(1) Relationships are not built to last, okay

He goes back to school after the long vac. And never sees this cocktail waitress again.
See, nothing ever lasts.
Receptionist, radiologist, Rockette, runaway, or romance writer. Some genetic failure in mankind makes this so.
He spent the last vac with her, they had fun, they truly, truly did. And she can't get enough of him, he knows. But he never wants to see her again. Amazing, incredible, tragic—and true.
She, in the end, bores him. And nobody's fault either. Nobody's. Which is, he sees, a tragedy—not a comedy at all. A sad inevitability, and no laughing matter.

Just a guy thing she will never understand

He decides, somewhere over the South China Sea, that he best not tell her after all.
She will never understand. Will never even want to understand.
So never tell her that while she is fucking him, he'll be thinking of somebody else.
This is a guy thing, only guys really get it. You have to belong to the guy club.
Like the other day, when he was feeling fucked out.
Only, kind of fucked out.
Because, in reality, on the hop out of Honolulu he kind of related to the air hostess in first while she went out to brush her teeth. She, being her--not the air hostess.
This air hostess--the other Japanese air hostess, not the coffee one--gave him a look. Absent her, and he'd have had the air hostess' name and a number. Maybe he and the hostess could have met in the bar of her hotel in Tokio, a short hop from her hotel room. And maybe they could have fucked.
No, this is definitely a guy thing. She would never get it. She, her--not the air hostess--would never get it. He was fucked out, yes, but not really.

Very casual sex

Very casual sex
Well, maybe one more time. If she's back tomorrow, he'll know why. She loves casual too, loves a little strange herself.
Jesus, if she is back tomorrow he won't need to waste any time at all.
Maybe simply dump themselves on the bed, she can make the bed later.
Get that stupid housekeeper's uniform clear, yank down those green panties fast. With her helping, he'll get in, and in seconds. All it will take this time around...seconds.
He'll be at the airport and out of the city by noon.

Ignoring is a great tactic, but don't take it too far

A few kind words. He'll have to think up something special to say, he hasn't seen her in so long. Ignored her, in fact. Not having seen her for months is some kind of aphrodisiac too--for him. But poison to her. She'll be hostile. He must expect suspicion too.This is an unpleasant but very likely consequence of not seeing her for so long. Ignoring, if not done tactically and with precision, turns septic.

It couldn't last, could it?

She found somebody else. Why wouldn't she? Anybody with her body and looks would have no trouble finding. She didn't.
So...She broke up, not him.
First, she was going to be his friend anyway, whatever. They'd still meet. Christ, they'd had some great times hadn't they? She'd make it happen, see if she didn't.
Maybe they could still fuck, occasionally? Be kind of fuck-buddies?
But she didn't, as he knew she wouldn't. Couldn't, to be more accurate. She had this new guy who was into baseball so bad. A big, major Red Sox fan. Tried to go to every home game, he did. And even not home games. Took her along.
She claimed she loved it, a new experience. But he knew she didn't. She'd already told him how she hated all sports, especially stupid baseball. Maybe golf was somehow okay.
So he knew it couldn't last, and it didn't. But by then he'd be somewhere else. Somewhere far out of her life, and into another life of his own.

Memories are something

'You are a dope.'
'I don't know. I think I have something.'
He had spent all this money on dinner. Champagne, caviar, foie gras... And she implied that it had been wasteful. Perhaps implying too that the money would have been better spent on a dress for her, maybe shoes. Earrings, perhaps?
'Oh, yeah?' she asks. Not unkindly.
'Recollections...Dreams of good times. Memories.'
'You are a dope,' she says good-naturedly. And punches his upper arm very lightly.
And so he has a pang. He is...panged.
But she is not to know. All it is, he wishes she hadn't said it quite that way. She reminds him of his wife those many years ago, when his wife wasted champagne by the bucket. And then he tipped the taxi driver a tip more than his wife could stand, never mind all the champagne his wife had wasted. And his wife had called him a dope.

