Jacob Lawrence, "The Lovers," 1946
Jacob Lawrence, The Lovers (1946)
Can a Game Be Literature?

Mark's Pages

Maybe it's her cynicism: sometimes she's too far removed from the emotional connection I need to feel with her. Maybe it's her self-identification with her technique: all those men she "blew away". Maybe it's the fact that I find her technique to be off-putting and vaguely comical: all that business about pushing hard below the scrotum during orgasm, presumably to stimulate the prostate; stupid. Maybe it's her appalling taste in men. Maybe it's because I resent her for leaving me in the past. Maybe it's because I don't trust her now. Maybe it's because I'm shocked at how completely clueless she is, when she's always been the one partner I remembered as having some visceral understanding of the difference between her head and a hole in the ground. Maybe it's the weight she's gained, despite my strong sympathy. Maybe it's because she won't commit to staying with me. Maybe it's madonna/whore syndrome and nowadays she's the madonna.