The daily life of this Would-be Model over a year comprises hundreds of candid Canons of her in assorted states of undress, mood and manner. Of her, in any day and everyday moody madness.
Unposed pictures—genuine, truly unposed pictures—of her, say, rising from a water closet seat from behind the unclosed door; her, riding a pillow, to plain, simple everyday fantastical masturbatory orgasm; and her heaped on her bed, collapsed under a handful of mellow yellows.
Her…candid, unposed, kneeling on a carpet, legs slightly apart in a Y, her short party dress riding above sheer white panties, her face stretching into a yawn—Is this end of a late night or start of an early morning?—and tugging at her thin shoulder strap with one hand, with the other searching her exposed crotch.
Saturday
Politically incorrect things he said (so politically correct don't read further...)
Italian women had great buns, but they were over by thirty.
French women were extremely sour, and they were constipated at the most inconvenient times. This often made sex unpredictable.
Chinese women, in particular, he said, found oral sex unclean and distasteful.
Asian men, in general, he said, came with smaller ‘packages.’ So that during the Vietnam War era Afro-American men enjoyed high demand.
How he knew all this was not clear, but knew it he did. He spoke with great authority.
His most politically incorrect statement he saved for last…Jewish women, he said, were great in bed but monsters anywhere else. Except for his mother, they were all hookers. And looking around for his wife as he spoke—looking out of the corner of his eye, and with his mouth twisted towards his listener—he added, more softly, ‘They can also hear things at great distances.’
French women were extremely sour, and they were constipated at the most inconvenient times. This often made sex unpredictable.
Chinese women, in particular, he said, found oral sex unclean and distasteful.
Asian men, in general, he said, came with smaller ‘packages.’ So that during the Vietnam War era Afro-American men enjoyed high demand.
How he knew all this was not clear, but knew it he did. He spoke with great authority.
His most politically incorrect statement he saved for last…Jewish women, he said, were great in bed but monsters anywhere else. Except for his mother, they were all hookers. And looking around for his wife as he spoke—looking out of the corner of his eye, and with his mouth twisted towards his listener—he added, more softly, ‘They can also hear things at great distances.’
Friday
He was not envious
She made her lover pull out on the point of coming. She said two or three times a day—minimum.
When he heard her say this, far from being envious, all he could feel was involuntary, sharp pain. And he could not bump into her again without feeling discomfort.
When he heard her say this, far from being envious, all he could feel was involuntary, sharp pain. And he could not bump into her again without feeling discomfort.
Thursday
Her great secret
‘I am going to tell you a great secret.’
She murmurs softly to him, in her slightly insane musical tones. He will listen well.
‘I don’t know why I am going to tell you this. But I suppose it is because I know you will go away soon, accustomed as I have grown to you. You will go away soon, and I will leave you with something of me.’
‘You have already. You have given me everything.’ True, no longer was he a boy. She has made him something...something more.
‘No, no, no.’ She shakes her head, remonstrating with him. ‘Not everything. And this...’ She points at the two of them in the mirror overhead, lying naked in the sun, on her bed of black satin sheets, ‘...is not everything. For a woman. Even for me.’
Fucking for her, it seems, is not everything. He nods his head, waiting for her to continue…
She doesn’t. The great secret is out. Has been told.
She murmurs softly to him, in her slightly insane musical tones. He will listen well.
‘I don’t know why I am going to tell you this. But I suppose it is because I know you will go away soon, accustomed as I have grown to you. You will go away soon, and I will leave you with something of me.’
‘You have already. You have given me everything.’ True, no longer was he a boy. She has made him something...something more.
‘No, no, no.’ She shakes her head, remonstrating with him. ‘Not everything. And this...’ She points at the two of them in the mirror overhead, lying naked in the sun, on her bed of black satin sheets, ‘...is not everything. For a woman. Even for me.’
Fucking for her, it seems, is not everything. He nods his head, waiting for her to continue…
She doesn’t. The great secret is out. Has been told.
Sunday
How to pick up an older man in a famous Paris hotel Bar
She sees him glance down at his slim, flat case. Thinking, should he or should he not?
God, how much prompting does he need? Looking down, like some country boy…at a country fair. She says, ‘What would you have done? Say I’d been one of your daughters’ friends...And you ran across me in Paris...And I was drinking cocktails alone, looking out of everything. Lonely little damsel...’
Gaaawd, must she start flashing green lights, all over, like some road sign…Lonely little damsel, in distress. Gaaawd’s Sake!
‘I’d say, Listen, aren’t you...? You’d say, Yes I am, and then I’d say, Why don’t you have dinner with me? Anyway, coffee. Madge, or maybe Jenny, will never forgive us...’
Congratulations! ‘So why don’t we play act?’ Like Madge or Jenny will never forgive them, right?
Say she doesn’t fuck their father.
God, how much prompting does he need? Looking down, like some country boy…at a country fair. She says, ‘What would you have done? Say I’d been one of your daughters’ friends...And you ran across me in Paris...And I was drinking cocktails alone, looking out of everything. Lonely little damsel...’
Gaaawd, must she start flashing green lights, all over, like some road sign…Lonely little damsel, in distress. Gaaawd’s Sake!
‘I’d say, Listen, aren’t you...? You’d say, Yes I am, and then I’d say, Why don’t you have dinner with me? Anyway, coffee. Madge, or maybe Jenny, will never forgive us...’
