What you don't want to hear about yourself

"Even the psychic said..."

How it felt for a woman

A Las Vegas hooker catering to the casino's high rollers was telling him about what women felt about sex. Apparently she liked and trusted him enough to share this.
Sexually speaking, P told him, a woman generally and permanently felt like a man who has just had an orgasm. Near as P could make out, okay? With all her experience and knowledge, that was pretty close to what a woman felt. And she was pretty knowledgeable, and experienced, wouldn't he agree?
So, as a man who had just had an orgasm, did he feel like sex any time soon? No, she wanted the truth, okay? He felt a little flat, right? Right. Needed lots of tender foreplay to get him up again, wouldn't he agree? And time, time too. Exceptions to the ordinary existed, of course, P said. But that's what it was generally like, being a woman. You feel a little flat, sexually speaking—all the time.
Thinking about how he felt, after his orgasm, how flat flat was, he found the concept unappealing. It was going to take much tender foreplay to get him up again, even more than what was usually the case. In fact, he felt like going to dinner instead.

Very, very easy orgasms

She claimed she had very, very easy orgasms.
Omigawd, how this made other women intensely mad with envy, most jealous of all the things about her. Her easy, peasy, great orgasms!
Orgasms were a breeze...for her.
Best sensation ever for anybody, she claimed.
And after, she was totally relaxed, completely beautiful, fully fulfilled.
Glowing all over. MMMmmmm...she liked her very, very easy orgasms!
Made other women who knew her totally crazy with jealousy, so they called her bad names.
Slut was only one such name she was called. Other such names were easy lay, everybody’s fuck, bitch, big cunt and total whore. And more.
Sometimes she was even double cursed, called, You bitch whore. Or similar double things, and so on.
She claimed she didn't care. She had her easy orgasms, and they could keep their curses. All the curses they wanted, every bitch, slut, fuck and whore.

Her sex life, in general

She was finding it harder and harder.
Couldn't even talk about it without, kind of, running away...
Here was beautiful little her. The perfect little ho', okay?
Know what she meant? Ho'...hole.
And her, talking like this... Here she was, one of the beautiful women, blonde and blue-eyed—and she didn't have anybody to go with to a stupid movie on Saturday night. Everyone thought because she was so beautiful she had to be sexy. Like, Beautiful = Must Want Sex.
Drove her crazy. Crazy!

Great―for first time

'It's okay,' she had said in the middle, suddenly thinking about something, 'We don't need rubbers.'
But he knew that already. Someone told him that she never used rubbers. She looked after herself. Like that, she was a great girl in every way. For first time.
For first time, she was great. Really great.
Maybe for second too. Then he'd pass her on to somebody else.

Her happiest day

Even happier than at Lindy's, when he first proposed, or so it seemed to him, was the day they left his Wall Street attorney's offices with a few papers signed. This even happier day, it seemed to him, she finally believed the thing would happen: They would be married, a marriage there would be.
And that night after that happy day was a very good binge with her....Very, very good. She had about three fits. And she almost craved being bounced and pounded into some kind of oblivion—or craved riding him into some sort of breakdown. Like it was a sexual rodeo, and she had to break something unbroken, his flawless prick. A miracle she didn't.

Success excused all

She said a woman who went after a man, and made it her business to marry him, was never ridiculous in the eyes of other women. But the woman had to succeed. Face it, she had to succeed. Only in failure might she be seen as such. Ridiculous. Success excused all.
To successfully pursue an eligible man—the wealthier, the better—unto marriage was something basic and admirable. Look what marrying a multi-millionaire had brought her. She gestured by opening her arms. Presumably he was meant to note her highly visible and expensive jewelry, her couture dress, her exquisitely styled hair and make up.
Conceded... He conceded she'd made a couple of valid points.
She was pleased.

Is sex made for men?

Penis envy...in her thoughts.
Lately, she'd had this terrible, terrible thought: Was sex made for men—and not women?!
She means plain, simple, everyday vanilla-sex...
Five minutes, even less, was often what it took. In the case of the biker she'd recently picked up, been with, done that—less than a minute. He'd come, she hadn't.
And he'd come in under one stupid minute!
She couldn't have stopped him. Even had she tried.
She could have put a gun to that prick...
And she probably couldn't have come with this particular stupid male in an hour, and even with a gun up...
She'd like to perish, vanish this horrible thought. This horrible thought of every dumb male prick finding its stupid way—to easy, simple, everyday orgasm.
While she had to move herself, mood herself, move her world...Move ass, to get anything done. Anything!
How unfair! And many women gave up! Why would they not?
She was pretty angry, pretty wild, thinking this.

