Sexonomics

Tuesday’s date with the Triathlete was postponed because he had to work late. He was very apologetic and sent several texts and an email saying as much, so I managed to juggle things around and now we’re seeing each other on Saturday (which, hilariously, is my first Saturday night date in about six years).

As for the others:

No word from Kiwi (think the cheek kiss/rapid dash to the bus was a pretty clear sign that I wasn’t interested).

No word from B (presumed maimed in a freak combiner accident. Tragic).

This week’s brief dating hiatus coupled with that comedian’s terrible riff on sexual economics has got me thinking about the bigger picture of following The Rules.

Bear with me here.

So essentially, The Rules works on the principle of a capitalist free market economy – it’s all about supply and demand. The more scarce you make yourself, the higher the demand and the higher your perceived value. So essentially, The Rules encourages you to become akin to a barrel of crude oil during a petrol crisis – rare, precious and extremely expensive. Eventually, one investor will decide to invest in the majority share (the cost of which, in terms of Rules girls, is apparently a large diamond, a house in the suburbs and a Lexus).

I’ve always strived for more egalitarian terms in my romantic endeavors. My ideal situation is more about an equal exchange of goods and services – we both like each other’s company and like having sex with each other, so the wealth should be distributed equally and fairly. There shouldn’t be a lord/serf dynamic involved.

But is this just a false utopia? Am I just a pie-eyed Trotskyite destined to end up shouting about the beauty of the proletariat whilst standing in a bread line? Maybe socialist sex is like socialist politics – a lovely idea, for sure, but in the end destined to collapse under the towering weight of greedy, power-hungry human nature.

With B, I strove to attain my egalitarian ideal. “Join the sexual proletariat!” I screamed. “I demand nothing of you, comrade!” But, sadly, he was a Stalinist at heart and I ended up locked in a cement tower block with a family of nine and feeling grateful when the hot water worked every three days. By insisting that I was demanding nothing from him and that we were two self-sufficient members of the populace engaged in a balanced and fair transaction, I ended up continuously jump-starting my Moskvich while he tooled around in his bloody Volga.

So in comparison, the brutality of capitalism isn’t so bad. Don’t get me wrong: I don’t enjoy the process of hyperinflating myself and I don’t like encouraging investors to hoard supplies. I don’t want to be Scrooge McDuck, living alone and celibate in some drafty mansion, diving around in my pool of gold coins. I hate the way The Rules forces me to engage in the ruthless commoditization of… well, me.

But even I can see that it’s better than the gulag.

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