By staff writer John Marcher
July 15, 2007
I was recently prescribed some medications that have made me impotent. I’ve already alluded to this fact in a previous column, however, I want to take a moment here to extrapolate on this most wonderful state.
Can you imagine a world devoid of sexual desire? I would guess that you can’t—it’s like trying to think about how the world would work without money. The point is, I have been living in this non-fantasy world for the past month. I never thought it would be so easy to get rid of a part of me I considered so integral to my existence. But popping a pill when I wake up makes it virtually impossible to get a boner, and what’s more, to even find myself interested in the opposite sex. I find this second point to be the most distressing, because I could almost rationalize wanting to have sex but not being able to physically. But not even being interested in a naked woman, not even feeling the desire to procure sex or even masturbate… well that is innately disturbing to me. However, I would be bereft if I did not point out that while this is psychologically disturbing, there is no remorse in my inability to ejaculate based on the fact that I do not desire to ejaculate.
This switch in the level of my regard for the opposite sex at first integrated itself so seamlessly I didn’t even notice. While recovering in the hospital, some attractive friends of mine came to see me, all gussied up for a night on the town. I only began to contemplate the mildly promiscuous nature of their attire after I caught one of my other guy friends checking them out while they were distracted, like any red-blooded American man should, and would. “What’s wrong with me?” I asked myself, thoroughly disgusted at the casual disregard I had showed by not fully immersing myself in the young, taut, and nubile nature of these girls. My doubt was further hammered home after they left, when the contingent of decidedly less attractive nurses, all of whom had claimed me as their boyfriend many times over, began grilling me incessantly about the context of my relationship with them. So I came home from the hospital determined to rub one out. I prepped myself by lining up a few of my favorite porn clips and the last five years of Vistoria Silvstedt calendars. It ended up like the scene where the 40-year-old virgin tries to masturbate and ends up watching Everybody Loves Raymond—except I ended up organizing my MP3s instead.
“We as a race would be better off if all men started taking the infertility pill.”
Outside of the immediate tragedy of having a vast, well-organized, and now useless porn collection, this experience has led me to several important conclusions. First of all, having no desire for sex has left me with an incredible amount of energy, drive, and concentration. I think this closely relates to Freud’s theory of psychic energy, where he states that the brain has a finite amount of energy to use at any given time. Within the framework of this theory, it makes perfect sense that with none of my psychic energy being used towards anything of a sexual nature, I have all the more to use for other things. I have found this influx of focus invigorating, using it to catch up on years of reading I have been meaning to do, to beat every video game I own (and I have quite a few), and to watch every movie ever made with Michael J. Fox in it. With this in mind, I have come to the conclusion that upon the birth of my first born son, I will have no choice but to castrate him, teach him to play Risk, and put him in a position to one day dominate the world.
Another important realization I have come to through this process is the utter uselessness of the female sex. Armed with a complete lack of affinity for the moist gap adorning their inner thighs, I have come to realize the incredible waste of time, money, and energy I have put forth into procuring the companionship of a person I generally could care less about. If it was not already blatantly apparent before, the fact has now been crystallized that without their vaginas (and to a much lesser extent boobies), women contribute almost nothing to society at large. They live for no other purpose than to procure every economic, emotional, and physical benefit that their odiferous meat holes afford them.
The asexual nature of my disposition has helped me to realize that the intricate process known as courtship has been established in a direct effort by women to keep the economic worth of their dank holes at a premium. Much like how the major diamond companies closely control the amount of rocks they put on the market from year to year in order to keep the price of their product high at all times. This sheds light on why women hate sluts, since they are essentially dragging down the market value of their most prized product by selling it at a discount. It would be like if you set up a lemonade stand at the end of your driveway and sold glasses for a quarter, while three doors down a little hussy named Christina started selling them for a dime. Of course, there would have to be a complete lack of rationale, an influx of emotion, and no concept of accountability in order to make the exercise in understanding the female disposition accurate.
Thus, through a side effect of one of my medications, I have been able to discern that infertility makes a man a more driven, effective, and focused individual. Also through this perspective, I have come to understand the incredibly useless nature of the female sex, and their contorted scheme to ascend and control society by maintaining the market value of their vaginas.
It is with this in mind that I contend we as a race would be better off if all men started taking the infertility pill. We could then enslave the female sex, put them in suspended animation, artificially fertilize them, and incubate our young. Oh what a wonderful world it would be.
This column is dedicated to Nathan DeGraaf.