I'm taking a break from my story on this momentous occasion. The Supreme Court, in its vast, unfathomable wisdom has just overturned fifty years of previous wisdom and relegated the role of women in society to baby-making machines. I thought at first this might forcibly increase our population quite a bit, on an obviously overburdened planet. But in their wise foresight they've loosened gun control laws earlier this week, so I'm sure it will all balance out perfectly, the increase in births and the mass slayings of children in schools. There's a logic in their thinking that evades the best efforts of us lesser beings. It must be the majesty of the gowns they wear and their regal surroundings that elevate them, and the noble task conferred upon them, to steer mankind (and womankind) on its course into our bright future.

But lest we forget our old, retrogressive views of women, I'll throw in this essay I wrote a few years ago, in those dark ages, the latter parts of which address the formerly complex issues that have now been clarified, or 'Clarencefied'.   

The greatest mystery to man:

How is it that a supposedly rational creature, an adult man, will follow a woman he is in love with, down a path, at her suggestion, that leads to certain ruin?

This is the mystery of love and sex, skewered thinking, not seeing the obvious. But it also involves our nobler traits, the ideal of love, the desire for a permanent union with another, however much self-sacrifice and effort that may entail, devotion to a lost cause to the end, like a fate one can’t and doesn’t want to escape, like Adam following Eve out of Paradise, after he was given the choice to stay.

On a much smaller scale I did the same with my wife, Sanita, following her wherever she asked, Upper Lake, Dallas, Saint Croix, Seattle, Puerto Rico, places far from ‘Eden’, almost every corner of North America. Yet I followed her, blindly, everywhere.

It wasn’t sex. It was convoluted love, memories of our honeymoon years mixed with hopes they might possibly return, and a growing care for our child, just as he grew, and at all costs to be nurtured and protected.

As for sex, I was half resigned to a bland future. I’d experienced too many surprises in the female psychology concerning it, (so opposite a man’s straightforward desire for simple gratification). It was disconcerting to me in its complexity, and deeply troubling, a total mystery.

What was is with the ‘goodbye sex’ with Christina and Annie and Laurel? In the first two it was a goodbye kiss you would never receive if you weren’t going away. With Laurel it was a ‘thank you’ gift, wild, animal lust the first night, O.K. the second, benign the third and dead the fourth in a remarkably romantic setting.

To top it off, this disturbing experience repeated itself with my wife. It was New Year’s Eve. We splurged in a fine hotel, eating, dancing and starting to kiss, drinking bottle after bottle of Champagne. Well past midnight she led me by the hand, (I could hardly walk) to our suite and king-sized bed where we made love for the very first time. I know my performance was below par, half-sick from the altitude and the polluted air of Mexico City, and pronounced inebriation. But for her it was ecstatic, with wailing, screaming orgasms, again and again, all through the half hour it lasted, which kept me awake enough to keep going.

The next morning as we put her on the plane and boarded ours, I recall thinking she must be the best lover ever, the horniest woman on Earth and I the luckiest man, as she’d be returning to me in a month, to my plush apartment, for fine dining and pleasure trips and every whim or treat or entertainment she might desire.

That’s what we did every day. We visited tourist attractions, Fisherman’s Warf, the hills and shops of San Francisco, the warehouse and all my friends. It was all talk and delightful new places and people for her. And I was equally happy as her tour guide to such scenes. I saw the happiness in her smiles and shared in her delight. It was my mission. Then at night, fully satiated with the day’s adventures, we cuddled in bed and talked about the fine day. But when the lights went out and it came to sex, she was agreeable but muted in response, with sometimes a whimper of a faint orgasm, just one step above being bored.

The difference was, between her and all my previous would be loves, was that we lasted long enough to want and have a child, create a human life, a deed incomparably greater than any sensual gratification.

But this change in mood puzzled me to no end. It revolved constantly in my mind. At first I thought, as any decent, cultured man would, that perhaps something had changed in me. But I knew my efforts were unchanged, open and eager to please.

I thought of Dale, where there was never any change over time, and the sex mutually enjoyed on the tenth or twentieth repetition, even more so, promising a bright future, an endless source of free, mutual gratification increasing our love, and always improved by the elevating enthusiasm of the other party, her libido increasing my own.

But I realized I couldn’t compare her to Sanita and didn’t want to. That love was doomed by Dale’s mentality, her lost youth and the drug frenzy that came with it, soon to engulf her like a maelstrom, with me hanging on for the crazy ride. Perhaps her frequent sexual advances were doled out in desperation, like a last chance she might ever have, the last whistle of a departing train. And she made the most of it, one final fling, with all her energy, as if a ‘goodbye girl’, about to disappear.

So my first conjecture was that women are so framed by nature that they are driven, overpowered, by ideas built up in their imaginations about themselves and the men they bed, thoughts that have an erotic side that recur with growing intensity until it reaches a fever pitch of lust and climax, much like a Harlequin romance. But after the encounter takes place that scenario is fulfilled, finished, closed just like a paperback, and the man, like one of those male spiders the female kills after intercourse, is of no more sexual concern to them, a has-been, as they move on to their next romantic encounter.

Men are dull, simple, unimaginative beasts. Sex to them is a repeated lust and act, always the same, done within minutes, their hunger satiated and not to return until they are hungry again, with no stray worries or thoughts in between. Some are happy with the same roast beef and potatoes every meal, and go to sleep full and content.

Others might chase after more variety, more dishes. But it’s still much the same. When full we’re happy, nod off and sleep, our minds about as busy as the act of snoring.

