(1) Always best if she breaks up

She broke up, not him. Always the best, always. So...no tears of the wrong kind.
And he wished her the very, very best. Told her she was doing the right thing, he being so fucking hopeless for her. Hopeless, useless him.
Long term anyway, he was wrong for her.
Damn himself, he told her. Hope he hadn't wasted too much of her time. And she wouldn't even fuck him goodbye, and he didn't press the issue either. Told her instead she was a great girl anyway, and the new boyfriend was very, very lucky to have her.
Told her she'd made being at Harvard a truly special thing for him.
And in her way, of course, she did. No bullshit here either. None whatever. She did.
Good that she broke up, and not he. Always the best...especially if he wanted to anyway.

She never gave it away

She never let herself be jumped for the simple act of jumping.
Like being jumped was fun, maybe good for her nerves, say.
She always had other reasons...Like the promise of lunch in the Studio canteen, a visit to a sound stage, a date with an up-and-coming actor.
A date with somebody who could be famous soon.
Lunch had to be with somebody who knew somebody else—who knew Mr Big Producer. Maybe knew Mr Very Big Producer's dog walker's personal trainer's best friend.
She never did it simply because she wanted to do it.

Sex problems, again

She doesn't want to go on and on, say the same old thing. But...She can't live with, or live up to, how she affects everybody.
She is this beautiful girl...And nothing happens. Nothing happens see. She simply feels this lump, hump humping on her...Studied cracks in the ceiling.
And everybody thought she had to be great in bed, being so beautiful. Being so beautiful, she had to love every second, and want to be humped all day, right?
What is she? A freak?
He tells her he is not qualified, he is not a psychiatrist, but he wouldn't say she was a freak at all.
Well, anybody who wanted to lay her always said that, she says. But as it happened, her psychiatrist said she wasn't a freak either. Her psychiatrist told her she'd be amazed about how many times he'd heard this. About ceilings. Patterns, cracks and water stains on ceilings. Almost like Rorschach testing. Her psychiatrist thought of doing research along these lines. Surprising how many times Cuba figured. Phallic, of course, her psychiatrist said.
Is she normal, she'd asked her psychiatrist.
She wasn't alone, her psychiatrist had replied. Yes, but was she normal, she wanted to know.
What was normal, he'd asked? She wasn't abnormal, he'd said.
She wasn't satisfied with the reply. Sex did not satisfy her--nor did her psychiatrist's reply.

R.I.P. Marilyn

He said it gave him a slight start to look up from what he was doing and directly into the eyes of Marilyn Monroe.
Two larger-than-life sized faces of Marilyn Monroe, by Andy Warhol, rest at eye level above the buffet men's urinals at Wynn Las Vegas hotel and casino. Unsigned, they are presumably copies. The one has Miss Monroe's teeth a regular white, the other has her teeth smudged red (lipstick?).
Copies, presumably--but the other week Steve Wynn poked an elbow through a Picasso of his valued at $139 000 000, or thereabouts. And the two Marilyns are locked in brass frames into the urinal walls, making them thief-proof. Again, presumably. And Andy Warhol did so many Marilyns anyway.
A bizarre place for Marilyn's head to come to rest, nonetheless.
And as he said, gave him a start to look up, her eyes meeting his.

Number trouble!

The trouble seems to be that three quarters of the names in the big fat little book are no fucking good anymore.
Call three out of four of them, and they make him feel like he once tried some kind of open heart surgery on their little feelings or something.
Make him feel the procedure failed badly, like very bad plastic surgery--leaving deep, unhappy scars.
And all he wanted was to get laid.