R. Sachs

Something about the fact that each of us is the product of several billion years of successful reproduction tempts me to believe that there is a kind of providence at work in mating. That for each of us, our perfect mirror exists. For the fat, the ugly, the hopeless, the deranged there is their compensatory fetishist and mate. Me, I’m lazy—or something like it. I have my interests, but I pursue them with the intensity of one watching goldfish. I think about having a perfect sex life, what it might be like, how it work, but I do little to make it a reality. Do I really want to spend that much time brushing my teeth, washing my hair and combing my pubes? And so I have fallen into a kind of romantic complacency—a sort of challenge to the women of the world that they will have to be more desirable than a night alone, or I will remain, prized gem, undiscovered.