THE PERFECT HANDBAG

Women often complain that we men don't listen. If only they knew.
We actually hear far too much at times, and it disturbs us.
Such as when women talk about men. In public.
Among their girlfriends. In a bar.


BAGS

I was at a drinking establishment the other day smoking my pipe and quietly keeping to myself, near a posse of talkative office-women.  Heels, cleavages, beer and martinis, plus expensive handbags.  Now I finally know what the ladies of downtown San Francisco want in a man.
The ideal man is silent, ever attentive, and has no personality; he does not have opinions that have not been vetted.
And he must spend way more time and money on the woman in his life than absolutely anything else, including his own clothing, sustenance, hobbies, health, and housing. No, not more than any one of those things. More than ALL of those things.
A man who fails at this basic requirement is a loser that no self-respecting downtown office female should hang around with.

Needless to say I disagreed with everything they said. But I wisely kept my mouth shut, as voicing an opinion when so dangerously outnumbered would not have been a good idea, and the 'lively' (i.e. vitriolic) debate that would have resulted from me opening my mouth would have necessitated associating for longer than necessary with these ladies of good breeding, excellent business school backgrounds, and very reasonable expectations.

I do not wish to associate with such.

Or their very reasonable expectations.

They are merely tourists in my world.


They were right about one thing, however. Men always think of sex.

Which is remarkable, given what a loaded and unpleasant subject it is, and what horrible consequences ensue should a man actually engage upon an act of a sexual nature with a person of the opposite gender, or even do so in the company of same. In fact, if a man ever finds a woman who is nice to be with, and a great conversational partner, just an all-round splendid and loveable person, he would be well-advised to never ever even consider having sex with her, as it might ruin everything. Far better for both of them if there is no suspicion of anything sexual about the relationship.
If he strenuously avoids thinking about it, everything is cool.

Women and sex don't ever mix. 

I wish they did, but I'm a realist.

Women never think about sex.  It's a fact.  They can't.  The closest they come is handbags.  Even the idea that a woman might enjoy sex is absurd. They just aren't built that way. Instead of thinking about sex, please think about handbags. Many women do.
The handbag is the perfect accessory. Capacious, elegant, comforting.
It will hold everything an office lady could ever possibly need.
Credit cards. Extra jewelry. Far too much make-up.
Cell-phone. Breath-freshener. Car keys.

As well as another handbag.

Mama bag, baby bag.

Nuclear family.

After they left, I could not keep handbags out of my head. Could not, in fact, stop thinking about their conversation. Normally my mind does not dwell on handbags, or any other purse-like things, and very little occupies my thoughts other than my typical masculine obsession with sex. Why, I think about sex two hundred percent of the time, even when I'm asleep.  I've got a very hetero feel for sex.

[Delicate mounds, rosy aureolas, and delightful nipples, oh yes.  The silken skin of the underpart, the gentle swell of the belly around the wine cup of the navel, the tight triangle of cotton, and the sensitive zones from pit of knee to small of back. Silks, velvets, and downy bits. Mustelids. Lovely toesies and soft warm hands. Smiles and sparkling eyes. Napping.
Holding hands, discrete kisses, affectionate glances, or rubbing noses.
Such things almost always drive any consideration of handbags out of my mind.]

I'm unusual in that regard, as most men also think about baseball, football, and beer, but honestly speaking, there is not a single organized sport that appeals to me.
I'm far too happy thinking about sex. Or handbags. Mostly sex.

Sex, sex, sex, sex, sex, sex, sex, sex!

I spend so much time thinking about sex that I really cannot be bothered with the company of the typical financial district woman, or her cousins who shop at malls and watch the real housewives shows on television. Their variegated and profound conversations, much like discussing baseball or football, would distract me from my pure obsession with sex.

It's an intellectual conceit.

Probably not as good as handbags.


POST SCRIPTUM

This blogger actually knows a few women who are great company. Very real women, with keen insights, who make no demands other than reasonable and thoughtful conversation. If that also yields wit, eloquence, and good cheer with a modicum of whisky (and tobacco or caffeine), so much the better.
Women of character. They seldom, if ever, mention handbags.
I hope their menfolk realize how lucky they are.


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