What never to tell her...

The man was unshakable in his opinion.
No, never ever tell a woman that someday you will not be all that into her, as you are now. That you may not want to fuck her so very much, not anymore.
Not at least three times a week, say. Like you once did, like we all once did.
That it's not her fault even, see. That it's okay...that Nature...that within, say, twenty, thirty or forty minutes a man will always be ready to fuck...another, different woman.
God's living truth it may be, but never tell her that. That it's not her fault, even. Don't ever go there.
The man was adamant, convinced this would not go down well. He called for another round.
Don't do it. No, no, never go there...
Obviously he had. He'd been there once, and good things hadn't happened.

The fluid pause in the Great Game

In the Great Game there is always a fluid pause between seeing who is the conquest and who the conqueror, who has won and who has lost. This is an unsettled time, when anything goes--and has to. Sexually... Things done now will never be done again. And the contestants will later wonder how what was done ever happened.

Speaking volumes about Middle American sexuality

The sociologist claimed that the near total absence of bidets across Middle America was highly instructive. And spoke volumes concerning female sexuality.
It seemed there existed a certain disconnect between the Middle American woman's near total obsession with her sex appeal--and with her need to use a certain bathroom feature. This fixture came with running water, and was similar to an ordinary toilet, only smaller and lower. In common use in Europe, the low, basin like fixture was straddled and used after sex to wash the genital and posterior areas, usually with water rising from a small fountain in the basin floor or side. The fountain, obviously, could be turned on and off.
This near total obsession with cosmetics and cosmetic surgery and near total indifference to, and absence of, a bidet in the bathroom of Middle America spoke volumes about sexuality, the sociologist concluded.
The broad mass of Middle American women, it seemed, led lives obsessed with sex appeal--but were largely indifferent to the act itself. It was something like...like women who did not plan on doing much cooking not needing dishwashers.

Massaging male ego

The greatest, most important talent a woman could have was to fake her orgasms easily, constantly, convincingly. And forever.
Well, that she has always known.
Fake easily, constantly, convincingly...Yes, she had the talent. But forever?
Yes, yes...well, actually, no.
She overplayed her hand, misplayed her stupid, stubborn M. She has made a mistake. But, dear God, has any woman existed who had the patience necessary to forever massage that stupid, fragile incessant thing that was male ego? Without just once, or twice, or more, delivering a well earned, sharp kick into that stupid male crotch/brain? Has there ever been, was there, any woman--alive or dead?
Obviously, should such a one exist, she did not qualify.

Women's custom and lore, ancient and immutable stuff

On the one hand, what does she have?
Not much. Publishing is fine, she has been getting along, and the ambiance is great.
But she has to admit, most of these terrific publishing guys don't come with the strongest wrists in town.
And F? Okay, what about F? Fact is, F is more over with than under consideration. Though it was a mistake to kind of have hinted as much to little N. N--a man. A possible man in her life. A woman--even a big, strong, feminist woman--should never admit to not having some man crazy about her all the time. Tongue out, pawing the floor. Breathing hard.
You don't do this kind of thing. You can't ever not have a man in your life. Be seen to, anyway.
Why should anybody want you, if nobody else does?
It is written, it is the lore. This is woman custom and lore, ancient immutable stuff.
And pretty simple, you ask her.