I heard an interview recently in which an author was promoting her new book about sex. Sorry, I totally forget the name of the book. But I do recall what she said about a few studies in which they tested rats (or was it mice?) while they were getting it on.
Now first off, there is something particularly unseemly about being a voyeur to rat fornication. On so many levels. Not the least of which is because rodents having sex = more rodents on the horizon. And those rodents will then have sex, and so on and so on. Having fended off my share of mouse infestations in my day, I do believe that anything involving rodent procreation should be vigorously avoided at all costs.
But also, ick! Little teeny rats (or worse yet, large fat black ones like from the movie Ben), doing the nasty in a laboratory simply evokes a sense of repulsion in me. Especially when I learned that one of the tests they performed involved the rats donning polyester pants---miniature rodent disco-wear!---so that researchers could determine the effect of polyester on sperm count.
I wonder who drew the short straw to have to count the rat sperm? And probably worse yet, who had to ensure there was rat sperm to count? I know I'd have volunteered immediately to whip up a few dozen pair of the tiny pants on my sewing machine at home---far, far away from the lab---thus assiduously avoiding the rat-wanking job.
In case you were wondering, polyester did decrease sperm count. So there you go, Tony Manero Rat. Disco must be dead for a reason.
But the test that most amused me involved rats in the midst of doing it---in the heat of passion, if there is such thing as rodent ardor---only to have the scientists introduce a diversion.
So there the mice/rats/whatever were, in lock-and-load mode, when the researchers dropped in some yummy cheese to see what would happen. While the boy rats just kept on doing the nasty, the girl rats? Well, consider it the "filing-your-nails-while-in-the-missionary-position" tactic. Yes, they were far more girls interested in chomping cheese than getting some lovin' from their man. They walked away in flagranto delicto! Talk about coitus interruptus! All for a little Velveeta.
I suspect we human females have something in common with our rodent cousins. And it's not whiskers (as long as there's electrolysis at our disposal), nor twitching pink noses, nor a long icky tail. None of that. And we don't particularly crave cheese. You see, women don't want a wham-bam-thank-you-rat experience. They want to be wooed. Wined and dined, made to feel wanted, to feel as if they are the most important thing in the world to their man. Sure, any old creature can get it on. But copulation without representation is not the goal. Well, you know what I mean. Sex without passion, without amore, without a modicum of emotion, (dare I say) adoration, and certainly respect. I'd say most of us would take the cheese over that. Most days, at any rate.
Any old rodent can have a quickie on the petrie dish (that would be the rat version of doing it on the kitchen table). But when it comes to making love, perhaps a lot of men can learn from this rat survey, and figure out how to appeal to the cheese-lover in us gals.
Now first off, there is something particularly unseemly about being a voyeur to rat fornication. On so many levels. Not the least of which is because rodents having sex = more rodents on the horizon. And those rodents will then have sex, and so on and so on. Having fended off my share of mouse infestations in my day, I do believe that anything involving rodent procreation should be vigorously avoided at all costs.
But also, ick! Little teeny rats (or worse yet, large fat black ones like from the movie Ben), doing the nasty in a laboratory simply evokes a sense of repulsion in me. Especially when I learned that one of the tests they performed involved the rats donning polyester pants---miniature rodent disco-wear!---so that researchers could determine the effect of polyester on sperm count.
I wonder who drew the short straw to have to count the rat sperm? And probably worse yet, who had to ensure there was rat sperm to count? I know I'd have volunteered immediately to whip up a few dozen pair of the tiny pants on my sewing machine at home---far, far away from the lab---thus assiduously avoiding the rat-wanking job.
In case you were wondering, polyester did decrease sperm count. So there you go, Tony Manero Rat. Disco must be dead for a reason.
But the test that most amused me involved rats in the midst of doing it---in the heat of passion, if there is such thing as rodent ardor---only to have the scientists introduce a diversion.
So there the mice/rats/whatever were, in lock-and-load mode, when the researchers dropped in some yummy cheese to see what would happen. While the boy rats just kept on doing the nasty, the girl rats? Well, consider it the "filing-your-nails-while-in-the-missionary-position" tactic. Yes, they were far more girls interested in chomping cheese than getting some lovin' from their man. They walked away in flagranto delicto! Talk about coitus interruptus! All for a little Velveeta.
I suspect we human females have something in common with our rodent cousins. And it's not whiskers (as long as there's electrolysis at our disposal), nor twitching pink noses, nor a long icky tail. None of that. And we don't particularly crave cheese. You see, women don't want a wham-bam-thank-you-rat experience. They want to be wooed. Wined and dined, made to feel wanted, to feel as if they are the most important thing in the world to their man. Sure, any old creature can get it on. But copulation without representation is not the goal. Well, you know what I mean. Sex without passion, without amore, without a modicum of emotion, (dare I say) adoration, and certainly respect. I'd say most of us would take the cheese over that. Most days, at any rate.
Any old rodent can have a quickie on the petrie dish (that would be the rat version of doing it on the kitchen table). But when it comes to making love, perhaps a lot of men can learn from this rat survey, and figure out how to appeal to the cheese-lover in us gals.
Jenny