Best don't get between your man—and another man

So what would—can—a woman ask who comes across her man poised to enter...another man?
Call all this her woman's intuition, conjecture, fragmentary knowledge. But this much she will know...A man with a hard-on is always right because he can't think about anything else at all—at this time. Her man will simply and unthinkingly place himself in the right. Right or wrong, this is what he will do.
To ask him anything is useless, will only end up in shouting—maybe worse. So this time is not right for questions. A man with a hard-on's prime, total, immediate, vital—and only concern—in his life at this moment in time is to get himself off.
Her man's thoughts will be concentrated in his prick. Without question this is not a good time...Not a good time for anything other than to back off.
Men in this situation probably don't appreciate female voyeurs either.
Best to close a bedroom door. And close another Chapter—or hopefully only a Verse and not a Book—in her life over the long run of time.
Of course, not a wonderful feeling...

2) Before the brush off, things were different

He'd said, Why don't you go down on your fours? I want your baby...
She said she remembered very clearly this was said. His voice unsteady in the saying, remembered that too.
'Did he really say, I want your baby? Really?'
Yes, really, she insisted. He really did.
She'd even made a mental note--half question, half answer--pleased that he felt that way, and her response had been almost Pavlovian.
'So then...what?'
Pavlov, that's what. Pavlov. She went on all fours was what. And had his baby for him.
'Now...what?'
Somehow, she had an idea that he would not be pleased, be jumping for joy on the springs in his steps all the way to Babyland. To buy clothes for baby, buy champagne for everybody else. Be wanting to get married as soon as the licensing office opened.
Even though he did once say, I want your baby.
And she had responded. Dropped down on all fours, let him drop her panties too.

1) Anatomy of the brush off as she described it...

As she described it...he shook his head, pursed his lips, his face was in obvious pain. His glassy pensive eyes looked past her shoulder, over steam that was rising from his coffee and riding the air between them, making her turn around to see who was there.
No, he was not trying to say anything specific, he said. Only he was going through some kind of damned phase... Damned phase, introspection, call it what she wanted. He was taking a hard look at himself, inside his own person. And the fact was that, did she know what, all in all, whatever the outside, whatever his personal packaging, he didn't think he was, in general, good material. Of any kind.
She said she was tired, and all she said was, 'Oh...'
Well, he went on, he was no bargain when it came to women, and women shouldn't get involved. See, he was...a cracked plate. This was the sad, sad conclusion he'd come to.
'I think you're being too hard on yourself,' she said, 'I really do.'

Look, he went on, maybe he'd shake it off. The mood. Kind of like he was walking in a cloud--depressing mist--that totally enveloped him. He sure damn hoped to shake it off, because the fact was he found it painful to have such a low opinion of himself over something as basic and important as human relationships.
She saw his face crumple again, in obvious pain. She tried to take his hand, but he pulled it away slowly and gently. She watched his hand recede from hers, slowly. He was not worthy, see. He was not worthy even of touching the elastomer fabric of her panties. Not anymore...
And one time, he was always doing that--pulling on the elastomer, removing her panties.

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.

Feminist stuff fucked with her mind

Maybe all that feminist stuff fucked her mind, years ago. Along with a ton of guys like Henry Sedgwick, Danny, Rick, Allen, Johnny One, Francis, Johnny Two, Anthony, Andrew Peabody...Exclude George Lucas. That practically never happened, given her mental state at the time.
Is that what happened? A ton of misfits came along and...
Or is she simply your everyday, plain vanilla, beautiful, highly educated, working young woman who does not need a man to buy her a drink, or even a dinner?
And who prefers her Magic Wand to so-called Mr Real Thing?
She's never met a guy who could fuck straight, who knew how to do it without fucking up. Not even Rick...or Danny. And Danny was supposed to know.
And it isn't much fun knowing somebody doesn't know, and all that's going to happen is that she will get sore and a headache.
Maybe she will fuck herself again tonight, after all. And not even try.

