Over the weekend, I perused a February issue of Glamour as a smiley, gap-toothed Thai man painted my digits “second honeymoon” pink. Wet-nailed and incapacitated, I read an article entitled something like “why men cheat.” Yes, that old thing again. There were references to the usual suspects—Tiger Woods, namely; we were not yet in the season of Jesse James. I left the salon prettied and slightly perturbed by the discussion of men cheating as a biological imperative. The article, which had cavemen marching across the top if I remember correctly through my acetone haze, discussed how many generations of non-straying men it would take to irradiate the cheating gene. Now, I guess I don’t go expecting progressive views in the guise of hot pink how-to tips. But the idea that men are hard-wired for cheating still seems awfully arcane. Is cheating not a choice? A learned behavior, perchance? Ah well, perhaps in divorce court Jesse can implore that his DNA made him do it, right after confessing that the dog ate his conscience. Sandra will just have to plead bad taste. We’ve all been there—“second honeymoon” pink is already making me nauseous.
On a side note, check out this article on the Fifth Annual Good for Her Feminist Porn Awards. I dig it.
Am off to purchase Sallie Tisdale’s Talk Dirty to Me