the eXile - editorial

Issue #09/90, May 11 - 25, 2000

Ten years ago, most all of the women who today are thirty years old were no more than twenty. Today, those same women are at least thirty and going on forty. But at what cost?

There are many who would argue that it is a woman’s breasts and her ability to give birth that most distinguish her from man. There is much merit in these arguments. But in as many cases as not, it is a woman’s genital organs that provide the starkest contrast.

There are other differences, of course. Most men, for instance, would find stalking another man inherently uninteresting. With women, on the other hand, many men find calling a woman twenty times a night, lurking under her window, and sending her Barbie dolls with the heads ripped off and X marks carved into the abdomen extremely rewarding.

What’s more, some of us men enjoy sliding two or more fingers into a woman’s private place, until she coos: "Oooh!" That act is sometimes accompanied by a viscous discharge.

There is much that one can say about women. They make lousy caddies. They are often Hispanic or Chinese but never fully both at the same time. If you stand nine of them on the edge of a pier, they will at some point during the day cast a shadow over water, often in an amusing fashion.

Oscar Wilde said that no woman was a genius. Women are a decorative sex, Wilde said; they have nothing to say, but they say it charmingly. According to Wilde, women represent the triumph of matter over mind, while men represent the triumph of mind over morals.

Oscar Wilde was a homosexual. He liked nothing more than to get on his hands and knees and be anally penetrated from behind in violent fashion by other men. In his later years he was grossly fat, and you can imagine what a hidden camera view of his sex life might have looked like.

God knows how Wilde chose his partners. In society he was distinguished primarily by his status as a master conversationalist. Contemporaries reported knowing Wilde to be a man who could mesmerize a dinner party for hours on end with one brilliant epigram after another; one can therefore imagine him casting furtive glances at the young men scattered at various ends of the table as he droned out his repertoire of one-liners as if on autopilot.

It’s anybody’s guess as to how he would then make his next move. Most of us have this image of the artistic genius as a man of supreme confidence, who never experiences the same feelings of doubt and insecurity that plague the rest of us ordinary people. But to believe that Oscar Wilde, or others like him, never experienced doubt in their interpersonal relations—that’s simply wrong. All people have fears, even celebrities. Especially celebrities, in some cases.

One cannot make sweeping judgements about the homosexual lifestyle on the basis of Oscar Wilde’s life story alone. He liked what he liked—that’s his right, we suppose. But as far as his relationship to women is concerned, that’s a different story. Ten years ago, the women of our time were of a certain sort. Today, they are significantly older. Has something been lost? Should something be done? Probably not. In fact, things should probably stay just as they are.

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