Advice from Cosmo

They took a taxi back to the Sheraton where they dined, later, in the main dining room, with its colonial-style chairs, and candle lit tables, and he did not try and fuck her that night, nor did she make him do it.
Far from it. She was not even ready to try and make him do it.
She was still thinking how to play it, not how to have him do it.
She wanted to hold off, save it for much, much later. Well, okay, much later.
She was still thinking, first...pelvic crushing.
First, let them pelvic crush in safe circumstances, like, maybe the elevator.
Cosmo said this was a good idea, only she had to get herself ready to get away fast when the doors opened. And then leave him safely inside. Don't, don't--said Cosmo--have him walk with you to your room.

The unwinnable Sex War

Something went on that night, on into the next morning, between two sweaty bodies, his and hers, over a couch, in a bed, on the carpet, against the kitchen wall, back on the bed again.
That something was even going on he only perceived dimly at the time.
At last, about four in the morning, she finally seized up, gasped a fourth time, quit the field. His unbroken lance rested, fully tested, honorably withdrawn. His woman satiated, finally.
And he did not know then how a battle of some kind had gone on. How he had won a battle, once, in an unwinnable war. That is how much he knew. How little. Only years later would he understand.
He had been such a dope.

Thinking about naked cartwheels

Thinking about naked cartwheels... Nothing she would not have done in the beginning. Naked cartwheels too.
In his considered opinion, consider this: What a strange fact of the Sexual Life it is how enthusiastic a woman starts in the beginning.
Nothing is too much, in the beginning. In the beginning is pure sex; sex is pure and creative. But with a little time, and how little is that time—and with illusions of commitment or something—who knows, he doesn't, this is a mystery—how soon do laziness, apathy and routine set in?
How quickly do girls come to bed under a screen of hormone and vitamin creams? To make them sexy out of bed—tomorrow!
Is it any wonder that nothing lasts?

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.

(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.

Getting a gorgeous gay going

She was, she said, still mulling all this around two in the morning. Even if this was no big deal. Nerves, that's all, she supposed. His nerves.
Only wasn't a real woman supposed to make even a pork chop pop? Get its primal thing done? Get a man up--waay up--and away? And he was a man, after all.
The Movement always said that the one and only cause for the world's unhappiness, and all the world's problems, was a man's animal nature. If only a man could spend his life, quietly, unaroused. That he couldn't stop himself from getting up caused world wars since Helen of Troy.
So...what would The Movement make of this man? After all, she was beautiful. And he had told her so, and many were the times too.
He listened to her talk of her gay friend with interest. He thought that, secretly, she always imagined she could get any guy going. Any guy--even a gorgeous gay.
After all, her gay friend had told her how beautiful she was. Hadn't he? Many times.

Going with a Gorgeous Gay

Sometimes he can be amazingly jealous, raving about it, on and on. He will remind her of every man he has ever found her with, the man with the thin black mustache, the man who ate two bowls of potato chips, the Marlboro man...
Sometimes he will truly make a scene, really carry on. Accuse her of being a mucho woman.
He invented the word himself. Mucho woman.
'For every mucho woman,' he tells her, 'somewhere lies a broken penis.'

What she has to put up with being a slut

Men think of her as a slut, easy lay, fuck, bitch, cunt and whore. And come bucket too.
Slop. They also think of her as a slop. Pull a train, and you get that reputation. You'll be a slop.
Women not only call her such names, they want her to live in another country--or be dead and buried.
And she, herself? What does she think?
She does not care what men or women say or think, and anyway she wants to die young.
She wants a good time, and she will die young, and dying young will take care of everything.
And if she doesn't fuck herself to death, she'll drug herself to death.That's what she'll do.
Who wants to be twenty five?
And why not?
Daddy's fault, if anybody's. Daddy never loved her.

