Let me see if I can introduce a little clarity here. I’m positing that if Person A (let’s call her “She”) is so thoroughly disaatisfied with Person B’s sexual performance, has discussed it with him, etc. to death, and is finally convinced that he’s not going to meet her minimal standards between the percale sheets, and so she has resolved to break up with him, she is
a) not obliged to get specific as to her reasons, but
b) if he acts puzzled (as people often do when told “I’m breaking up with you,” however nicely it’s said) and specifically asks for further details as to why,
c) then she would be obliged by my lights to make some sincere attempt to comply and provide her thinking.
Where **Twix ** and I seem to disagree on this matter of etiquette, is whether being so instructed is just rude, sadistic, mean-spirited and Just Not Done, or whether it might be helpful and provide some clarity as to why and wherefore the breakup.
Me, I might be hurt to be told I’m a lousy lay, but I think I’d rather be told than be mystified. In a sense it might even be comforting.
How is being told you’re lousy in bed comforting? Scenario:
Let’s suppose that I’ve tried my level best to accomodate some woman’s sexual requests. She has asked me sweetly if I could put some sensitive and delicate part of my anatomy in intimate conjunction with some sensitive and delicate part of her anatomy, and to do this for upwards of twenty minutes at a clip with considerable vigor and energy. I comply.
“How was that?” I ask eagerly. “Pretty good, huh?”
She extends her hand flat and wiggles it rapidly, in the universal sign for “Eh, so-so.”
“Vraiment?” I exclaim. I then get back into the position, and resume my previous activities with more vigor and more energy and go for a half an hour. My reward is a shrug.
After a week or so of trying to please this woman, I’m given the “breakup” speeech. My response, upon beig informed that I’m lousy in bed, is essentially relief. I don’t know how to do it any better than I’ve been doing it, I just (as Mick so nicely phrases it) don’t have that much jam, and I’m kinda glad to be done trying.
She may think she’s informed me of my inadequacy, but I’m feeling like she’s told me she has an insatiability problem. I’m just “Good luck with that, baby,” and out the door.
Now Twix might tell you that she’s just delivered a devastating shot to my ego, but maybe my ego is so grotesquely huge that her death-blow has just glanced off, unnoticed and unregistered. No harm, no foul, in other words.