The man from Venus

I’m most upset with the silly rape headlines everywhere. Date rape, tourist rape, grandma rape, car rape... Clearly, rapists are not racist or ageist but gymnasts and pacifists who  prefer dim-lit alleys to disturbing society. It is in our genes, as we keep saying —  j-e-a-n-s. But that’s no reason to imply we are indiscriminate when it comes to women. She should be breathing, yes, definitely breathing. We men are picky!

Times are tough for us Don Juans. We have not changed, foreplay has. Instead of getting ear-traced or bruise-kissed, women want the table cleared, plants watered, dog walked and children entertained. Early man had it good. All he needed was a good club. Bash woman on head, drag to cave. Things are just not what they used to be. Karate, judo, kung fu... Before you could say ‘Mrs Tiger Woods, leave that club alone’, someone groped a cop by mistake — couldn’t see a thing after that damn pepper-spray. And what’s with the bob, where are the plaits to swing them with?

My bhabhi — let’s call her Savita — feels up only my forehead when I complain of fever. I call out to my wife in emergencies, like when I can’t reach the TV remote, but she’s having a rocking time cleaning the toilet. Is this an excuse — ‘I’m in labour, make your own tea’? I won’t take this lying down — not unless she’s lying on top of me. Or under. I am not fussy.

I take comfort from surveys, which come to me after careful tests on monkeys and mice. Apparently, men think about sex ten minutes an hour. I want to know what they think about the other 50? A foreigner asked, ‘How come Indian men are plug-ugly and women so beautiful?’ Such a pansy! I mean, who watches men that long?

Go for broads who wail ‘I’m too fat, too ugly…’ Sip wine, talk about Paris, misquote a dead poet or two, run about in slow motion and the chick is in the sack. Women with workaholic husbands, newly-hatched offspring and nagging moms-in-law are sitting ducks. Unless they are your wives with your kids and moms. Then they are just sleep-deprived hysterical shrews to be avoided at all costs.

Ah, the good old days, when all they said was ‘huh?’ as they keeled over. No need to chat them up, no ‘feelings’, ‘relationships’, ‘commitment’. I spent my teenage in DTC buses, falling gracefully across women when the driver braked. I travelled in a metro once, it is not the same. Seats are not the only things padded these days.

I still come on to women with the classic, ‘Have my babies?’ — er, what does hysterectomy mean? I spend my Sundays in maternity wards, waiting for lactating women to take a deep breath. Ah, my cups runneth over.