Not proud of his turn on

Arguments and Weeping Woman Syndrome...were practically guaranteed to get him hard. Fast.
He wasn't proud of himself. Practically like a disease...this fucking condition, he said.
It often happened when they had a humongous, crazy, stupid argument, and then she finally broke down and dissolved into a sea of tears. And wanted to kind of repent, or something. Be forgiven.
Symptoms for him were mainly a very hard prick.
Should be a better man, practically a disorder of some kind, like he said.
But, see...can't stop himself. Can't. Not proud of himself, okay? No, not proud of his...weakness.
He will let her take it out anyway. See, she wants to, this is what she wants. And let her wet-n'-wash it with tears off her cheeks, make it more salty. She seems to like that a lot, his stupid prick pressing against her face, drying her tears. And putting it in her mouth like a damned comforter babies used.
Oh, he'll admit it! He got some of his biggest hard ons like this. Strongest fucking orgasms. Crazy, he knows. Crazy. But there it is.
Like he said, he isn't proud, but finds this irresistible. In this sense some crazy arguments were practically worthwhile, but he never deliberately provoked them. He isn't that sick.

Ross wanted to know what it was like...

Ross wanted to know what it was like, and so he asked--and she told him.
'It's like being taken out on a gold thread, and then coming back,' she'd said.
'Rising to the stars?'
'Let's do it,' she'd continued. 'Let's, then I'll tell you. As we go along, I'll tell you, Ross. Give a commentary. Would you like that?'
And she was going to, too! She wasn't kidding.
'I dunno...' He had said he didn't know!
So she said, 'I'd like to fuck you. You'd like to fuck me. Let's have fun, Ross. Lots of fun. So you'll use me and I'll use you. What's wrong with any of that?'
It's free pussy, stupid! She'd like to have said that, and out loud too. But didn't. Resisted. Best not, right?
'I dunno. Christ...You're so young...Hell, you're amazing...You sure you want to do this?'
She'd felt, Oh Gawd...! But went on, anyway, said, 'I've wanted to all evening. But if you're feeling uncomfortable...Too many things in your way...'
Like being an idiot! But she didn't say this... Said, instead, 'You know, a lot of people can't handle it... It's okay. I don't mind. It's okay, Ross.'
She'd then patted his hand, like he was a child.

Do women think this is easy?

J was in aggressive mood. Mode too.
This is how it is, see? Let him tell me, me being his friend.
Not his choice, see. Capisce?
He didn't make the rules. He is not Nature. Is he Nature? Does he look like Nature?
Does he look like he has the laws of biophysics, biochemistry, bio-the-fuck--whatever I want to call them, call them what I like--under his fingertips?
Do women--women, you know...women?--think this is easy?
A guy always wanting to fuck somebody else?
They think that he is having this great time, wanting to fuck this somebody else--and not the babe he has been with. Like he has and still is? Sort of.
If I know what he means.
His current girlfriend springing to mind.
Say it had been up to him, suppose it had been his call. Just suppose he had in fact been Nature.
Well, he'd have made it different, friend.
He'd have made it so that he was faithful and never even looked at anybody else--so faithful would he be. Never looked...even ever. In his life.
In his whole fuckin' life.
What he'd have done. An obvious call, you ask him.
How practical, how convenient...friend.
He wouldn't have to spend fortunes of money that serial fucking takes. And that just for starters. Only starters.
What about all the other shit that flies...?
Do I know what he means? All the other shit...?
But guess what, it has not been up to him. And he has had nothing to do with making it the way it was--and is. Is...okay? Is.
Have I got that?
And, know what, he will have to carry on spending fortunes of money on serial fucking. Like he is doing this minute, on somebody he has just met.
Not the actual babe he is with. Sort of with. Being his current girlfriend. He is spending money on somebody else too.
Actually, he is in the mood to put everything on the expense account, and fuck them all.
Why shouldn't he? Let the fuckin' company pay, they owe him. Owe him plenty, my friend.
Oh yes, they do. They do, and they know they do.
J was in aggressive, lemme-tell-you-something mood and mode. He was up to here...
Here, see.
J cut his throat.
Fuckin' women, he went on, can't they understand?
For fuckin' once? Once...in his life.
Not fuckin' rocketry either, just plain facts...
He didn't make the rules did he? Did he make the rules? Rules of bio-fuckin'-what. Bio-fuckin'-whatever.

