What a figure she once had

He hardly recognized her. And this casino cocktail waitress had one of the most beautiful figures he'd ever seen. When he walked by on his way to the casino cage, she had her back to him and so he hoped she had not seen him.
They'd had dinner a couple of times and when she mentioned how she was starting her own trust fund amber lights had flashed over her Salad with American Garden Greens. Only twenty something and she was starting her own trust fund. Very commendable he said. What a good idea. Do it as soon as you can, he said.
Later, when he'd bumped into her she wanted to know where he'd been.
He said he wasn't into starting trust funds, for anybody, even himself. So when she mentioned starting one...
She turned it around neatly, even if at a slightly crazy angle: No...He'd wanted a trust fund, and he'd asked her how.
Well, he wasn't about to argue. This kind of argument he always found unrewarding. And the crazier the argument, all the more unrewarding it became.
But what a figure this girl once had. And now she was a pretty little tub of lard! He was curious about what had happened. Nervous eating disorder? Over dinner she'd picked over her salads, no gourmand she.
He didn't stop when he saw her, knowing instinctively she would not have liked that much.
Her mother had left her at six months, she'd lived with her dad, she'd taken cocaine at thirteen. What a figure she'd had.

Just a girl thing he will never understand

Triple A, an investment term she got from him, as in: You have a Triple A pussy, Big Pussycat.
A term she did not care for, all things being considered.
Something whispered in her ear, his hand somewhere, with the air hostess looming, due to pour coffee.
She objected to this description, mildly enough. And even discouraged his hand, gently and deftly enough too, so she thought, somewhere over the Atlantic this time, on their way to New York.
After all, the hostess was hovering in the half dark.
Did this mild protest start something in his mind?
The fact that she was showing some resistance? Any resistance? She had the impression that he almost wanted the air hostess to know where his hand was under the blanket--under the blanket and under the elastic to her panties, inside. Inside her panties and over her pussy.
Was this part of some kind of perverse thrill for him?
She cringes inwardly, again, for what the air hostess must have thought. Some girl thing that guys don't understand.

Female lack of understanding of Playboy or Penthouse

Women don't seem to understand that a guy can only look at a Playboy centerfold or Penthouse Pet-of-the-Month once or twice. A certain woman in a certain pose, and then a guy is bored—and all he has to look forward to is next month's Playboy or Penthouse, or both.
Guys understand, babes don't get it.
Guys just aren't into eyeballing—yeah, eyeballing—the same old Pets or Centerfolds over and over, see.
Why else is it that guys keep buying new magazines every month?
You'd think they'd have collected enough centerfolds to gawk at and come over for several lifetimes.
But no, next month a guy will buy another Playboy, another Penthouse.
Same old thing, only different.
Guys get this, babes don't.
Actually, some babes get it—but they don't want to.
But if they did, and they wanted to despite the negatives, they'd be onto something big—right here. Big enough, and helpful enough, to save a lot of situations...
For a start, is it last month's Playboy centerfold's fault that the guy doesn't especially want to gawk at her anymore, but wants to gawk at this month's centerfold instead? Does last month's Playboy centerfold need to upset herself over this, maybe feel guilty, like she has failed.
Fact is, many a woman does not get why a guy has to buy a Playboy or Penthouse to begin with. After all, he has her.
This is a serious misunderstanding.

Will she have to look somewhere else?

'A cock tastes just as sweet as a prick.'
She sees him kind of swallow that thought, hears him say, 'That's a little scary, isn't it? What happens...Afterwards?'
Oh, Gawd...can't he just chill?
Will she have to look elsewhere?
What is he? Some kind of amateur shrink? Salvation Army officer?
'I don't know. Afterwards? I mean, aren't we supposed to die or something? Someday. Afterwards...Why not do it all. Everything. Then die young.' She is mildly irritated.
'Or much older.' He laughs.

(2) Always best if she breaks up

Two, three years later she calls him from Boston.
Tells him she's broken up, wasted herself.
She hated--hates--fucking baseball. (The new boyfriend was a baseball fanatic.) He had been right all along. She should have listened.
He is sorry, of course. And means it. No bullshit here, either.
Wished her the best, and truly meant it. He truly, truly did.
So...he is sorry. But knew it would happen--though he does not remind her. About what he'd said. She brings that up herself, what he'd said about baseball and herself.
The very best is when she does the breaking up, and you really do want her to be happy. Truly meaning it, and no bullshit.