Once she was young…and beautiful

He felt sad. Not her fault. Once she was beautiful and young, and now it was sad.
Once she had so many men to fuck her, spend money on her, give her roles in movies...Buy her diamonds, even for a leather halter for a roof cat, say she wanted one. A diamond studded halter/tether for her cat that liked to walk on the roof.
Once she was beautiful and young and somebody bought her cat diamonds. Diamonds, once, for her and her cat too. She’d been that young, that beautiful. Once…

Boredom

Girls kindled to him easily. Perfectly strange girls did.
Talking about a recent encounter with a cocktail waitress, he said all it would have taken were a few more little words. See, he'd already got a hand up in the semi-dark. Already. She just stood by his table, quite still, cocktail tray tucked under her arm.
He was, he said, weirdly minded to even shake a little salt on her pussy, and she'd have been his for the taking.
Idly, he was almost minded to pick up an actual salt cellar off the bar counter, and do it. Salt her, like she was a bird of some kind.
He'd already felt some telltale damp behind rough, bouncy bush. He could have probably shaken salt on her tail in a minute...and tagged her like some kind of bird.
See, she was also bored.

Faking sincerity is all it takes

S was explaining one of his theories of male/female attraction… Strange thing is, he finds, the more genuinely bored you are, the more women like it. How strange, you might think. But not at all, not in the least. The hell if it ain’t so… The more bored you are, or the more you ignore them—the more they like it. True—oh absolutely, damnably, livingly true.
Amazing, yes, but true. According to S.
He looks at you with conviction. Now suppose you are, in fact, not bored—but, let us say, interested instead? Well, then, my friend, for God's Sake, pretend to be bored. Very bored. For God’s sake…pretend you must!
Can you win like this, pretending to be bored? According to S, you bet you can win.
If you can pretend to be truly and genuinely bored, the world of fucking is yours and all the pussy in it. Take this from S, take his personal guarantee.
If you can fake sincerity, if you are able to fake lack of interest—non-interest—in a woman who in fact very much has your attention, then you will have it made. Meaning you have a straight—practically a Bee-—line into and up her pussy.
Faking boredom sincerely is all it takes. S is completely, totally convinced. And the fact is he is highly successful with women. Very, very successful. And you can't ignore success.

An instinctual male thing

He liked the idea that she was a virgin. He liked this very much. This idea appealed greatly to something in him, some primitive, deep down, instinctual, male thing. Nobody had ever been there before, you see, not in that pussy. Supposedly, anyway.
He wanted to believe, and he tried to believe...But he decided that what would have to do, instead, was the security of being the one inside her, at that moment, then.
As it happened, he was right to lower his expectations. When he found out later that she hadn't been a virgin after all it wasn't so bad. He said it helped. Lowering expectations…helped.

Her Manhattan life

She wakes up…
She gets ready…
She goes to a party…
She parties all night…
She finds somebody to fuck.
She does.
She goes to sleep.
She wakes up...
In certain ways, these were—and continue to be—the best times of her life. Single, beautiful, wild L. So she says. The best...
And D is authorized to use his Canon camera anytime, anywhere, anyhow. And with L being in whatever altered state his lens records. Call this photojournalism. Art realite. And verite.
L has always wanted to be a superb model.
Famous and superb. Superb...her word.
But so far...this has not happened. And it is hard to think anything other than L must end badly. And probably without becoming a superb model either.
Why won't she?

Faking

She explained that once she started, she never stopped faking.
So to speak, never looked back. Why make trouble...?
She didn't want to put anybody down, not even jerks she went with on stupid, absurd, sickening one-night stands in Manhattan...
Not in her nature, see. Seemed only polite. Maybe she always tried too hard to please.
When she thought on it, one of them would have gone on forever—if he'd had to. Maybe she faked that one out of self defense. He was the biggest jerk of them all, and guess what, she found him at the Museum of Modern Art in front of the big Jackson Pollock.
He chewed her up so much she was sore for a week. Coming was obviously compulsory, his ego couldn't—would not—take no. You vill come, ja? With him you probably came or you died. When she spoke, she put on a pseudo German accent. She wanted to know whatever possessed her, in the first place?