Live in essentials

She said that for a live in relationship to work the guy must always pay the utilities and never count a woman's shoes.
She was serious. Very.

Politics of Sex

His wife is the true expert, not he. She understands the politics of the thing. At this his wife is a superstar.
Sex is important to her, but only as a bargaining chip. To this truth he has come: His wife rather trades or barters than enjoys the thing. She invests herself, and so cannot afford the pleasure. She prefers power to pleasure. His wife is brilliant at the politics. At the politics, she is Machiavelli.
He says this without apparent bitterness, as if this were a law of Nature itself. A universal thing without any personal malice toward him. He is simply another of Nature's fools. Or, as he calls himself, a dope.

Orgasms are like...or not

To her sister, orgasms were like being hit on the funny bone, but nicely. Did that make sense? Being hit on the pelvic-spinal funny bone, kind of radiating, but nicely?
She herself would not know, has never had any, or so she thinks.
To her orgasms were probably more like somebody trying to lift a five hundred pound weight. Not nice.
Far as she could tell, making orgasms out as best she could, this was more like what orgasms were. Female ones.
But she supposed they existed, there were such things as orgasms. You know, she has read reports of their existence, seen studies. Kinsey, Alfred Kinsey. Masters and Johnson. God, Cosmo was full of them.
You couldn't turn a page without...
Oh? Lifting five hundred pound weights? An interesting concept, and he was interested.
'Most of us can't lift five hundred pound weights,' she went on. 'And for those of us who can, is it worth it? Do you want to do it? I mean, lift five hundred pounds?'
Put that way, he conceded, this did not seem much like fun.
You watched these Olympic weightlifters on TV, she continued. Especially the extra heavyweights, she thought they called them. Were they having fun?
But at least...one, two, three. And all over. The Olympic weightlifter did or didn't.
One, two, three...seconds. Not five, ten, fifteen...minutes. More even, thirty, maybe forty...minutes. Trying to have an orgasm, trying to lift a weight too much.
Lifting heavy weights and possible orgasmic dysfunction. First he'd heard it put this way, and it didn't sound all that implausible.

Sex tip for girls (1)

She was giving advice she thought would be good to pass on.
So girls...when you get down on your knees and he raises your skirt completely and slips down your panties. And stops... You know what's happening, don't you?
He is having a good look.
Well, her advice is, go the whole ball game and let him. And as long as he wants.
Cosmo has said that men are very visual. Aren't they just! So let him eyeball all he wants.
To look good...firm, rounded curves help, and it will be an extra turn on for him to see you are cleanly shaven. And, after all, clearly blonde--not bottle blonde.

What happened at the Party (2)

She was talking about the B-T's party. The night of the big party, some Middle Eastern woman, admittedly strikingly beautiful, passed behind her guy. Her man... Anyway, well to the side. But some kind of side-scanning extra sexsory perception that her guy possessed picked something up. His facial expression registered a blip of some kind, a barely noticeable tic.
Though she is convinced that this was completely unconscious.
Still, she cannot deny the thing either. Totally innocently, completely unaware, something passed over her guy's features--like a bad line crossing the screen in a poorly recorded video movie playback. Unsettling the viewer's focus.
So...She'd best be warned, shouldn't she be?
But then again, while they were slow dancing, she induced in her guy that especially heavy lead pipe between her belly button and that other place. Surely, not everybody did? It lay flat against her, poking up at the ballroom ceiling. Not anybody could do that, surely?
She hates to think so, so she's quit thinking.
Enough, enough, let her stop... Already she's said enough.

