Sherry Argov
Falli soffrire

She purrs while you stroke her, she enjoys it and gives you five minutes of pure pleasure that make you feel good. You close your eyes, rub them for a moment and “POOF”, in the time it takes to reopen them, she’s gone.

The fact is that if a normal woman on a Friday night wants to go out with the intention of picking someone up, sleeping with him to put it bluntly, she won't have the slightest problem. The average man, on the other hand, has to humble himself, give his best/worst, throw money down the toilet with the risk of ending the evening watching a nice video on a site that, yes, begins with you, but no, does not end with tube.

The male biped is a slave to sex: we are genuinely much closer to our millennial relatives than women, and this puts us in a situation of imbalance for a mere matter of demand and supply. A submission well captured in the memorable line from EeLST “she is my pigeon / I her statue” (sh*t on me) which has always drawn crooked, wry smiles from me for its too-accurate portrayal of the man/woman relationship.

Worse than her friends, those prodigious in advice on which tempered German steel blades are best suited for cutting the balls of the unfortunate guy of the moment, there is only television that, with “Dynasty & Co” and specially tailored shows, has succeeded over the years in proposing and refining new models of women. Cunning specimens, too well-aware of their power who, with proven sadism, enjoy grinding men, reducing them to a powder to be slowly simmered in a pan full of unsaid things, innuendos, and foggy talks. For a man not endowed with those rare, special, and noble qualities capable of breaching a woman's heart, (€€€, but the green $$$ and good old £££ will also do fine), it is very complex to maintain a dominant position. A girl who “acts uppity” (adapting to the lexicon of the piece) must be mysterious, unattainable and gratuitously complicated, so if she says A, it’s obvious she’s not referring to the first letter of the alphabet but, at the very least, to her great-aunt named H. And if you will not be able to understand this simple, clear, and linear way of communicating, you will also be made fun of because you will be accused of not truly knowing how to listen to her and not caring about her: the perfect prelude to her taking over by pouting. She will move away to increase your jealousy, will force you to spend money on gifts, and without knowing why you will find yourself apologizing with your tail between your legs. 
Courtship first, the relationship later, has turned into a chess/minefield game in which it is always wise to remember that Friday night mentioned earlier, is a card they hold. Often they don't want to make love (at least not with us), but unlike us, they can do it with extreme ease by stepping out of the house and slipping into the nearest bar.

As if the situation wasn't already sufficiently gray, even publishing has come out with a "vademecum" to transform those few girls who didn’t believe they had a vagina studded with diamonds and solid gold into sadists capable of painfully putting their respective partners/husbands in their place with a few surgical moves. The book with scientifically detailed methodology (five interviews with acquaintances from the same neighborhood) claims that the so-called “bitches” are the best for us men: a bunch of stupid masochists who want a woman to make them suffer. A woman who, bombarded by a thousand flattery and back-and-forth games, yields to our perennial desire for sex only after having killed us with a myriad of migraines and exhaustion, maybe after receiving some little gifts and a nice dinner in return. This, according to the author (not a fool), is the recipe for a stable relationship because man is a hunter and wants to have an elusive prey to pursue forever. The revolutionary concept is repeated with a hundred rules saying the same thing.

The book is written with middle-school level vocabulary, layout making me reevaluate my high school essays where I tried to stretch the scant text like pizza dough using absurd fonts, slightly narrowing the margins, inserting a thousand paragraphs and useless footnotes and fish story. The author in question, to reach three hundred pages, (no more than a hundred for a normal text), and thus justify such an exorbitant price, verges on ridiculous. It’s a text full of childish stereotypes to describe the male counterpart, pregnant with Taliban feminism, radical characterization dividing men and women into macro categories without caring at all, as I have deliberately done in the review, about the complexity.

The terrifying thing is that this work, (the cover is very nice although the book does not talk at all about the importance of a good technique of fellatio to build a healthy, stable, and lasting relationship), manages to well describe most of the women I have dated in the last three years. And so, men of debasio, mess up your fingertips and read “Why Men Love Bitches”; maybe rinse your mouth with a classic after and wash your hands. This shake of poorly written clichés if read backwards, (the author's intent being a text addressed exclusively to the female population), can be an excellent method for us to suffer less. 

When we find ourselves on the ground with broken bones reliving a story made up of sparse passion alternated by a sea of indifference, false and calibrated approval (sexual but not only), we can read the hundred laws of charm sprinkled by the author Sherry Argov. Half brain-dead and half-conscious on the ring’s carpet, we will finally realize that it was not an accidental hook from a distracted Sugar Love colliding with our chin, but it was a premeditated shovel hit from a bloody Bloody Mary.