Pretty face

She had a pretty face, what a pretty face, and her pretty face had been half the trouble. But still she preferred to have such a face and not an ugly one, okay? That was half her success. She was desired by all men.
And she knew they would help, most of these men. But...she would have to put out.

Virgin claims

'Oh, poor, poor you...' Her voice very low, sympathetic.
He was describing what had happened.
Her hand brushed his hand away, reached down to him, moved over his shameful erection. 'You've been so good to me, haven't you? And surely, surely can't let you go on like this, can I...? Even if I am a virgin. Can't be that cruel, can I...? You will be gentle with me, your virgin girl, won't you? Be real nice to your virgin girl?'
Of course, as he discovered later, she wasn't a virgin at all. Not by a long way.

Why can’t they just get married?

She holds fast onto him, giving him a little leg and hip crush, but nothing pelvic. Not the kind of pelvic crush she has in mind before the trip is over, given as part of her package, part of giving him the business end: one where she will walk into his arms and grind into him, breasts and Mount Venus and all, all in one big squinch.
Get him up, hard, fast.
Make some lead pipe again.
Maybe what he’d have loved while they slow fox trotted, a big pelvic crush rather than a ladylike, delayed backing off, with her spine curving.
But that depends on how everything goes, over the next few days, in this game being played between one man and one woman. A game she has thus far not particularly excelled in, nor greatly enjoyed. Why can’t it be that they just get married—without all this? Be nice, be really nice say they could. But it can’t… And even she knows that.

Virtues of getting pregnant

She feels not the least lessened, not the tiniest teensiest diminished. Not dishonored—nor dishonorable. Not at all, not any of that, kiddo.
Why in hell’s name for? Why should she?
She is, in fact, proud to have accomplished what she has accomplished.
Proud, proud, triumphant and proud! Who among women would not envy her what she has pulled off? Her triumph?
All that a woman has in the war with brutish, sex-driven men is what she has. Sex...
What else has a poor girl got?
Mrs Wallis Warfield Simpson, so the rumor goes, learned almost mystical ways of Chinese sex torture at the hands and sides of an ancient Chinese Madame.
These mystical Chinese sex tortures she practiced on the Prince of Wales so well that ever after he never wavered in his devotion to her, even giving up the Throne and Crown of England to be with her—and her alone.
Hell, since the Garden of Eden, in a line that stretched through Cleopatra of Egypt all the way to Mae West herself, all that a woman had, really and truly had, was what every woman had: the only thing men desired of them, madly, deeply and completely. If briefly...
Crazy not to use it. Crazy...

(2) And she…

She lets him fool around with her in the half-light, she even grabs her ankles for him for him to see everything, every rounded curve, every crack, cranny and angle of her neatly shaven patch.
She has come so far, even so far as this.
He, apparently, is fixated on her—from behind.
She picked this up at the Newport Casino, and her sister too noticed his tennis shorts bulging away.
So she has to keep herself from toppling over into buckets of fresh paint.
But she will hold the thin line between her genitalia and her anus.
She will not allow that thin strip of smooth skin between to be crossed.
And this kind of thing won’t last forever.
God, will it all be so easy? All she has to do, to get away from all of this, is snag and land, him, finally?
Is that all? Snag, land…then go live in peace at his place.

(1) He…

They wait for Japanese Airlines in a darkened, empty airport coffee shop which is being redone. Ladders, buckets of paint, canvas on the floor and empty tables.
He fools around in the half-light with her in her loose, wide skirt, making her grab her ankles, showing her all the ways.
He piles her skirt over her back, pulls down her panties, and takes a little time to survey all the sensational bun she ever promised when she bent over—all the bun promised all that time ago back at the tennis.
In the half-light, his eyes fill to overflowing with firm round stirring curving sensational, wonder buns and pussy.
Hardening him into steel rod.
He makes his insertion into a slick, gauzy crack in the half-light. He keeps themselves from falling on fresh paint, and the smell of fresh paint is everywhere. They are having all the fun of their lives in Lima. God, why can’t they just keep repeating the last three days, forever.

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