Man Talk Now's Open Salon Blog

Study Offers Good News for Dumb, Drunk Party Girls

Wed, 23 May 2012 22:05:21 -0400

http://writeitsideways.com/win-a-copy-of-the-complete-guide-to-hiring-a-literary-agent/ http://www.surrey.police.uk/media/news_item.asp?area=5&itemID=14040

Longtime readers of my always pertinent and invaluable blog will know that I keep an extremely sharp eye on the latest in psychological research regarding men and women. Here’s more of that.

The very latest research on the subject has some excellent news for women who are unintelligent, intoxicated, wear tight clothing, have promiscuous friends and party a lot. Congratulations ladies, because you are by far the most attractive to men looking for easy, immediate sex! For some reason I don’t understand, this applies also to women who are “sleepy”.

There’s some bad news, too: something about these women also being judged the easiest to rape, but I found that part distasteful and skipped past it.

An article by Jesse Bering in Slate drew my attention to a groundbreaking study by some graduate students at the University of Texas – Austin (one of the top 5 schools in the country, according to a certain magazine!). You can read Bering’s piece in Slate, if you want, but it’s discouragingly objective, and who wants that?

The U of T/A researchers discovered that, for reasons best explained by evolutionary psychology, men are programmed by nature (or by God, if you’re a Republican) to identify specific cues about the “sexual exploitability” of different women.

In addition to hints that a woman is the worse for drink or none too bright, the study suggests these subtle cues may include whether a woman has her legs open, or is touching her breast. They may also include the aforementioned sleepiness, or whether a woman is a "punk". I was unable to determine whether the latter category meant she had spiky orange hair, or whether she was a member of a violent street gang. Obviously, either one would be a huge turn-on.

Now, let’s be clear about the terminology used in the study. Don’t be misled by the term “sexual exploitability”. There’s no value judgment here. We’re talking about “exploitability” in the scientific sense of the word. It doesn’t mean anything improper. It simply means that men think it would be easiest to “seduce”, “pressure”, “deceive”, or “assault” these women into having sex.

I always adjust my own dating behavior according to the latest research, and I have reason to pay close attention to this particular study.

You see, I’ve been applying false assumptions to my search for mates. To begin with, I haven’t been making any distinction as to whether I should be seeking a short-term or long-term sex partner. That’s low-percentage shootin’, Tex.

Worst of all, it appears I’m deviating severely from my cohort. If I want more women in my bed (and who doesn’t?), it’s pointless to hunt for the intelligent, sober and alert among the distaff set.

If I’m going to score even more, I need to spend more time around women of limited intelligence - at bookstores where 50 Shades of Grey is sold, or perhaps at Fox News.

I need to hang out in places where women get plastered, such as Irish wakes, Australia, and wherever Kathie Lee Gifford is these days. And I never even thought about looking for women who were rubbing their breasts. That’s a pretty big oversight on my part!

In my writing, I’m well known not only for my perspicacity, but also for my verbosity. But I’m going to have to cut this post uncharacteristically short. I have to run now. I had one of my own research staff cross-reference women between 25 and 45 (okay, maybe 50) who purchase large volumes of Goldschläger, Ambien, and tube dresses, and who watch Jay Leno. I’m off on the trail of the dumb, drunken, sleepy, slutty women I’ve never dreamed of.

Now saying odd things on Twitter: http://twitter.com/mantalknow

An Anus in an Airline Lounge

Mon, 21 May 2012 16:05:29 -0400

Upon entering an airline lounge, the first thing I do is secure a seat – as far from the door and in as private a setting as possible. The second thing I do is visit the bar, pour myself a glass of red wine and a glass of water, and return them to the small bit of soft leather temporary sovereignty I’ve seized for myself.

The third thing I do is scout the territory. It’s instinctive behavior for a wolf, or for a businessman. Depending on the current local population, there may be opportunities in the vicinity. Or there may be threats. It’s good to know if I’m sharing space with friends, contacts, adversaries or enemies.

Recently I took a stroll through the plush, hushed confines of a very fine lounge, alert to familiar faces. The place smelled of pricy perfumes and colognes, stinky French cheeses and immense self-satisfaction. I felt right at home.

