By D. H. Lawrence.
"And you talk so coldly about sex," she said. "You talk as if you had only wanted your own pleasure and satisfaction."
She was protesting nervously against him.
"Nay!" he said. "I wanted to have my pleasure and satisfaction of a woman, and I never got it: because I could never get my pleasure and satisfaction of her unless she got hers of me at the same time. And it never happened. It takes two."
"But you never believed in your women. You don't even believe really in me," she said.
"I don't know what believing in a woman means."
"That's it, you see!"
She still was curled on his lap. But his spirit was grey and absent, he was not there for her. And everything she said drove him further.
"But what do you believe in?" she insisted.
"I don't know."
"Nothing, like all the men I've ever known," she said.
They were both silent. Then he roused himself and said: "Yes, I do believe in something. I believe especially in being warm-hearted in love, in fucking with a warm heart. I believe if men could fuck with warm hearts, and the women take it warm-heartedly, everything would all right. It's all this cold-hearted fucking that is death and idiocy."
"But you don't fuck me cold-heartedly," she protested.
"I don't want to fuck you at all. My heart's as cold as cold potatoes just now.
"Oh!" she said, kissing him mockingly. "Let's have them sautees." He laughed, and sat erect.
"It's a fact!" he said. "Anything for a bit of warm-heartedness. But the women don't like it. Even you don't really like it. You like a good, sharp, piercing cold-hearted fucking, and then pretending it's all sugar. Where's your tenderness for me? You're as suspicious of me as a cat is of a dog. I tell you it takes two even to be tender and warm-hearted. You love fucking all right: but you want it to be called something grand and mysterious, just to flatter your own self-importance. Your own self-importance is more to you, fifty times more, than any man, or being together with a man."
"But that's what I'd say of you. Your own self-importance is everything to you."
"Ay! Very well then!" he said, moving as if he wanted to rise. "Let's keep apart then. I'd rather die than do any more cold-hearted fucking."
She slid away from him, and he stood up.
"And do you think I want it?" she said.
"I hope you don't," he replied. "But anyhow, you go to bed an' I'll sleep down here."
She looked at him. He was pale, his brows were sullen, he was as distant in recoil as the cold pole. Men were all alike.
"I can't go home till morning," she said.
"No! Go to bed. It's a quarter to one."
"I certainly won't," she said.
He went across and picked up his boots.
"Then I'll go out!" he said.
He began to put on his boots. She stared at him.
"Wait!" she faltered. "Wait! What's come between us?"
He was bent over, lacing his boot, and did not reply. The moments passed. A dimness came over her, like a swoon. All her consciousness died, and she stood there wide-eyed, looking at him from the unknown, knowing nothing amny more.
He looked up, because of the silence, and saw her wide-eyed and lost. And as if a wind tossed him he got up and hobbled over to her, one shoe off and one shoe on, and took her in his arms, pressing her against his body, which somehow felt hurt right through. And there he held her, and there she remained.
Till his hands reached blindly down and felt for her, and felt under the clothing to where she was smooth and warm.
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