Congratulations! ‘So why don’t we play act?’ Like Madge or Jenny will never forgive them, right?
Say she doesn’t fuck their father.
Friday
Ridiculous...but
As he aged, he found himself going with women younger and younger. Even he knew this was ridiculous, but he could not bring himself to change.
Thursday
(2) A Man Speaks of Eating Pussy
I like your refreshing honesty on the topic. Boring...like eating pussy...it can take forever, if you are not careful. Fortunately there is nothing much to swallow, most of the time. But there are exceptions...
Wednesday
(1) A Woman Speaks of Giving Head
Giving head to a man is often quite disgusting, to be honest with you, and sometimes when it takes a long time for him it is sooo boring!!!
Tuesday
(2) Thirty Minute Rule
It is also said that once a Man and a Woman decide a prospect exists for pursuing one another further, then within thirty minutes:
The Woman tends to hint at having an unusually strong libido.
The Man tends to hint that a long term commitment is feasible.
The Woman tends to hint at having an unusually strong libido.
The Man tends to hint that a long term commitment is feasible.
Sunday
(1) Three Second Rule
It is said that men and women decide within three seconds of meeting whether any prospect exists for pursuing one another further.
Men decide the issue by asking themselves: ‘Is a one night stand possible tonight?’
Women decide the issue by asking themselves: ‘Can I see myself with this man for the rest of our lives?’
Very first impressions—whether conscious or not—made within three seconds on meeting, decide everything, it is said.
Men decide the issue by asking themselves: ‘Is a one night stand possible tonight?’
Women decide the issue by asking themselves: ‘Can I see myself with this man for the rest of our lives?’
Very first impressions—whether conscious or not—made within three seconds on meeting, decide everything, it is said.
Tuesday
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.
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.
Monday
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.
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.
Saturday
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.
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.
Wednesday
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.
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.
Thursday
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...
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...
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.
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.
Wednesday
Nothing to worry about...Can happen
Back at the hotel, they dance in the hotel nightclub. They dance a couple of slow close ups too, and the lead pipe is back again, though it comes and goes.
Has her wondering, that—a little.
It stayed up all night at the party.
But he has not been focused. He has not been himself. His mind is elsewhere. And she doesn't press him. She guesses that buying banks, whatever, isn't always a breeze.
And Cosmo said, Nothing to worry about...Happens.
Has her wondering, that—a little.
It stayed up all night at the party.
But he has not been focused. He has not been himself. His mind is elsewhere. And she doesn't press him. She guesses that buying banks, whatever, isn't always a breeze.
And Cosmo said, Nothing to worry about...Happens.
Thursday
Every how many minutes guys think...
Yes, guys thinking about sex every three or four minutes is about right.
The survey he read has this more or less correct. Jeez, Einstein too.
Same survey had black guys thinking about sex every twenty one seconds.
Jeez! Can this be so?
Even though he asked a black guy in the office, and the black guy said he thought about sex not every twenty one seconds but all the time.
Can't be, though, can it?
The survey he read has this more or less correct. Jeez, Einstein too.
Same survey had black guys thinking about sex every twenty one seconds.
Jeez! Can this be so?
Even though he asked a black guy in the office, and the black guy said he thought about sex not every twenty one seconds but all the time.
Can't be, though, can it?
Wednesday
Good vibrations
In her mind's eye—even as she lies wrecked, beached and blown on the bed, well vibrated and wide spread—she is left with a vision of these kinda cute little curls of smoke rising from between her legs. All this in the eye of her mind...
Good, clean, guaranteed fun.
God, will any man ever come up to her vibrator?
Good, clean, guaranteed fun.
God, will any man ever come up to her vibrator?
Thursday
(2) Relationships are not built to last, okay
Something in any relationship is built to fail, like manufacturers of light bulbs make them last only so long. And generally to blow at bad moments, leaving you without light.
Relationships are like this, so too with relationships. He has himself blown more than a few.
And he sees with a sad clarity the tragic side to this inbuilt obsolescence in nature.
Anyway, tragic side or not, the attraction, a place to stay, whatever his cocktail waitress once had for him at the start of summer is over with the very first turning leaves of fall.
With the end of that summer, whatever had been was and is no more, and never will be again. Kind of, a light bulb fused. He heard the ping one morning, lying in bed, she by his side, trying. A bad moment to blow, like it usually was.
Relationships are like this, so too with relationships. He has himself blown more than a few.
And he sees with a sad clarity the tragic side to this inbuilt obsolescence in nature.
Anyway, tragic side or not, the attraction, a place to stay, whatever his cocktail waitress once had for him at the start of summer is over with the very first turning leaves of fall.
With the end of that summer, whatever had been was and is no more, and never will be again. Kind of, a light bulb fused. He heard the ping one morning, lying in bed, she by his side, trying. A bad moment to blow, like it usually was.
Wednesday
(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.
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.
Saturday
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.
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.
Monday
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.
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.
Thursday
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.
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.
Saturday
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.
'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.
Thursday
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...
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...
Friday
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.
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.
Wednesday
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.
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.
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.
Thursday
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.
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.
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.
Monday
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.
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.
Thursday
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.
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.
Friday
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.
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.
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.
Thursday
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?
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?
Friday
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.
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.
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.
Thursday
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.
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.
Friday
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.
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.
Saturday
(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.
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.
Friday
(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.
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.
Saturday
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.
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.
Wednesday
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.
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.
Friday
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.
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.
Tuesday
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.
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.
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