On the futility of male desire
The pathos of randy men
I am, as I’ve alluded to in past posts, happily retired from the business of chasing and wooing women; these days I live a simple continental existence of Métrot, Boulot, Dodo, with the caveat that I walk to work. The energy I used to put into chasing the opposite sex I now put into writing this newsletter. I hope you’re all suitably grateful.
Still, I think some women don’t really understand that, for men who are still out and about looking for women, it’s all rather a lot of work. There’s a slight Acme Corporation quality to being a single straight bloke, going out there, getting knocked back and then coming back again and again. I’d never reveal the number of women I went to bed with, but I would like to put on the record – and this is not, to be clear, to indicate that it was an enormous number – that it was an awful lot of effort.
Anyway, my work is now done. The beautiful women haven’t stopped though. Indeed, they seem to be making more and more of them. And what am I to do with this information? When I pass a beautiful woman on the street these days my attitude suddenly becomes almost parodically rabbinical, sort of crying ‘Oh God, why are you testing me?’ and ‘What am I to do with this knowledge, Yahweh!?’ It is difficult to communicate the deep frustrated powerlessness a married man feels in the presence of a beautiful woman as he recedes into a position of advanced harmlessness. As, to be clear, he should.