I can't speak for the whole of my gender, but I may have an idea what the appeal is for me. I think, well, maybe I'd like to be a womanizer. But, y'know, a female version. A Manizer.
Most interesting women I know would love to rule a country or a company, be the magnetic center of every party and sleep with the best-looking people in the room. These women might like to flirt with everything in a jock strap yet receive a forgiving turn of the cheek when they get caught "dipping their wick" in the wrong pot of ink. They might like to be compelling, self-directed, sexually explosive supernovas without being labeled bitches or easy. And who wouldn't want the kind of freedom that allows one to be a self-indulgent scoundrel like David Letterman or a fat, old, mole-covered Jack Nicholson yet still get loads of success and booty?
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So maybe it's Freudian. We don't envy the penis but the privilege attached to it.
When I'm hooked on a guy, the rest of the male population disappears. Someone could offer to slip me inside a Clooney/Denzel Man Sandwich and I'd say, "no thanks, boys, I'm in loooove." Really, I'm not interested in sleeping around and am too faithful to be a Manizer. But I wouldn't mind the other advantages.
In the end, I didn't give Steven my number. But the interaction left me asking a question that's baffled women for ages—how to reap the benefits of life as a womanizer, without having to sleep with one.
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**This post reprinted from Laura K. Warrell's blog Tart and Soul at www.TartandSoul.com.