WOMEN

Women

Men have been hearing for decades that they are lousy lovers.  It's a
giventhing in this culture.  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 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 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 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 it's 60/40 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
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.  She's a combination C.P.A.,

historian,and Official Scorer.  Her brain is one big computer printout,
andif you  ask her, she'll reel off numbers and measurements that boggle
yourmind: 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 here 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.  Don't 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: Isn't she something?  Will her activity ever cease?
Whydoes your back hurt?  Why are you dehydrated?  Why are you wondering if
you'll have a coronary 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 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.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
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
distancebetween 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.......