Love is, as they say, a many-splendored thing. A man’s dealings with the fairer sex are the sweetener that makes his life bearable. It gives us dignity and hope, and keeps us in line when we’d rather be smashing chairs over each other in a swinging-door saloon with straw on the floor.

But a man’s psyche troubles him sometimes. There’s a bitter feeling, not quite jealousy, really, more like an undignified curiosity, that creeps into his head. How do I stack up? What’s she really thinking? Does she sometimes say to herself, in tender moments, “wow, that was a good orgasm, but not quite as good as that one time, when that muscle-bound bartender did that thing with his thumb...”? It’s not that we, as men, begrudge her past orgasms or anything. I mean, we’re glad she had them. Why shouldn’t she? But still, it’s the male brain’s duty to throw shit like that around when it doesn’t have anything productive to take care of.

Men generally have only two problems with women: They’re not virgins when you get them, and they don’t die when you lose them. With exceptions, of course. Coming to terms with either of these things seems nigh impossible for the male ego. Luckily, nature has compensated for this by making men borderline autistic. As long as we aren’t directly confronted by the history or future of our women, we’re pretty good at convincing ourselves they don’t exist.

Some guy in her past had more money than you; some guy had a bigger johnson than you; and some guy had better moves in the sack than you.

And you know what? That guy was probably me.