The performance is a haphazard one, and far creepier to the audience than to the actors, but it remains sincere as instinct. To walk this way is to witness the spasmodic necks and detoured eyes and high-pitched whistled salutes and deep, perfumed inhalations and even, at times, affected indifference that together form the grand choreography of male desire. But another part of me likes to observe the reactions we-we're a caravan, now-receive from the menfolk we pass. All right, so partly I do this to admire the view. It provides the answers that men and women are desperate to learn. I must stress here to my girlfriend and mother that I do not do this to admire the view. Often while walking the streets of Manhattan I adjust both the pace and position of my stride so as to follow close behind, but not illegally close behind, an attractive woman. Some people like pulp in their orange juice, after all. But give a whole lot of them a whole lot of time and you begin to understand the considerable nuance that governs what men want.
It doesn't take a psychologist to know what men want.
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