Unified Theories of Sexual Relativity

How to do it

She can’t get enough of him. He knows, he knows.
Once he creates an orgasm by gently tugging—finally sharply—her pubic hairs.
He plays her pubic hairs like they are harp strings while he makes her watch Sixty Minutes in full.
All he does, he plays her pubic hairs, gently, from A minor through K major to Z flat. And then, finally, sharply...Very.
And when she screams her way around that particular mountain, oboy how she does. Something rattles so hard in her throat—some choking, strangled cry—he is startled into minor panic.

Advice from the Wynn Poker Room Advisor...

If you can make her laugh, you can lay her too.
Don’t ever tell a woman that you love her. Cut your throat instead.
The easiest lay is your girl friend’s best friend. She’s been laying for you ever since she got introduced.

How you know you are Breaking Up

Was The Game over?
She had wanted to move in, he didn't let her. She'd wanted him to meet her folks, he wouldn't. She had asked if they could fit in a quick trip together to Paris, France—maybe even Madrid on the way back. Found it on the Net. Practically cost nothing. Pleeease. Liked to have seen the Prado with him. He couldn't make it, no time see. You see, ABC, CDE...MBA. You see, you know, the Course. He had to finish Harvard. Why was he in Boston?
She had wanted just a week end in Newport, Rhode Island. All I ask. You work too hard. Should relax a little. See Cliff Walk. Maybe walk on Cliff Walk. Cliff Walk was not Paris, nor the Prado, but it was something. He couldn't do that either.
So what was there for her?
And he'd had to agree.
Pieces of the relationship were falling down all around her.
He'd had to agree.
You know the relationship is breaking up when pieces of what you have invested yourself in keep falling down all around you—and on your head and heart. And he'd had to agree.

Daddy's fault she's into older men

Only...if she doesn't get it soon, she'll be climbing the wall. Yes...It. It she must have...and soon too.
Damn Post Menstrual Torment, as opposed to damn Pre Menstrual Terror. Damn, damn, damn. Triple damn.
Strokes are fine, give her the morning jolt. A steady strum on her yum yum.
She does not truly wake up, does she? Not without her clit calling, talking, saying...Hand, in hell you been, I need you down here.
Gets her big, sleepy eyes open, okay. But all the same, she likes fucking better. Yes, just the same, she does. Fucking older guys.
For some reason or the other. Some weird reason. What can that mystic reason be?
All because daddy didn't love his itty bitty wittle princess into teeny weeny pieces—or just love her to the moon and back? Is this all?
Daddy dearest didn't love her. Naughty, naughty daddy.

What is life, after all?

Business is not booming, and the bored cocktail waitress gives him that bored cocktail waitress look. The little look that tends to bore even him—more and more, more than even she looks. That same old look that is not the fun it once was to him, at least not today. Challenging him. I am so bored, I challenge you to amuse me, Mister Fuckin' Wonderful... That's you, right? Mister Fuckin' Wonderful...
Not that he doesn't get bored too. He is bored, right now. Sense failure, call it failure of his bright red-blooded, American-male senses. His senses fail him sometimes, they are so overloaded, especially with the Same One, over and over again. Fail him like almost happened tonight, before alighting in this bar, sitting down, drinking.
True, he has lived—and lives—on, off, by and for pussy. What red-blooded... Still does.
The sight, taste, smell, feel—and—sound of pussy.
What is life, after all?
It's pussy, stupid.
But sometimes even his senses fail him. Even he can get bored, can't always get it up. Happens.
Hell, happens...

Even her mom did...

At first, he was the only one having trouble with her orgasms, she was not.
She was not happy that she had none, but neither was she especially unhappy.
She was handling not having orgasms...but then she edged into feeling guilty. She felt guilty about him feeling guilty.
She began to feel guilty, and after that, guilty and ashamed.
It seemed to her everybody in the world had great, shattering, overwhelming orgasms—except her. Even her mother did.
The twist in her psychology began...

Mother knows best

You never know, her mother said. A man might have had the most wonderful afternoon and night of getting to know a woman.
And then still run off with somebody else the next morning.
Men had short memories. What turned a man on even more—much more—than a good woman who listened to his sports or war time exploits...was sex. Actual sex.
And she'll say this again, see, her mother would say, because this was the truth...Even if she, her daughter, didn't like hearing her mother say this again and again, which she didn't.
Given the choice between sex and even the most wonderful one-sided conversation about sports and war time exploits, a man took sex every time. And he also took sex ahead of flower arrangements, painting and glazing Easter eggs, making beds with crisp, sharp corners or ironing sharp, crisp shirt collars. Every time.
And she, her daughter, better know it.