Misty Lane

English 1301

Andrade

October 22,1997

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 a conventional sense but he is immediately intriguing. Mr. Sensitive hasn't much to say, he is rather bored with the whole contemptuous affair. His gaze makes you feel as though your emotions and thoughts are written on your forehead in neon. Goaded by a sick sense of self-destruction, you can not help but attempt to draw him out repeatedly(and unsuccessfully). Feeling vaguely dissatisfied and perversely attracted to him, you run into him at a few chance encounters orchestrated of course by yourself. Finally, he gives you his number. When you do call, he spends several nights in a row, talking with you until the sun comes up. He reveals his entire psyche to you with an intense vulnerability that makes him utterly irresistible. The sensitive usually man reveals in these heartfelt conversations that he is either, an alcoholic, broken hearted and lonely, or tragically disillusioned by the world at large. He looks at you as though you can fix him and his wrenching sense of angst. He seems to think your thoughts are incomprehensible, unique and he's finally found hi soul mate. The sexual encounter begins with more promise than the coming of spring. He is an exquisitely attentive lover, not even beginning with his pleasure until you have found yours. He worships every part of your body, while professing his undying love. After this cosmic experience, he holds you all night. This man doesn't stay the night, he stays the weekend. Sounds to good to be true? You should go with that feeling, because Tuesday he calls to tell you that he can never see you again. Apparently, he doesn't deserve to be loved and will only bring you endless pain and suffering. You can almost believe it until you look down at your caller ID box and see that he is calling you from your other best friend's house.

Last and most certainly the least is Mr. Oh (My God What Have I Done). Physically, Mr. Oh can be like Mr. Sensitive or Mr. Mechanical. He has a playful goofiness about him that draws you to him in the first place. Yet Mr. Oh doesn't understand that "needy" is not a heady cologne. He pursues you with the relentlessness of a government assassin seeking JFK. His mounting volume of late night phone calls brings him no shame. This is someone you would be with only if you were on the rebound from a torrid love affair, a recovering drug addict, or grieving for the loss of a close family member. If this is your scenario, you finally consent to the onslaught of his sheer determination. The basic premise of your rationalization is that, he wants you so bad, its got to be good. This mode of thinking, given time to reflect on the act afterwards, will cause you to long with a fiery intensity for a frontal lobe extraction. Mr. Oh is so afraid you'll change your mind, there is no foreplay to speak of. Penetration is immediate, as is the climax five seconds later. It is done quicker than you can say, "Was it good for you?." Then the final humiliation ensues when he rolls away and says, "Next one's yours, babe." You make up a frantic sounding excuse, such as, you have to train for the iditerod at five A.M., and literally shove him out the door. You're so disgusted by the whole experience, you spend the rest of your life avoiding him, even if this entails transferring schools, quitting your job, or hoping to God that you witness a crime, just so you can join the witness protection program. Of course, he's so distraught by your rejection, he can only find solace the next weekend with your third best friend.

I can only hope, dear reader, that his bitterness and cynicism is not an infectious disease which will latch onto you with all the savageness of a rabid wolf. On the other hand, perhaps you can consider this a timely warning against the mad melee of sexual slackers that make up ninety percent of the male race. The choice is yours, and no, I'm not an angry girl. Whatever gave you that idea?