Cynical Classification of Sexual Partners

Cynical Classification of Sexual Partners

When any thought of cynicism arises, it conjures an image of bitter thirty something divorcees, single alcoholic fathers, or disillusioned old maids. However, this disease is rampant now among "Gen X'ers", and it is certainly no surprise with the miasma of food, cars, money, drugs, and of course sex that assaults early twenties men and women with the frenetic pace of a moving el-train. Yet there is no better example of the reason for American youths cynicism than the meager choice of sex partners in the nineties. The problem is not quantity, but most definitely quality. Sexual partners, especially for women fall into three categories: the mechanical, the sensitive, and the "Oh (My God What Have I Done)." Note, however, that there is essentially no "good" category. Is this an oversight? What do you think?

Mr. Mechanical is tall, suave and polished to fine sheen. He could be wearing anything from loafers and a braided belt to a black leather jacket and combat boots, but you can bet he put more thought into his outfit than you did. His theme song is "I'm Too Sexy," and his opening line is, "Where have I been all your life." You will run into this gem at your local bar, and after buying you several very expensive drinks with a suspiciously high alcohol content, he will you that, "you are the most beautiful woman he's ever seen." At the end of the night, when confronted with your apartment door he breezes in as though he's already been there before. When he opens your refrigerator to make himself a drink, he sees two oranges, leftover pizza, and a jar of mayonnaise, and then asks if you keep the champagne in the freezer. Mr. Mechanical then asks for the "grand tour" of your 800 square f...

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... sounding excuse, such as, you have to train for the iditerod at five A.M., and literally shove him out the door. You're so disgusted by the whole experience, you spend the rest of your life avoiding him, even if this entails transferring schools, quitting your job, or hoping to God that you witness a crime, just so you can join the witness protection program. Of course, he's so distraught by your rejection, he can only find solace the next weekend with your third best friend.

I can only hope, dear reader, that his bitterness and cynicism is not an infectious disease which will latch onto you with all the savageness of a rabid wolf. On the other hand, perhaps you can consider this a timely warning against the mad melee of sexual slackers that make up ninety percent of the male race. The choice is yours, and no, I'm not an angry girl. Whatever gave you that idea?