F. Scott Fitzgerald
In the winter as the days became crisp and white, the flakes of snow descended onto the rooftops of Princeton’s ivy-covered dormitories. Inside Judie’s bedroom, Gavin knew that there was something dismal about his performance, just as he knew there was something sad about the disappearance of the fall. After a pause, he said, “I’m sorry.” But Judie paid him little attention, choosing instead to swaddle herself in the pure white bed sheets as if she were a newborn baby recently delivered by a stork from above. Gavin stood perfectly still, his mouth agape, unsure which way to go, knowing that when he stepped out the door he would never see Judie again. Indeed, the enormity of the decision weighed heavy upon him and for the first time in years, tears begin to stream down Gavin’s face. He wanted Judie to care, he needed her to care. “Long ago,” Gavin said to her from across the bedroom, “there was something inside of me that would have made me care, but now that thing is gone like a star burning so brightly and passionately it had no choice but to explode.” With this Gavin left, and with this he will ever desire to return to Judie and her puerile, simple embrace.
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!
Aunt Stalagmite and Aunt Spelunker were a pair of nasty, brutish hags who lived in a queer house overlooking a dying field in England. The field, which raced along the bumping hills, was sad and desolate not unlike the wooden house of Thomas’ aunties. His aunties really were odd folk and every night they would have at least two men over. These men were always procured at the pub, and often they had tattoos of anchors and spoke of their time in the war and reeked of cabbage. Aunt Stalagmite and Aunt Spelunker invited Thomas into the bedroom one night to watch their interaction with two particularly nasty men. At the moment that one of the men was about to show Aunt Spelunker a tattoo beneath his pants an enormous rhinoceros raced into the room and gobbled the four of them up. He spit out mangled t-shirts, allowed himself a final burp, and stomped out of the room, leaving not so much as a smile to Thomas who stood aghast watching it all.