pleasure principal

portrait of the artist as a lost soul
All of my relationships are platonic, they get that way after sex.
Andrei Codrescu, Platonism, and why the world’s fucked up

There’s a certain misunderstanding that I think needs to be cleared up, and it’s got a lot to do with monkeys and sex. At first I thought it had more to do with sex than with monkeys, but nope, they’re running neck and neck.

You see, there’s a notion out there that we, I mean men, and I don’t mean men as in the sense of being human but rather in the sense of being not women; there’s a notion that men are sexual predators and that women, for want of a better word, are prey. It’s surprising how many women out there believe this especially when you consider how truly awful most men find sex to be.

I shit you not: awful. There’s nothing as painfully depressing as looking down at some spreadeagled woman lying, limply, beneath you, whose whole body language is demanding of you: entertain me - knowing that, regardless of how little effort she might put into the dance, if it falls flat it’s going to be your fault. Nevertheless there’s a natural imperative to bump the naughties that goes well beyond procreation: recreation. Zoologists call this “pair-maintenance”, “physiological” or, and this is my favorite, both in a scientific, and actual sense, “occupational” sex.

Back to the monkeys, and I think that this requires an illustration.


You see, what we have here is a mating dance, and not much else. That’s me, and I may as well have been flashing my feathers and dancing around her emitting the occasional grunt and bearing my teeth at passing males. And that’s the crunch here: I’m dancing and she’s choosing; this is important and it goes back to hunter/prey thing I mentioned earlier on: it’s bollocks, we don’t hunt, we don’t even choose, we only desire, and we can’t choose what we desire, and, most of all that desire is fulfilled or shamefully released into a tissue and the back of our hands purely at the boon of the woman.

In this case, I think you may have guessed, she chose: no. I was fairly drunk at the time so there’s a fairly good chance that it never even came to a question, but I think that there’s still something to learn from all of this.

can you show me a good time: do you even know what one looks like? Dear god, this is awful. The books and such, and my mother would agree with them, that a good eye contact is required for any kind of charm offensive to succeed. This eye contact is anything other than good, and although I can’t see her face in this picture, I can only imagine that its expression is one of fear and bemusement.

A prime example of chest-beating pea-cockery. I’m actually quite fat and so I’m surprised I was able to stand up given how much I was sucking my stomach in. Does this fool anybody, or do women actually think that we’re all talking like that ’cause we want to be Clint Eastwood.We do. you jane

if you didn't come to party, then why did you come here? Holy Jesus, if body language is the most important and eloquent form of human contact what did she think of my “straightening myself out.”

This is the problem, it’s all so very complicated: monkeys and teenagers have it easy: walk up and poke them until one presents herself. Then we grow up… or maybe we just age, and we become sophisticated and, as a result, masturbate a good deal more often and more morosely.

Finally, I think I should make something clear. A lot of women complain to me that this is wrong, and that they can stand in bars for ages and nobody will come near them. Thay argue that this makes them less of the sexual selectors than I make them out to be. My argument is simple, and it goes back to the monkeys: they’re always surrounded by men, at least two or three, and that’s usually enough to stop any lone chimp from sniffing about. Also, there’s a tendency in irish women to look down their noses at men offering to buy them drinks out of the blue, and to start laughing at us. I think they think that we want to be James Bond.

We do.