Men have been hearing for decades that they are bad in bed. If we
believe what women have been telling us, it seems that today's males
are hasty, inconsiderate, ignorant, confused, and uncaring. Men are
supposedly limp-dicked premature ejaculators with no sense of timing
or communication. But the truth of the matter is that women contribute
as much to our culture's sexual malaise as men do. Let's consider the
classes of lousy lovers among women:
The Otherwise Engaged: If she were collecting Air Miles, it would take
her ten years to earn a trip from Heathrow to Aberdeen. To live with
her is to not know her. "Not tonight, I have a headache," has become
"Not this year, I have a career." In this relationship, the hand you
hold will probably be your own, but don't be embarrassed by that.
Rejection and lack of interest are general all over this workaholic
culture. You think you're the Lone Ranger because you're living with
an Otherwise Engaged? Then who are all those other masked men out
there?
The Cliff Dweller: She lives on the edge of everything, especially the
extended orgasm. It's always just around the corner, but the corner is
forever disappearing off into the distance. Superman might be able to
satisfy her, but it's 2-1 he'll finally give up and take a nap. Be
assured that when he awakes, he'll hear about how inconsiderate he
was.
The Sperm Hater: This woman has a basic fear of our precious bodily
fluids. She treats the male orgasm as if it were an explosion at a
nuclear power station. She scrambles away, a distasteful expression on
her face, as you lie there like a beached whale. By her standards,
sperm is radioactive poison and should never be deposited on skin,
sheets, or clothing. She is also the fastest douche in the west.
The Statistician: You can spot her by the tape measure she keeps under
the pillow and the pencil marks on her wall. She's a combination of
historian, referee, and official scorer. Her brain is one big computer
print-out, and if you ask her, she'll reel off measurements and
numbers that boggle your mind: how your rate compared with other
lovers in terms of genital heft, number of orgasms (hers, then yours),
errors committed, and runs batted in. Her accounting will be accurate,
impersonal, and cold. Only her eyes will glow as she quantifies love.
The Aerobic Lover: Isn't she something? Will her activity ever cease?
Why does your back hurt? Why are you dehydrated? Why are you wondering
if you'll have a heart attack and she'll never even notice? Is it fair
that she can go for four hours straight and never even stop for
breath? Why does she wear her dance shoes in bed? And why does she
drink Lucozade instead of champagne? Only one change of sweatbands
allowed. Mirrors all over, even the floor. "Bolero" is too slow for
her. What are those yelping sounds she makes at odd moments? Why does
she confuse you with her aerobics instructor? Why does she have a
hotline to St. John's Ambulance? And why are they leaning over you and
giving you oxygen? Why is she still bouncing on the bed?
The Screecher: This one is sneaky and mean. There is no known way to
spot her beforehand, either. You just have to place you bets and then
go for broke. It's a sweet moment. You're making love with a warm and
wonderful woman, and if the truth were known, this is how you'd like
to make your living. You wait for her; you hold yourself in; you
administer and placate and excite. Then, as you feel her rhythms rise,
your own pleasure approaches; and as she rides into her sunset, you
take a deep breath and... your ears! What's happening to your ears?
You've never heard a sound like that before. Is it nuclear war? Is
there a jet engine in the room? There is this unearthly screeching
going on, and there is no distance between you and the sound. She has
your head in a vice, and her mouth has just swallowed your eardrums.
They are somewhere slightly above her voice box, and they are now hers
forever, because you will never hear again, not a sound, not even the
whimper of a small child. The Screecher has claimed another victim.
|
