Why are men psychotic?

Here's the background: I don't do relationships. All that cozy couple shit makes me feel queasy. B&Q Sundays and his ‘n’ hers bathrobes? It just isn't for me. I mean, I can just about cope with breakfast in bed the morning after the night before.

Yeah, the first part of a relationship, the falling in love, in lust, when you just can’t wait to lay eyes on the object of your desire, rip their clothes off, suck the sweat from their face and call it nectar, beg them to take you every which way right now wherever you are because you just have to have them inside you, that rocks. That’s great. An impeccable instant high. For as long as it lasts.

Anyway, I might not subscribe to the myth that a girl’s life is incomplete without a man to call your own but it doesn’t necessarily follow that I’ve sealed up the tunnel of love and declared my body a cock free zone; I love sex, every single sweaty inch of it. This is as good as it gets; sex minus the emotional harrassment. You’d think guys would dig this. You’d think it would be the fodder of a thousand fantasies; a girl who wants a guy for his cock and isn’t bothered about all the other stuff. But men are nothing more than me, me, me, self-obsessed, oversized, contrary toddlers.

Jimmy. The perfect example. The definitive case study.

I’d seen Jimmy around, propping up the Clerkenwell bars, a tall dark silent streak with trouble in his eyes. Sexy as Hell. I couldn't resist, so one night, feeling an itch I couldn't scratch on my own, I invited myself back to his place. The next morning I left Jimmy snoring gently, sleeping like a baby under his musty duvet. I didn’t think too much about the whole interlude. It was just another night indulging in my favorite exercise alternative, much more satisfying than getting sweaty at the gym.

The next time I go out, there’s Jimmy, eyeballing me like he’s just stumbled across an oasis after an unplanned thirty-mile desert stroll. He’s all over me like a rash, putting his arm around me, nuzzling my neck, introducing me to his friends who slip casual comments in that Jimmy must have it bad, he’s been talking about me all week. Alarm bells start clanging in my head so I make my excuses and get the fuck out. The next day Jimmy’s on the phone in a pout, grumbling about me doing a wham, bam, thank you my man, saying he’s heard about my reputation, telling me I’m a slag. Like he’s as pure as the driven snow. Christ on a bike. Talk about role reversal.

That was over a month ago and Jimmy’s still hanging round like a bad smell. I just can’t figure it out. I mean, I'm enthusiastic but I’m no screaming porn star. I’m foxy but I’m no supermodel. I wouldn’t exactly put myself in the Angelina Jolie category, but Jimmy’s not the first to lay this crap on me. What’s the big deal?

My only explanation is that men are psychotic. If they can’t have it then they just want it all the more. But if you’re into them, if you show them some honey, they’re like, yeah well, so she’s crazy about me. That means I’m a stud, I’m the bollocks, I am King Dong, so I need to get out there amongst the desperate hordes and spread my own personal brand of joy.

But show them that you don’t give a toss, like, yeah whatever, and you're elevated to godess status. It’s easier to persuade a shark with his teeth sunk in your midriff that vegetarianism is the way to go than to get a cunt-struck testosterone-zoned male to leave you alone.

So in the love/lust zone, instant throw-away gratification is the route I choose. It's the only answer.

Life's too short not to fuck around.