My circuit nearly complete, and a little disappointed I hadn’t recognized anyone I could grin at in friendship or hatred, I came finally to the business center. A dozen people were clicking away before the monitors. Some were editing PowerPoint slides. Others were feeding their Facebook addiction. And one man was peering closely at his web mail, opening, scanning and closing message after message.

On the screen, I recognized the name of the email recipient. He was very well-known internationally. A top HIV/AIDS researcher and academic. I’d met him once, briefly, at a conference in Europe. A good man, and a brilliant one.

Oddly enough, however, the man at the computer was not the man I’d met. Someone was doing some unauthorized snooping. This presented a dilemma. Or, perhaps, an opportunity for fun. I stood behind the gentleman and considered for a moment.

A quick glance at the airline tag on the fellow’s briefcase gave me his name. Google and my Blackberry told me he was an analyst with one of the big investment banks in New York.

Click! went the photo application on my phone, at which sound the man spun round in his swivel chair.

“Hello!” I said, enthusiastically, extending my hand. “It’s Mark, isn’t it? You’re a biotechnology analyst, aren’t you?”

He gazed at my Blackberry, glanced back at the computer screen, then stood, flustered and suddenly pale. “Uh… yeah, yeah,” he stammered, shaking my hand. “You… do I… have we met?”

“No, no,” I told him, “I’m not in your field. But I do have some investments through your firm. You sure are diligent, Mark. Working in the lounge and all.”

“Yeah, you know…”

“If I could just…” I began, then pushed Mark backwards a couple steps with a palm on his chest. I commandeered the computer mouse, made a few clicks, and the web mail account disappeared. “There. That’s better.”

“Hey!” he objected, grabbing my arm.

I yanked my arm back and turned to face him. “You know, I can understand why you’d be reading confidential emails about clinical drug trials. Lots of useful inside information there. But I don’t get why you’d want to read messages from his wife. That’s just downright creepy, Mark.”

“Who are you?” he wanted to know.

“I’m nobody, Mark. I’m just a businessman. I’m good with email, though, so I’ll send our researcher friend and your bosses a copy of this photo,” I said, returning my Blackberry to its holster and patting it.

He was quiet, staring at me. “You don’t want to do this, you know,” he said finally. “I’ll find out who you are.”

“I’m sure you will,” I smiled.

“I’ll sue the fucking pants off you.”

“Then you’ll meet my friend Robert,” I replied. “He’s an attorney. He’s terrifying and very cruel. You’ll lose, but at least you’ll become really famous.”

“Listen…”

“Airline security should be here any minute, Mark,” I bluffed, looking at my watch.

Mark looked daggers at me for a few more seconds, then bent to retrieve his briefcase and carry-on, and fled.

I returned to my comfortable seat in the lounge, and pulled out my Blackberry again to search for some email addresses that would help me mess up Mark’s life.

I took a sip of red wine and chuckled to myself. I’d made a new enemy. I love airline lounges.

Now saying odd things on Twitter: http://twitter.com/mantalknow

To Fill the Lady's Empty Space

Sat, 19 May 2012 21:05:50 -0400

There’s usually someone I can call. Home in New York, or in a steadily growing roster of cities on different continents, there’s a number or email or Skype I can click. But still I get lonely sometimes. And sometimes I prefer it that way. Sometimes lonely isn’t the worst thing.

Singapore is a strange place. I’m a capitalist, and many of my creed consider Singapore a near-paradise. I’m not so sure. I find the city-state somewhat lacking in democracy, and unkind to its Indian resident guest workers. I’m always treated well in Singapore, but I can’t overcome a certain lingering discomfort when I visit.

And then there’s that inescapable sense of dislocation you feel when you’re far from home and the familiar. I don’t know about you, but it makes me more eager than usual to reach out for comfort and human contact.

Ellie is a lot like me. She lives out of a suitcase. She knows the best and worst of airlines and hotels and cities like this one.

And sometimes she gets lonely. I know because she told me over dinner.

Ellie is older than I am, in her 40s. She’s pretty and smart, and I admire her choices of clients and projects – and suits and dresses. The time it took for me to notice her was measured in fractions of no time at all.

We found ourselves thrust together as speakers at the same conference on developing market investments. And we found ourselves simpatico on economic projections and ethical imperatives. I liked this woman immediately. She was… good.

