Read of the Day: “If Famous Authors Contributed To ‘Glamour’ And ‘Cosmopolitan’”
5:30 pm, September 12th | by Colette McIntyre
And you prop your legs over his shoulders. And they are warm. He is warm. His forehead is sweaty. Your legs are tired. But you are not tired. He begins. He finishes. You finish. Perhaps not until later. By yourself. It is a cycle. The fan spins on you, on him, on your legs. Your mind begins to wander. It was pleasant. Not good. But not bad. He proved strong and capable in the face of a task. This is all you can ask of him.
I wonder what the meaning of my existence is if Simone can give me so much carnal pleasure? For if my existence is meaningless than God is not real; yet if God were real and Man were real than God would necessarily reduce Man to a mere object. Perhaps that is exactly it. Perhaps I am a mere object in her hands, malleable like sexualized clay, my existential existence constructed entirely by her. Oh, but she is not God! There is no omniscient being even if my pleasure last night was manifold. And manifold it was. How entirely banal!
A lady’s imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony; then from matrimony to that sticky, glowing night culminating in pleasure. To all males looking to get into bed with a lady, I say, do not be too agreeable for I do not plan to like you a great deal either while in bed or shortly thereafter. For the more I see – of man, of the world – the more I understand that I will never be able to truly love a man. Indeed, I require much! Bouquets of flowers, perfumes, necklaces, but all of these things will still not lead me to profess my love!
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