Men need sympathy from women. Like them, men are creatures of feeling and are governed by a sense of hierarchy. They don’t want to feel low so they need reassurance and if that doesn’t help then they need sympathy. I don’t want love or hate, pity or anger. Sympathy is another matter. There is never enough of that.
She felt his look. Then he rolled on top of her cunningly and used his hands to caress the sides of her body and then lightly he kissed her neck. She remained distant, but he felt her warming. Encouraged, he pressed harder. He rolled on top of her and their mouths locked and then he rolled her on top of him. That was it.
Do you ever have thoughts that float into your mind and aren’t sure if they were dreams or reality? Or catch glimpses of your unconscious from the night before and can’t align it with what your consciousness believes? Or are you ever embarrassed by the dreams you had last night? Good. That means you’re thinking.
Maybe I’ll just write my book like this. In short paragraphs. Like tweets. That would be so original, it would have to become classic literature one day. God you’re conceited, but at least the recognition provides a nice glance into the meta nature of post postmodernism.