Dinner was Malay food, which is to be found in quantity and great quality in Singapore. The wine was New Zealand for white and Australia for red, with all the delight that implies. The conversation was crisp and fast and exciting. Kindred spirits leaned closer over the small table. Intimacy.

I knew the moment was shifting from one thing to another. Of course I did. I had been wearing my charming hat. I had shared the things I believe, in business and in life. In my comfort with Ellie, I had drawn back the curtain just a tad, to reveal a hint of the man behind the suit, the carefully-conducted interviews and the biography.

I had sensed opportunity. I had switched to a different mode. I had listened with sympathy and without comment to stories about her boyfriend and his insufficiencies. My smile when she smiled was wide, white and bright, and signaled interest. My body became languid and close, and easy to touch.

I knew where this was going, and I was excited. My waiting hotel room was tidy. A bottle of why not? was chilling on the bar.

I put dinner on my card and visited the men’s room. I washed the heat off my face, gazed at the mirror and smiled handsomely at myself.

And I didn’t like the way I looked. My face didn’t look right to me. I shook my head and headed back to the table to collect her.

I smiled and chuckled as Ellie chatted at me, her face flushed and her hand on mine in the taxi back to the hotel, but I didn’t hear what she said. I felt vaguely ill. And angry. Conflicted.

Why the hell not? Why not, damn it?

I didn’t cause the problems. I didn’t create that empty space.

I made my choice – my choice for both of us - in the elevator. It’s not the choice I’d have made in the past. I haven’t figured out all the whys and wherefores.

I have more choices to make, and they stretch well beyond this gilded city and a soft and sweet woman I met here. I have decisions to make. I imagine they won’t be made any easier by seeking hours of comfort with a woman who has her own decisions to make.

I pressed the elevator buttons for Ellie’s floor and for mine. I hugged her and kissed her cheek, and she held my hand just a little too long when she stepped off. I met her eyes just a little too long as the doors closed.

We each swiped our key cards into rooms filled with lonely, and it’s better that way.

Now saying odd things on Twitter: http://twitter.com/mantalknow

Four Hours Ago. And Now.

Sun, 1 Apr 2012 02:04:29 -0400

Now is harder to grasp. Now is difficult. I just don’t know. Do you?

Four hours ago was a world its own. The slow, slow dance in mist rosy warm.

The kiss, kiss, unhurried sounding wet. The fingers and the lips. Lips with time endless and endless soft.

Rise and rise and move. Touch and touch and thrill and fill.

That was then, and then was so clear.

Then was a moment and a signal and a destiny. A victory.

A flag raised. A salute thumping a score and once.

Parties positioned, pawns played, splayed. A parade, a parade of passion. We were plenipotentiary.

We were plenipotentiary.

So long, four hours.

We were plenipotentiary. Independent. Power. Unconstrained.

We, unconstrained.

And now. Four hours. Only four.

Now, something different, perhaps?

Now, eyes clearer or veiled anew?

Morning is rushing, rushing to. A kind light, not harsh, I pray.

Now saying odd things on Twitter: http://twitter.com/mantalknow

The Sad Cock-eyed Shriek of a Man Who's No Chef

Tue, 13 Mar 2012 01:03:23 -0400

Scotch bonnets are peppers,

Of heat and delight,

I treasure in dishes

Spiced fierce and just right.

As chef I’m but average

Bereft of the gift.

But food was expected!

I’d whip it up swift.

A girl was arriving,

Expecting to eat.

To feed the young lady

Should be no great feat.

A penne with sausage.

So simple to make.

In chopping the veggies

I made my mistake.

The mushrooms were easy.

The shallots were, too.

But dicing the peppers

Would cause my miscue.

Some soap and warm water

Was all I required

I simply forgot this,

And then this transpired.

I went to the washroom,

My friend in my hand,

Without a quick rinse, and

Found Hell to withstand.

Eyes wide in sheer horror!

Hot tears drenched my cheek.

I shouted bad words,

And I started to freak!

Capsaicin! Capsaicin!

How could I forget?

But now my red visage

Was dripping with sweat.

The shrieking and dancing

Helped me not at all

But the lesson I learned

I’ll always recall.

Wash your hands, silly man.

That chemical burns.

Save your sensitive parts

For carnal concerns.

And if all else should fail,

Ignominious ass,

Immerse your poor penis

In milk, in a glass.

Now saying odd things on Twitter: http://twitter.com/mantalknow