fixed her a glass of cold water.

For whom is she advertising her availability?

The successful Wall Street broker has his opinion. So...what are girls made for? He suggested trying a little...adding up. A little simple arithmetic.
Why else did they wear skimpy, come-feel-them halters, and tight, see-my-pussy shorts or jeans? Jamming and drawing themselves in so tight as to draw a picture...Clear damn picture of a little indented straight line with everything showing. Picture entitled, See-My-Line, Get-In-Right-Here, Successful-Wall-Street-Man!
Why else did they draw this kind of map-to-their-pussy in their skin-tights?
What else could the logic be?
And don't tell him this picture was not very carefully designed, studied and signed off on with the help of a large, full length mirror?
What else could the logic be of pouring herself into a sweater to sculpt a display of nipples under the intense pressure of a size much too small?
To Wall Street Man the math was: One plus one made two. They wanted, invited a fuck. And he was ready to oblige. One plus one made two.
What did I think, he wanted to know?
I said no doubt about it. Something was being advertised here. They were advertising availability. Availability was being promoted. They were ready to put out.
But for whom? Who was invited to the party? Everybody, or only Prince Charming?
'Wall Street,' said Wall Street Man.

Sex and women again—this time flowers

Sex was to a woman as flowers were to a man, she went on. What she meant was that girls thought of sex much like guys thought of flowers... For women, giving sex was like guys giving flowers. The other party seem to enjoy it, see. She laughed.
And all this while she had been giving him head. Interrupted, of course. As it happened, he said he'd had mixed feelings when she told him, and he'd have preferred not to know. He would not ask for her again.

A simple slut is what she is—and proud to be

'I think you're wonderful. Fantastic. You know what, you're great.'
'Don't...' She is a young slut on vac in Paris and proud to be what she is...a simple slut.
'I think...I think you are the salt of this earth.'
Jeez, know what, never heard that before.
Jeez...Salt of the...earth! Sounds, well, weird.
But she knows what he means. He means well. He means she is not what she is, a slut. According to him, and maybe he means it. But she'd rather he didn't. She is pure slut, see. Pure and simple slut and proud, what she is.
And she prefers to be real. So she asks, more like states, 'But you wouldn't like any of your daughters to pick up an older guy in a Paris bar?'
'I don't know. Right now, I'm feeling. I dunno...I know not.'
'But I do. You wouldn't...And you're wrong.'
'Guess what, I'm not thinking about my daughters this minute...' He has his hands over her nipples.

Why women are impossible to live with

He was a man who had been left some money in trusts, had a little time to spare, and he needed and wanted to know—so he asked. And his psychiatrist friend told him. Told him the only way you get along with a woman in your life—all your life, and hers too—is to do everything she says, all the time.
One night, the psychiatrist explained, she'll ask you if you don't mind—or, would you like—doing the dishes, and you will.
Next night, she'll ask you if you would like, or don't mind, doing the dishes and taking the dog for a walk, and you will.
And the next night she'll ask if you don't mind, or would you like, doing the dishes, taking the dog for a walk, and taking out the garbage, and you will.
And the night after that she'll ask you if you would like, or don't mind, doing the dishes, taking the dog for a walk, taking out the garbage, vacuuming the fucking carpet, and cleaning the bath tub rim too—and you won't.
And that will be it, then it's over.
See, said the psychiatrist, they set these ever bigger hurdles. Know why? Because they have it figured out that what they're asking is so wacky and unreasonable that if the guy actually does what they ask this can only be because the guy must love them, can be no other reason. Letting her walk all over him makes her secure and warm. Maybe a little bored too, can't be helped, but she'll shop to compensate.
Obviously the psychiatrist is gay, as many of them are. But he thought this does not detract much from what he'd said. Only that tone—and the little barb at the end.