The Seamstress' Daughter

When, on their first night together, after several rounds of avid, mostly silent love¬making, only interrupted by occasional obscene words, he said to her: “You are my first redhead”, she felt like slapping him hard in the face. His tone made her feel like some kind of a milestone in a sexual oddity bucket list. Redhead: check. Next target: Woman with no belly button. However, she contained her ego and just replied in a calm voice: “And you are my eleventh infidelity”. He burst out in a loud laugh, too loud to be genuine. She smiled inside because she knew she had succeeded in provoking him back. However progressive a man is, he’d still hate not being the frontrunner of a race. Boys have to compete. Precede. Win. Especially when the trophy is a woman’s body. There will always be a cave guy inside many suited and well-mannered men, pounding his chest and howling: “I did it! I did it!” before dragging the female away by her hair.