What happened at the party (1)

While slow dancing with his girl at some fancy party, he'd backed into this woman. Persian, was his guess.
He'd backed right into her as she made some kind of turn. Found he'd backed into at least two terrifics, one being for pure sexiness. Felt some heat there, a response. AAaahhhh!
Turned his head around to catch black eyes, black hair, red lips. And from that body...The Heat, pure pussy radiating through her dress. Sweaty thigh heat of a repressed womanhood, resurging.
AAaaaaahhh! He'd been with that kind of body heat before, kind of instant heat. Like a cat electrocuting itself.
All the fuckin' same, he could have gone places with this Persian babe. Say on a Persian carpet? Heh! heh! Gone places with her, given a realistic chance. A realistic chance, and not something practically suicidal--his girl being present and on full alert. So it was not to be, of course. One of those things. Fuckin' one of those things.
Did I know what he meant?
'Dollar for your thoughts, John?' His girl had asked. 'You suddenly seem so thoughtful.'
'Just thinking, just thinking,' he'd answered.
What was he going to say? Tell her that he'd just backed into the hottest pussy at the party? Ask her to give him some space to see what he could do?

Dopes make the best husbands

Dopes, he'd read somewhere, made the best husbands. Dopes, and saps too. Maybe they made the best anything, when it came to women--provided they had the wealth. Maybe he was a wealthy dope.
Dopes made the best husbands...and, guess what? Maybe compulsive sex slaves made the best wives, you ask him. Wives who defined themselves by the number of times they made their husbands come. The more they did, the better they were as wives, in their minds. His, anyway.
'See, I am my orgasms,' he said, trying not to sound too dopey. 'We are all just our orgasms. All we can do is try and make them good and memorable. We are our orgasms and our memories. That is all. And so damn what?'

Getting pregnant, getting jilted

She was counting her blessings. Hooboy, one thing she's been saved...Getting pregnant...Being, y'know, unmarried. Then the man whose child you are carrying, turns around, turns on you and says, You're on your own, I'm leaving.
That must be the hardest thing.
She was willing to risk having his baby, risk other things, disease even, humiliation. And then he does this to her, tells her...
What she didn't know was how all that lay directly before her, within the week.

Masturbation was not as good as fucking, provided that...

When you came right down to it, masturbation wasn't as good as fucking—when fucking was done well by a peaceable woman who knew the moves. You know, knew the moves. Could dance the steps, knew the rhythm.
But how many women knew the moves, when you came down to it? Not many. And jacking off had it over fucking in diamonds when it came to the hassle factor. Oh man, jacking off won hands down when you factored in hassle and a woman not at peace.
Masturbating also gave him some of his most powerful orgasms. Timing was always perfect, see, because he controlled the clock. And orgasm is timing, timing, timing! Timing, convenience, no hassles.
Only real problem, he couldn't fantasize well without having somebody viable in mind. And anybody viable was becoming more and more difficult. Marilyn Monroe was not viable, she was dead. And Jennifer Lopez lived in Hollywood, so he would have to include a fantasy plane trip which he didn't want to do.
He jacked off less when he courted, more when he was single—and most when married.The kids, he supposed. But if he could find the time, why couldn't she?
I didn't say because maybe somebody had to look after the kids.

Good advice to young huntin' and fishin' women—on sex

Were he to give advice to any young woman setting out to hook, land and keep an eligible young man, he would advise her not to start off her faking on too sensational, dramatic and grand a scale. Keep it low key, he would advise. Low key—and at a level that can be continued with, month after month. A level comfortably credible and without real strain.
After all, no guy wants to think his performance has slipped. Therein lies ruin.
And a young woman should recognize and know ruin: Ruin befalls a huntin' woman any time a guy is fucking her less than, say, three times a week.
Three times a week, or more, and the young woman has a viable ultimatum. She is only a step away from the altar rail.
Less than twice a week, and it takes a shotgun.
Any case, perfectly obvious advice, he would say.

Being out of luuv

Oh, and another thing, he was out of luuv.
This is his description of falling out of love: Some time between that magic moment when you first saw her—and tonight, maybe yesterday... Whenever that butterfly undusted its wings.
That is how fragile, how delicate a thing. A butterfly undusted its wings.

