Scientists have discovered that women’s orgasm frequency increases with the size of their partner’s bank balance. Women with partners on the lower end of the socio-economic scale rarely or never orgasm.
I have always suspected this.
Science calls this ‘evolutionary adaptation’, that is to say, women are genetically hardwired to ruthlessly exploit men to ensure the best chances for survival of their genes. This is also known as the ‘gold-digger’ gene.
No wonder working class women are so fucking miserable.
The scientists go on to point out that they are not sure why women orgasm as it serves no reproductive purpose. This will be a surprise to many men that have no idea women have orgasms and are still not sure why women are allowed to drive.
Scientists speculate that what those orgasms are saying is ‘I'm extremely loyal, so you should invest in me and my children’. Barring the orgasm, this message is well understood by men, though many are suspect about women’s loyalty, believing that the first man to come along with a bigger wallet and a glint in his eye is likely to lead to ‘Hasta la vista looser’.
It was awkward enough last week listening to my hairdresser’s disappointment at receiving a small diamond ring from her man. He could not afford a big one. This new data sheds light on her disappointment.
A simmering pot that rarely boils, a smouldering volcano that may not erupt, a deep itch that is difficult to scratch... I digress.
As a man of science, I feel a duty to break this important scientific evidence to her. It could be critical to her future happiness.
I ponder the situation. This is a delicate matter better suited to nursemyra than my own Edwardian sensibilities.
I decide to do what any gentleman would do given the circumstances.
I can’t help but think that as the global recession tightens its grip, and men’s bulging accounts shrink, kept women around the world may find there are difficult times to come.
P.S. Size Matters Revisited
There were a couple of comments last week requesting photographic evidence of my hairdresser’s great tits. I mean really! I am a gentleman. What an utterly outrageous request.
I must admit, I briefly considered rifling through my extensive digital picture library of dirty young suburban bitches I have toiled, to fob one off. This of course was in my wild days before my celestial union with Mrs. BB.
In the end I felt I could not further besmirch any of the young trollops. I also gravely doubted I could deceive my lascivious inquisitors.
Instead, I had the boys at Beaverboosh Polymers knock up this model, a bust of remarkable likeness to my hairdresser, for the depraved of you. You know who you are.
Photo: © Ivan Shaw