It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. It is a truth further acknowledged that a married man, perforce in possession of a wife, must be in want of more sex than he is, in fact, getting.
``In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I long for a renewal of our conjugal unions."
And, like Fitzwilliam Darcy, he will be rejected with scorn and derision.
Let's not pursue this literary analogy too far, otherwise we'll find Darcy and Bingley getting it on in a foursome with the two Bennet sisters at the end of the novel and that is certainly NOT going to get made by the BBC. Although ... Jennifer Ehles, Susannah Harker - Jemima Rooper, Morven Christie .... stop it! This is supposed to be a blog, not a
What Jane Austen didn't know - or did know perfectly well, just didn't write about it all that much - is that many marriages are blighted by the natural incompatibility between the libido of the man (unaffected by anything except death) and the libido of the woman (which disappears the moment she's had her kids). It is a cliche well worn with repeated usage.
There does not appear to be an immediate solution to this problem. Sending one's wife a spreadsheet of all the times she's rejected his wiles and the excuses she gave on each occasion is probably not a great way to resolve the incompatibility - this actually happened by the way. She might be tempted to respond with an annual performance appraisal of such poor quality - including a very small number of times at which she's reached the A grade - that he's probably not going to get a rise any time in the foreseeable future. These are not the bases of sound negotiations.
To bring the discussion more up to date, there have been a number of recent internet memes suggesting that a woman's mind is not unlike an internet browser of your choice with 2,573 tabs open all at once. A man's mind, by contrast, has but two tabs open - one for the thing they're actually doing and the other with pictures of naked women on it. This means that there's a 1 in 2 chance of a man being ready for action immediately (and a 100% chance of it taking only 30 seconds to close the other tab) but a 1 in 2,573 chance of a woman being so focused. This brings us into the world of probability and professional gambling - people who know all about odds.
As is customary in these blogs, here's a non sequitur: Is it the same for gay men? Heterosexual men - to a man- will admit to being interested in, or but one small step from being interested in, sex all the time. Is it the same for gay men? If so, it's a wonder they ever get out of the house.
Anyway, back to trackside and the bookies. How do you shorten odds like 2573 to 1?
Well, doping is the obvious choice. Alcohol has been tried for centuries. There's the semi-mythical Spanish Fly. It was suggested at some point that porn for women involved men voluntarily doing housework. The men I've surveyed have emphatically debunked that fairy tale.
Another option might be to reduce the weight - take away some of the handicap by closing some of those browser windows for her. Take care of the washing. Pick up the kids from school. Sort out their homework and their notes. Getting closer? Not on your life! Did you ever see that clip from Fantasia in which Mickey Mouse is trying to get rid of the brooms he's magically created by chopping them up only to find the bits spawning new brooms behind him? It's like that. Close one tab and three more will pop up in it's place.
Competition often brings out the best in us. A little more talent on the track might shorten the odds to a wonderful degree. Or, it will lead to the competitor being kicked to death in the stables and the jockey being firmly and painfully thrown to the ground in the mounting yard.
Honestly, if I knew the answer to this conundrum, I'd not only be making good money at the track but I'd be selling the ultimate self-help book as well.
Or maybe my analogy is flawed.
Or maybe I'm just flogging .... a dead horse.
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