It is an eternal question that men don’t really want answered. Why don’t girls know how guys are? Why don’t they understand how sexual we are? There are a couple parts to these questions. Is it that girls don’t know how guys are or that they don’t know to what extent?

The male existence is an endless drive for hip thrusts into…well, anything female, really. Of course, I speak for myself, but I’m pretty damn sure most of this goes for the testosterone pumped among the species.

I still find it quite humorous to imagine even the most asexual among us doing the hip-thrust (a-la Arnold Poindexter) in the presence of any mammary laden human being. I’m reminded of such examples when I’m near the most non-sexual of men; indeed, arguably repulsive, but at least loved by some woman since before his current, deplored condition. This guy…approximately 45 years old, curly hair, balding slightly so that his forehead meets the peak of his cranium, average height, fat, total douchebag to talk to (come on, we all know what kind of people are douche bags), likes to show up wearing a bandana tied over his pathetic hairline…notices the scrumptious piece o’ ass on the telly that I’ve been admiring for the last few minutes and exclaims the baby-boomer equivalent of “dude, holy shitballs, check that out!” On that level every man is united. If I hear a guy—and not even in whatever group I’m standing among—say the calm and yet distinct utterance, “dude…”, all in earshot perk to surveillance mode. We all know that “…dude…” means there is tail among us. It could be as simple as a very quick bump of the head; a half inch nod of approval during eye contact where the eyes jut to the side indicating where to look for some tasty, female, adrenaline spike.

Total strangers, men, walk nearby in the same direction, passed by even the most modestly dressed and completely average of builds, and both turning simultaneously to get a second look at her ass, will regain composure and essentially give the unspoken glance to one another meaning, “…dude, that was hot” as if to extend a fist met by the others fist. Sexuality for all females is the bond between men. It is not sports. Sports is news. Sports is like talking weather to a stranger except it is far less visceral and easy to communicate with words. If men could talk about how they feel sexually about women in casual, ‘I don’t know who you are’, conversation, we would. It is about all we would talk about. Except, it isn’t verbal.

The sex drive is like no other. I don’t think—no, I know I could not—ever put into words the extent that sex drives me. I know it is the same for most men. We are so driven that it is the only end that any means could justify. I mean, it isn’t the “end of all ends” but it is the only one that holds such enormous significance physically and mentally, whether we like it or not, that any man would disobey his strongest principals to hear the siren song. The allure is enough to force a man to assess whether or not he could make any obstacle to the goal disappear. “I love my girlfriend but this is…”. I can’t justify it but it is real. My girlfiend, bless her soul, appears to understand. I’m cursed with blunt and frank honesty. “Listen, I would have you bent over every piece of furniture in this house every day if, one, I didn’t feel like I was taking advantage of you; two, I felt like exercising every time I wanted to get off; and three, what I’m not willing to put out in the open, I didn’t want to fuck a hundred times more girls than just you.” I don’t care how devoted to your girl/wife you are, you want to spread that seed as thin as possible. “You, you, and you. Get your skinny asses over here and suck this cock.” And the end of that extraordinary day you come home and say to yourself, “Please God, don’t ever let me lose the love of my life.” Because, you see, we don’t want to hurt anyone. We, as men, don’t have any choice but to be driven by an insanely persistent and powerful force to have sex with as many women as we can possibly convince, deceive, pay, or force. But few of us actually want to lose the mainstay of our emotional existence. If any of us could have our ideal situation, it would be that we could taste the nectar of any peach, test the tenderness of any melon, smell the scent of any blossomed flower, and enjoy the warm, loving embrace of the woman that we love. It is exactly that, without modification, that any man truly wants. We don’t have a choice in that. Girls are pretty, even the ugly ones.

I would never cheat. It is a matter of principle. I love my girl. She is the best girl I have ever known and I am convinced “beyond a shadow of a doubt” that there is no other girl on the planet for me. No joke. She is THE one. But should I end up on a business trip and a beautiful woman, even quite modestly beautiful, perhaps with a big ol’ ass that ripples with a good smack from the side as I pile-drive behind it, a little flatness to the cleavage indicating how many years gone since the perk has abandoned those boobies, but a cute face and an aggressive posture toward experiencing my masculinity dripping sweat above her, make obvious advances at hooking up with me, I’d really have to consult the devil and the angel about how I should proceed. You see, these things just don’t happen to the willing when the situation actually is appropriate. How often does a man find himself in a situation when a woman wants to scratch the only itch he so, insanely, needs scratched right here and now? A man feels that itch constantly and ever since he began feeling the itch he has come to terms with the fact that relief is not going to come from the plethora of feminine analgesic that surrounds him. Women are not driven like men; probably for the better. There are too many people on this planet to have both parties hell-bent on reproduction—or at least enacting conditions that facilitate it.