Z's of the world have so little

Poor, sad Z.
Some women had so little. So little, did Z's of this world have.
Lived endlessly complicated lives, of course.
The style of a little girl's shoes meant the world, how a dress fit over a navel too. How a dress hung over a navel, the way a curtain dropped, was everything. Meant the world. So very little, they had.
The shape of a shadow cast by a table leg on a carpet at twilight was important for the Z's of the world. If it wasn't right for a Z, the table went into the attic. The shape of a shadow by twilight was that important.
He recalled his own Z... Recalled her on the carpet on her elbows and knees, looking at the shadow, deciding the fate of an antique table. And how he'd had the urge to jump her right then, that time long ago, drop her panties in one, smooth flash and grab.
But he hadn't. No, he had not. Would it all have been different, say he had?

Finding her clitoris

When as a young man, destined for great loverdom, he first came across a clitoris—or rather, didn't—he said it was like parting a curtain to seek some wily genie.
And he soon found himself asking himself whether there was such a thing as Triple Clitoris syndrome?
Or did this 'genie' wander? Today here, gone tomorrow.
He didn't know. Thing disappeared, moved. You half saw it, you didn't. You felt it, you didn't.
Instinctively he knew this needed study—pretty intense study, at that.
'Now where to?' he'd ask.
'A little to the left...,' she'd day. And he'd try.
'Higher.' Higher? Earlier it had been lower. Anyway, remained unseen, unfelt.
'Where to now?' he'd persist.
He said in a way this was not very different from watching his dad navigate a car through unfamiliar terrain with his mom reading the map and giving directions. It had that same feeling, but you couldn't say anything.
Nonetheless study he would, master this he had to.
'You have the patience of a ghost,' one more skilled teacher/partner said mysteriously.
Apparently he was still learning.

Orgasm trouble

She was twenty nine, beautiful—and was having a little trouble with her orgasms.
As far as she could make out, this was what: Women could never have orgasms, they could only let themselves go. Relax. Like you could never force yourself to sleep, you could only let yourself go to sleep. Relax. Kind of give yourself permission.
Yes, but...apparently not quite what she meant.
What she meant, she means women can never force themselves to have orgasms. Force orgasm upon themselves. Like...You are unable to force yourself to love somebody. Love happened—or not.
'Sleep happens. Orgasm happens. Love happens. Just happens.'
She began to get emotional, seemed to be asking his help.
He fixed her a glass of cold water.

For whom is she advertising her availability?

The successful Wall Street broker has his opinion. So...what are girls made for? He suggested trying a little...adding up. A little simple arithmetic.
Why else did they wear skimpy, come-feel-them halters, and tight, see-my-pussy shorts or jeans? Jamming and drawing themselves in so tight as to draw a picture...Clear damn picture of a little indented straight line with everything showing. Picture entitled, See-My-Line, Get-In-Right-Here, Successful-Wall-Street-Man!
Why else did they draw this kind of map-to-their-pussy in their skin-tights?
What else could the logic be?
And don't tell him this picture was not very carefully designed, studied and signed off on with the help of a large, full length mirror?
What else could the logic be of pouring herself into a sweater to sculpt a display of nipples under the intense pressure of a size much too small?
To Wall Street Man the math was: One plus one made two. They wanted, invited a fuck. And he was ready to oblige. One plus one made two.
What did I think, he wanted to know?
I said no doubt about it. Something was being advertised here. They were advertising availability. Availability was being promoted. They were ready to put out.
But for whom? Who was invited to the party? Everybody, or only Prince Charming?
'Wall Street,' said Wall Street Man.

Sex and women again—this time flowers

Sex was to a woman as flowers were to a man, she went on. What she meant was that girls thought of sex much like guys thought of flowers... For women, giving sex was like guys giving flowers. The other party seem to enjoy it, see. She laughed.
And all this while she had been giving him head. Interrupted, of course. As it happened, he said he'd had mixed feelings when she told him, and he'd have preferred not to know. He would not ask for her again.