Cynical Classification of Sexual Partners
When any thought of cynicism arises, it conjures an image of bitter thirty something divorcees, single alcoholic fathers, or disillusioned old maids. However, this disease is rampant now among "Gen X'ers", and it is certainly no surprise with the miasma of food, cars, money, drugs, and of course sex that assaults early twenties men and women with the frenetic pace of a moving el-train. Yet there is no better example of the reason for American youths cynicism than the meager choice of sex partners in the nineties. The problem is not quantity, but most definitely quality. Sexual partners, especially for women fall into three categories: the mechanical, the sensitive, and the "Oh (My God What Have I Done)." Note, however, that there is essentially no "good" category. Is this an oversight? What do you think?
Mr. Mechanical is tall, suave and polished to fine sheen. He could be wearing anything from loafers and a braided belt to a black leather jacket and combat boots, but you can bet he put more thought into his outfit than you did. His theme song is "I'm Too Sexy," and his opening line is, "Where have I been all your life." You will run into this gem at your local bar, and after buying you several very expensive drinks with a suspiciously high alcohol content, he will you that, "you are the most beautiful woman he's ever seen." At the end of the night, when confronted with your apartment door he breezes in as though he's already been there before. When he opens your refrigerator to make himself a drink, he sees two oranges, leftover pizza, and a jar of mayonnaise, and then asks if you keep the champagne in the freezer. Mr. Mechanical then asks for the "grand tour" of your 800 square foot, one bedroom apartment, just so you can maneuver yourselves toward the bedroom. He sits down on the bed, crosses his legs, and waits with a Mona Lisa smile. His lovemaking is as choreographed as a broadway musical. He takes exactly three minutes time on each major erogenous zone, removing clothing with each step, yet somehow deftly removing his own clothing as well. He can unhook any type of bra, blindfolded, in the dark with just his teeth. Now comes the inevitable penetration which always lasts exactly fifteen minutes. There is no, "Did you ?" because he naturally assumes, "of course you did." Afterwards he talks for exactly two minutes then falls asleep on your pillow. When you wake in the morning there is no evidence of his presence except a rose on your pillow with a note that says, "talk to you soon," but don't count on it. In fact, the only time you ever hear of him again is when you find out he was with your best friend the previous weekend.
Next on the list of losers is the sensitive man. You meet Mr. Sensitive at a private gathering; he wouldn't be caught dead at anything as gauche as a club. He has careless hair and an air of " what's the point" about his appearance. He is not necessarily beautiful in...