What does age have to do with any of this? Honestly, perfection will bring a tear to my eye but a flawed woman will draw the same. How I do love small tits. How that bit of swell on the outside of the thighs sets my loins on fire. How I love it when a woman shows a bit of cleavage or sits across the way in a skirt, legs crossed, smelling like some supernatural flower. Mmm, it is like a freshly lit barbeque on a Saturday evening before you’ve satisfied your hunger. Let me get a taste of that! But it is a different allure than the spring flower with the book bag slung over her shoulder and the ridiculous MTV-inspired worldview. She has breasts at attention, burgeoning into the new frontier of my palms. Soft, tight skin, unaffected by years of vegetating in a cubicle chair to which she is destined. Her naiveté is ripe for my devastatingly, deceptively mature and sophisticated pessimism. She says, “He’s so fresh; so unlike anyone I’ve ever dated; so confident.” Of course, any girl that says that to me is wise ahead of her time since most misinterpret fearless, shameless, showy, ignorance as confidence; none of which is who I am able to be. Nevertheless, whatever this spring chicken is willing to chase down into my manufactured rabbit hole (into Wonderland, of course) is all I’m after. Who foresees long term emotional bonding with a girl that hasn’t had boobs for more than a few years? That’s what young girls do, right? And eventually they turn thirty and suddenly start looking my way. “You’re such a great man” they say as they eyeball the calendar for the point-of-no-return if they ever want kids. Ignore my Sinicism. I found my girl. I just didn’t bang enough individually or at once before I met her. Regardless, I don’t know if I could have ever had enough anyway.

How do women get a voice in such a world? Well, how do I treat women in life? I’m a liberal guy, in case you didn’t figure it out by the rest of the writing on this site. I don’t have any misconceptions about what a woman can and can’t do (or “should and should not do” if you are ign’ant). If my boss’ boss’ boss is female, I’m not surprised in any way. Now if you ask me to judge her character before I meet her, then I have to go with “ballbuster” as my first guess. And this is solely based on the fact that men are naturally the aggressive humans in this world and that competitive women require a disposition beyond that of her horny counterparts if she wants to get ahead. Outside of the executive levels of our corporate world, what about your average woman? How does she exist in a world where, well, men exist? Honestly, I deal with women as if sex had nothing to do with our interaction, all the while sex is pushing violently for me to admire their features sexually. Boobs feed babies but I’ll never be able to take the American sexuality out of mammaries.

How do men deal with women? Purely speculation, of course, but women, one, must not know what is going on in men’s heads (or to what insane extent); two, men are not acting on their impulses as they truly, honestly, intently wish to; and three, men are driven by control, money, competitiveness as a response to their chemical disposition. These conditions all go together, though. A man is driven by his insane desires but overrides them with sympathy, empathy, respect, humility, and competing desires. Most guys have a dual idea of women: the woman he wants to have sex with and the one he is having sex with. For the one he wants, we all want. When she walks past, we men look at each other, bighting knuckles, muttering the words, “…dude, did you see that.” And then there is the girl we are having sex with. We love our girlfriends. We need that unity; the pair bond. We are emotional creatures, after all. And the familiarity with our favorite girl’s vagina means we can treat them differently. We can treat them like the women whose vaginas we cannot ever be familiar with because of it. And really, the only other classification of women is those we don’t want to have sex with. Besides that, all is fair game.

So what about the receptionist? What about the store clerk, the engineer, the paper-pusher, the mother, the neighbor, the audience member, the patron? It is all live and let live. I’m not going to try to have sex with you (which involves a whole lot of money and time if it isn’t your only goal). I’m only going to imagine having sex with you, however detailed or brief that mental picture might be. And if you keep showing me your legs, cleavage, and ass, I’ll keep peeking when I get the chance. But that’s it. I respect your words, ideas, and decisions like any random man: be quite, pay attention, drive faster, and get out of my way. I kid. Really the idea is just that life goes on. We do what we do and all the while I admire the female body in a graphically sexual manner.