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Ours is not an act of love. It is an act of sex, a contemptuous act which at times is rough, sometimes violent, always animalistic, and never, to me, satisfying. I am too inhibited by thoughts, dreams, and diary full of yearnings for another man that I keep hidden under the bed. Yet I failed again to whisper au revoir into his departing ears.

Frailty, thy name is woman indeed.