Tuesday, November 01, 2005
"Vive les hommes!" shouted Chérie from her window over the chaussée, as the Parade of Perfect Men marched by, a regular feature of November's first day, the Day of the Saints. The crowd of watching women emitted "Oooohs" and "Ahhhhs" at the meaty masculinity they saw. The men were clean cut and clean shaven, bathed and clothed in fresh underwear. They were empathic and macho in just the needed blend, musculous but not over-hormonized, perfect pets for playful ladies. The women observed, ciphered, decided, and pulled their choices from the synchronized columns of movement. The latter day sexual revolution had made this the norm for dating, but unfortunately the sanitized synthesis of Superman and Mr. Clean lacked desire for what it called the strength-sapping suicides of carnal intimacy. It took at least three specimens to leave a woman satisfied, and that never worked because once three of these men got together, they invariably began a good, clean game of poker.