I am, apparently, destined never to have a day off again. (Sighs.) I really tried this time, too.
Which reminds me, I need a manwhore. That’s right: a manwhore. Not a boyfriend, not a partner, not a spouse or a beau. Nope, there’s no time for that. Gotta have the manwhore.
What exactly is a manwhore, you ask? I refer you to an expert:
The manwhore has no shame or scruples, he’s not consumed by romantic ideals of quality which frequently lead to long painful conversations and frustrated desires, with frequent marthon discussions about the meaning of life, of work, of the world. No, the manwhore is concerned with quantity. Does he care that he loses some? Does he go into despair and listen to Bright Eyes? No. He goes out and has fun. And you have fun too. Many aspire to be the manwhore, but it is the Zen state of being: for instance, the serial monogamist is a not quite actualized manwhore--on a lower rung are men who cheat on their girlfriends but can't bear to be alone for more than a few days.
Ah, yes: the manwhore. You know him, don’t you? Sure you do. He’s the one who didn’t overstay his welcome, or borrow money from you, or make you feel guilty for liking sex as much as he does. He didn’t come with a script, or a five-year plan. He made you feel good, even after he was gone.
Hear this: the manwhore will be at the vanguard of the next sexual revolution, which will free us from the shackles of serial monogamy and lead us giddily toward a Reichian utopia of unrestrained carnality.
If you see him, tell him I’m waiting for him at the union office.