What happened at the party (1)

While slow dancing with his girl at some fancy party, he'd backed into this woman. Persian, was his guess.
He'd backed right into her as she made some kind of turn. Found he'd backed into at least two terrifics, one being for pure sexiness. Felt some heat there, a response. AAaahhhh!
Turned his head around to catch black eyes, black hair, red lips. And from that body...The Heat, pure pussy radiating through her dress. Sweaty thigh heat of a repressed womanhood, resurging.
AAaaaaahhh! He'd been with that kind of body heat before, kind of instant heat. Like a cat electrocuting itself.
All the fuckin' same, he could have gone places with this Persian babe. Say on a Persian carpet? Heh! heh! Gone places with her, given a realistic chance. A realistic chance, and not something practically suicidal--his girl being present and on full alert. So it was not to be, of course. One of those things. Fuckin' one of those things.
Did I know what he meant?
'Dollar for your thoughts, John?' His girl had asked. 'You suddenly seem so thoughtful.'
'Just thinking, just thinking,' he'd answered.
What was he going to say? Tell her that he'd just backed into the hottest pussy at the party? Ask her to give him some space to see what he could do?

Dopes make the best husbands

Dopes, he'd read somewhere, made the best husbands. Dopes, and saps too. Maybe they made the best anything, when it came to women--provided they had the wealth. Maybe he was a wealthy dope.
Dopes made the best husbands...and, guess what? Maybe compulsive sex slaves made the best wives, you ask him. Wives who defined themselves by the number of times they made their husbands come. The more they did, the better they were as wives, in their minds. His, anyway.
'See, I am my orgasms,' he said, trying not to sound too dopey. 'We are all just our orgasms. All we can do is try and make them good and memorable. We are our orgasms and our memories. That is all. And so damn what?'

Getting pregnant, getting jilted

She was counting her blessings. Hooboy, one thing she's been saved...Getting pregnant...Being, y'know, unmarried. Then the man whose child you are carrying, turns around, turns on you and says, You're on your own, I'm leaving.
That must be the hardest thing.
She was willing to risk having his baby, risk other things, disease even, humiliation. And then he does this to her, tells her...
What she didn't know was how all that lay directly before her, within the week.

Masturbation was not as good as fucking, provided that...

When you came right down to it, masturbation wasn't as good as fucking—when fucking was done well by a peaceable woman who knew the moves. You know, knew the moves. Could dance the steps, knew the rhythm.
But how many women knew the moves, when you came down to it? Not many. And jacking off had it over fucking in diamonds when it came to the hassle factor. Oh man, jacking off won hands down when you factored in hassle and a woman not at peace.
Masturbating also gave him some of his most powerful orgasms. Timing was always perfect, see, because he controlled the clock. And orgasm is timing, timing, timing! Timing, convenience, no hassles.
Only real problem, he couldn't fantasize well without having somebody viable in mind. And anybody viable was becoming more and more difficult. Marilyn Monroe was not viable, she was dead. And Jennifer Lopez lived in Hollywood, so he would have to include a fantasy plane trip which he didn't want to do.
He jacked off less when he courted, more when he was single—and most when married.The kids, he supposed. But if he could find the time, why couldn't she?
I didn't say because maybe somebody had to look after the kids.

Good advice to young huntin' and fishin' women—on sex

Were he to give advice to any young woman setting out to hook, land and keep an eligible young man, he would advise her not to start off her faking on too sensational, dramatic and grand a scale. Keep it low key, he would advise. Low key—and at a level that can be continued with, month after month. A level comfortably credible and without real strain.
After all, no guy wants to think his performance has slipped. Therein lies ruin.
And a young woman should recognize and know ruin: Ruin befalls a huntin' woman any time a guy is fucking her less than, say, three times a week.
Three times a week, or more, and the young woman has a viable ultimatum. She is only a step away from the altar rail.
Less than twice a week, and it takes a shotgun.
Any case, perfectly obvious advice, he would say.