Standing at the hilltop, surveying the scene, pondering. That crucial moment for a woman, confronted with a man’s sexual wounds, she can take it as a gift, like Jenny, to be entrusted with its healing. A gift as profound as a man can bring. Or she can see it as an insult, how dare you presume to exploit me with your disgusting appetites.
Thinking, or of course a woman can just have dull sexual antennae, fail to see the need, fail to see the gift it represents. Like my wife. Maybe like all wives, after a few years of marriage.
Another insight. That sexual genius of Jenny’s, it’s exactly the same as Jane’s, that ready acceptance, that pleasure in being sought out as sexual healer, that instinct for finding the exact cure. Amazing, that thought. Maybe in Jenny I’m recreating Jane, becoming twenty again, exactly how old I feel right now. Maybe not so amazing, that’s what sex is, regeneration.
Watching the traffic, flowing smoothly now, drivers all apparently happy. Interesting, maybe these ones really have been with their Jennys, that’s how they stay calm.
Thinking more, so that’s a male viewpoint, what about female, could it be the same? Maybe that’s what a man should do, become attuned to female sexual wounds, be proud to be entrusted with their cure.
Another sudden insight. That would explain a lot about Carol, she’s carrying a sexual wound, I think, maybe she needs a man who can provide the exact right cure. A cure which, thinking about it, involves patience, waiting until she’s good and ready. Sexual cures, it’s not just the physical technique, it’s also the timing, the lightness of touch.
