There is no good time to be a woman.

A woman, at best, coincides.

She pantomimes synchronicity with the atomic clock of male desire. Every second counts.

If you are fast, you're a slut. If you are slow, a prude (and one day a hag).

We lick our lips when you are too young and sneer when you are too old. For some years in your twenties, you’re both.

Your period is a disgusting (and somehow always surprising) insult to the plans of others.

On a date, your sexual intentions should be concealed until the man chooses the moment (he will find anything else repugnant.)

Rape is a forced alignment, with victims not saying “no,” but saying “no, not right now.”

Prostitution is a paid alignment (so long as the timing works for your john, pimp, and the police).

Pornography lets us fast forward, pause, and rewind you.

Your jealous mother asks why you aren't pregnant yet.

Your father cries at your wedding. He's not ready.

For nine months, you get a sweet sample of others following your schedule. It's an illusion, of course—the baby sets the schedule, and after so much tyranny, you will resent it.

Now a mom, you're a safe target for the crushes of adolescent boys, and you conceal your feelings about this from everyone.

Your husband calls you the old ball and chain, a living compromise between safety and passion, and everyone laughs. Call him the same and you will be met with dead silence.

No one wants you to be horny anymore, but it grows in you like a parasite and, fully alienated, revolts.

A monster inside you, hateful and hated.

Horny old men are nasty. Horny old women are unspeakable.