Some good girls  
Where our hero discovers he is not yet fully equipped for  certain aspects of material existence.

- No disguise, you're the male today. 
-  Okay. 
-  Look, if it happens again, we'll never see each other again.  Or,  why not, we'll still see each other, but as threesome. I like the idea of you  watching  me  fuck another guy.  
- It won't happen - I cut it short.  
I hold out my arm to her. I feel a little hurt this time, but I don't say anything.  My heart is pounding as the blood rushes to my brain  too quickly, too violently. I  think clearly and coldly that this  time I will die and I don't give a damn.  I think it would be nice to die  of a heart attack while she is enjoying herself. Yes, I think all that and also other things that  I prefer not to say. Strange thing the human soul, doctor; nobody knows  what it is, but one thing is certain: it is full of rubbish.  
I hear her breathing by my side: she is not yet ready. Finally she lets out a sigh. I open my eyes, she turns to me with  a misty gaze. 
-  Now let's see,
She  sets penetration,  rhythm and intensity, then lets me continue alone.
 I am well aware of the obstacles I will encounter. I  know that I will have a  breakdown after the first half-hour, but I am able to cope : the stuff doesn't help, it's mostly a matter of self-control. It's a matter  of overcoming that moment with an effort of will: then the  fatigue, the pain in the joints, the desire to finish quickly  gradually turn into an almost ecstatic condition, which  sublimates into a kind of painful nirvana.  Gerti is cold and addicted: everything now has little effect on her. Sometimes she  risks a hysterical crisis due to her inability to vent her excitement. In the  early days her coldness resisted my every assault and the  failure was terrible: I would give up even before trying. But then, I  don't know how, I found the courage to try again and I succeeded. 
I  have perfected a winning technique, doctor, which I can describe  as follows: the difficult thing with a certain type of woman is to make her lose control;  you have to literally force her, tame her as you would a  wild  horse, yank her, master her, whisper in her ear some unrepeatable vulgarities, make her change position, caress her for hours  until she is exhausted. Often, standing behind Michelle, I make her get down on her  knees with her face turned towards the big mirror and force her to  look at herself while we have sex; she is beautiful in those moments, but  she does  not  like to see herself. She  rebels, closes her eyes, arches her back, tilts  her head back, the cascade of her black hair caresses my  shoulders, the beauty of her darting body reflected in the mirror is  almost unbearable, I have to be careful not to let myself go, and  I guarantee it is not easy. I have my strategies, for example reciting the multiplication table of nine or repeating by heart all the tributaries of the Po river,  first those on the right and then those on the left. I  straighten  her  head and  tell her look at you.  She opens her eyes again and what she sees in the  mirror excites her terribly, but this unnerves her, I feel  her muscles contract under my arms, I have to hold her still,  caress her neck until she calms down. Finally her  tense limbs relax, she surrenders to that even rhythm. It is a  signal of implicit surrender to which I am very attentive. Just  then, when she drops her defences, it is the moment to bring the  final  attack, in the face of which all her resistance is useless.  
It almost always works. The pleasure obtained in that way is unnatural, it  leaves one exhausted but essentially unfulfilled. Most  women at that point are satisfied and give in to exhaustion; I, on the other hand,  realise that that is only the starting point. I force her to  start again immediately. The rest is almost child's play. 
I go  on for hours, keep my promise and even double the  stakes.  At the end we are both exhausted and I feel the strange emotion that  always gets me with her. I expect her to say something, I expect  some compliment, I don't know, some comment. But she, lying on her back  next to me, says nothing.  I wait a few minutes and then ask her the dumbest question a  man can ask a woman:  
- Did you enjoy it?  
She only replies with a moan.  
- What are you thinking about? - I urge, determined to hurt myself.  
- Nothing, she replies evasively, I was just thinking about that variant.  
- What variant?  
- Well, one should optimise the performance, don't you think?  I was talking nonsense  before , but if you think about it, it's an idea: you just need the  right  person.  
- Right for what? 
- While you were fucking me I thought it would be good to save you all  this trouble and I realised that the right person is Carlos. He 's a  dumb  bastard, he doesn' t formalise. Next time we can have you  start and then he'll take over: that way you'll get less tired and it takes me half the time to orgasm. 
I answer nothing. She turns to look at me. I must have a comical expression  (comical?), because she bursts out laughing:  
- Don't look like that. I didn't say I like Carlos: he's just a redneck with an elephant dick, nothing to do with your Andy Warhol aesthetic. 
I detect a sinister creak.  
- Well, what is it? 
Irritated by my silence, Gerti looks at me sternly, crossing her arms  over her chest:  
- We really don't understand each other today, faggot. Try not to  misunderstand me, I didn't say you weren't good: it's nothing  personal, it's just that size is an objective fact. That's all.