Men have been hearing for decades that they are lousy lovers. Its a
given thing in this culture. If we believe what women have been telling
us, it seems that todays 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 cultures sexual malaise as men do. Lets
consider the classes of lousy lovers among women:

The Otherwise Engaged: If she were on a frequent
flier plan, 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 dont be
embarrassed by that. Rejection and lack of interest are general all over
this workaholic culture. You think youre the Lone Ranger because youre
living with an Infrequent Flier? 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 is always just around the
corner, but the corner is forever disappearing into the distance.
Superman might be able to satisfy her, but its 60/40 hell finally give
up and take a nap. Be assured that when he awakes, hell 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 powerstation. 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 thepillow and the pencil marks on her wall.
Shes a combination C.P.A., historian, and Official Scorer. Her brain is
one big computer printout, and if you ask her, shell reel off numbers and
measurements that boggle your mind: how your rate compared with other
lovers in terms of genital heft, number of orgasms (hers, then yours),
errors committed, times you were too base and runs batted in. Her
accounting will be accurate, impersonal, and cold. Only her eyes will
glow as she quantifies love.

The Electrician: Yes, you guessed it; the Electrician
is sister to the Statistician. Indeed, they may be one and the same
person. The Electrician punches data into her computer keyboard while
your lovemaking progresses, but it will be difficult for you to see that
as you struggle to keep your headphones from becoming entangled with hers
and as you sort out the vibrators that she keeps in a batrack by her bed.
On average, she will have two videotape machines running, one to record
your activities, the other to play back an X-rated movie for the
television monitor on her ceiling. Dont feel dehumanized by the
stockmarket ticker she has on her wall. And, yes, it can be
disconcerting when the Electrician carries on telephone conversations
from one of six phones she has on her headboard while you are huffing and
puffing away.

The Aerobic Lover: Isnt she something? Will her
activity ever cease? Why does your back hurt? Why are you dehydrated?
Why are you wondering if youll have a coronary and shell 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 aerobic dance shoes to bed?
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 her own
team of paramedics? 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.Its a sweet moment. Youre making love with
a warm and wonderful woman, and if the truth were known, this is how
youd like to make your living. You wait for her; you hold yourself in;
you administer and placateand 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 is happening to your ears? You
have 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 screeching. She has your
head in a vise, 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
child. The Screecher has claimed another victim.