Tired Of Sex

I listened to the latest This American Life compilation last Sunday, on the drive back from Minneapolis. Right around the time I exited the highway for some snack mix and cheese curds, I heard "Infinite Gent", an interview with a man who used to be a woman. He spoke about life before and after massive doses of testosterone:

Before testosterone, I would be riding the subway...and I would see a woman on the subway and I would think, "She's attractive. I'd like to meet her. What's that book she's reading? I could talk to her. This is what I would say..." It would be a narrative -- a stream of language. It would be very verbal.

After testosterone, there was no narrative. There was no language whatsoever. ...I would see a woman who was attractive -- or not attractive, she would have an attractive quality, you know, nice ankles or something and the rest of her would be fairly unappealing to me. But that was enough to, basically, just flood my mind with aggressive pornographic images, just one after another. It was like being in a pornographic movie house in my mind, and I couldn't turn it off...

...I remember walking up 5th Avenue. There was a woman walking in front of me and she was wearing this little skirt and this little top, and I was looking at her ass, and I kept saying to myself, "Don't look at it! Don't look at it!" and I kept looking at it. I walked past her, and this voice in my head kept saying, "Turn around and look at her breasts! Turn around! Turn around!" My feminist, female background kept saying, "Don't you dare, you pig! Don't turn around!" You know, I fought myself for a whole block, and then I turned around and checked her out.

It's a stunning interview in all, but that part of the conversation was particularly striking -- it seems to excuse men from our tendencies to leer, to shrug it off as a matter of biology. This kind of evidence -- the smoking gun of testosterone -- might upset some women who argue the issue is behavioral, or a matter of discipline. Certainly, staring at breasts and wagging tongues are the result of both biology and will. I wonder, though, would women be more sympathetic to these actions if they knew how exhausting our behavior is? Or how discouraging it can be?

Take two examples from yesterday. (Note how far back I need to go to find TWO examples.) I was out with three other gentlemen, and our first stop was at a Kansas City casino, where cocktail waitresses dress like showgirls. One waitress stood with her back to us, taking a table's drink orders. She looked great, but we couldn't see her front.

"I'm trying to see if this chick is hot."
"Don't. You're going to be disappointed."
"I just saw - it's disappointing."
"I told you."
"Are you sure? I can't see. That guy's blocking my view."
"Oh! I just saw. Disappointing."
"Really? Are you sure?"

I was sure. There was nothing ugly about the woman, but her face could not meet the expectations that her body provoked. I was disappointed, but hardly surprised, because the same pathetic little scene plays out dozens of times each week of my life. Jogger on the sidewalk. Driver in the rearview mirror. Woman pushing the shopping cart. Every stranger that appears to be female is a target to be assessed, and 90% of the targets are appraised incorrectly.

I can't stress enough how discouraging this is, for most every glimpse of hope be crushed by reality over and over again.

I'm now at the point where my will has overcome my biology; to spare myself from disappointment, I'm no longer looking at joggers as I drive by, or checking out women in other cars. I've given up. I'm assuming that everyone is not worth seeing. It's hard.

You know how you see someone who's got an arm in a cast, or a missing leg, or a huge scar across their forehead, and your impulse is to ask, "What the hell happened?" Your mind is racing with possibilities: alligator attack, prison cafeteria riot, angry pimp, etc.? Then the injured person answers with something benign. Sports mishap. Fall.

I got tired of hearing those boring explanations, so I stopped asking altogether, resigned to the fact that the story won't be interesting. Now it's the same way with the possibly sexy stranger just out of view.

Discouragement is only one of testosterone's unwanted side-effects, second to exhaustion, which is illustrated in example #2 from last night's activites. After breaking the bank at the casino, we ventured to Westport for drinks and excitement. We settled in at Harry's, seated at a table facing a busy Westport intersection. Marry / Fuck / Kill: the Star Wars edition wore down, and we were belittled to "Who Would You Do?", starring every female that we spotted outside, moving along the crosswalks and sidewalks. Yes. Yes. Yes. No. Yes. Yes. No. No. Yes, but not the other one. No. No, but yes to the one with the hat. Yes -- no, I think that's a dude. No. Yes. Definitely. No, never. Well, not never. Yes. Yes. Yes.

You may be horrified to learn that this went on for about an hour. Indeed, you may think, "Didn't they have something better to do?" Well, touche. You've made wormsmeat of me. But ladies, have a little empathy. Our simple, testosterone-driven brains are locked into that game, and we men are required to play all day, every day. The only difference between that game at Harry's and, you know, our lives, is that we were thinking out loud on Saturday night.