Women, on the other hand are far more complex creatures with a thousand concerns that men never dream of. For them sex is the very possible chance of procreation, of pregnancy and growing another life inside them for nine months, a life that is in every way a part of them, their own duplication, which they can’t ignore, ever.

It’s a life changing event, a defining fact, and their choice in finding a proper mate to contribute to this parenthood is immensely complicated, where any mistake would be disastrous, wound their heart and self-esteem, destroy the best, short years of their prime, putting them at a huge disadvantage in a second or third go-around, with a child in tow, financial burdens, fading looks, lost appeal and an ever smaller pool of older men they might attract. So their first choice is crucial.

That’s why I think most intelligent women fantasize and dwell to distraction on the perfect mate for themselves, to a desperate degree, imagining their perfect lover and husband. When they meet you in a bar or anywhere else, they have a huge hierarchy of expectations and qualifications tallying through their heads, like a hundred page check list, running through something like the latest Mac Pro computer at lightning speeds, while the man’s brain is operating on something like an old X.T. from the eighties, staring at her tits, open-mouthed, trying to guess their size.

That’s the difference. And when the woman jumps into bed with you, her fantasies in full play, she has screaming orgasms, full of hope. You’re her avatar. But those illusions quickly vanish with the rising sun, your blemishes, your awkward exchanges, as your character unfolds and a prospect rife with holes. She sees it in your habits, your untidiness and other little irritants and the complaints you murmur, and your poverty, not only of money but of character and brains and charisma.

So the dream evaporates and over the next days the sex plummets down from the clouds to the ditch, with dirty sheets, body odors, lackluster, predictable foreplay and sex with a being you can barely tolerate, your hopes shattered, lying dejected on your back, staring at the ceiling, wondering at either your bad luck or bad choices and your sad future, this horrendous mistake, your legs barely parted, all your thoughts bent on escape. All this while the man has no clue of the momentous epiphanies going through your head. He wonders at your apathy, goes to the bathroom for some mouthwash, returns and is peeved at your disinterest in him.

This is the only way I can account for Laurel and Sanita’s and even Diane’s response in bed with me, this radical decline in sexual interest. It even happens to a lesser degree with sport sex, with condoms and contraceptives. Because women are always searching, looking for this ideal mate, while men don’t, happy with any pretty face and body.

Women have to be more resourceful in our society because they are more dependent on men, paid less, burdened with babies and judged by their ‘better half’ in every social setting. I envy the woman who can rise above these prejudices and disadvantages and free her mind for better pursuits, like enjoying the life of a full human being, unshackled from society’s restraints.

I bless my stars for being born a man. I enjoyed a carefree, youthful, gigolo life with women for seven year, though I was never thoughtless or inconsiderate to them. They never matched one-fifth my interest in books and great authors and poetry, which taught me to respect people and reverence love.

When I first chose to hook up with Sanita I thought she could be my mate in life and was already thinking of fatherhood. But being cautious by nature, I told her we should live a year together and see how it went before we made that momentous decision. She agreed.

Unfortunately, neither of us ever used protection, She found herself pregnant a few months after we moved to Norma's. I was still working and it was dangerous and premature. She cried quite a bit but decided to go through with an abortion which I too, reluctantly wished.

It was just too soon. We barely knew one another and I had told her that we'd be going to Europe when I was finished with business by summer, for an unknown length. So I took her to a clinic and it was done, very early, with no complications. The second time she became pregnant I had to agree, and by then, though not exactly a year, I was ready too.

I've never had a problem with the procedure and know it's criminal and barbaric for man to deny it to women. It classes them as slaves. It's always been given the stamp of religions but it smacks of patriarchy. Catholics and Muslims are the worst. Women are chattel and treated as such, sub-humans the man may rape even get away with killing. I don't know why these women go to church. 

Yet they often become the most devout in those religions, through indoctrination and gullibility, weakness made weaker.

I always thought that Mao's one child rule was wise. And it did repair the problem. If women are meant to only have as many children as possible then logically, they should be forced to have sex every night, and to carry this mathematical goal a bit further, from the age of thirteen to sixty.

That gives them one function in life, bearing and raising, and it's not a life, it's a roadblock to becoming a human being, man's stupid, dick inspired reasoning to justify frequent sex, church approved. There are enough people, too many, for this world to sustain, so we are ruining the future existence for all animal life.

I sometimes wish that anti-abortionist women, with all their slogans, end up with an unexpected pregnancy that interrupts all the dreams they had for their lives, careers, chains them to a man they dislike, who they know will be a bad father. Anti-abortionist men are just dick-wads. And when the Catholic church denies priests wives, they bugger little boys, frequently. Who can't see this?

And where there are no restraints, look at Africa and all the starving children.

I was only blind in the choice of my partner. But that took years to find out. Our first years were happy and our child the best part of my life. But the female psychology I will never understand.

I wrote this two years ago as a little philosophical interlude while composing my autobiography. I still haven't fathomed the female mind and doubt I will someday.

But now matters have been made easier for them. They have no choice, a state mandated decision that's final. This takes a huge load off their teeming thoughts, and puts it right in their bellies. I wonder if Clarence Thomas will to prevail in his agenda of banning contraceptives, same-sex and inter-racial marriages. The news agencies say this is the logical progression of a conservative Supreme Court and the pro-life movement, and our swift return to the fifties of the last century, (except of course in the matter of a healthy Earth and the existence of a middle-class.)

But they also mentioned 'segregation'. I wonder which way he can possibly turn on that knotty question. In their infinite wisdom I'm sure his fellow justices will come up with something.

This world-changing decision has revitalized my interest in watching the news. I have to thank them for that. Never a dull moment.