One Man's Porn is Not Another Woman's Erotica
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I love word derivation, especially the fabricated kind. Erotica comes from the Greek "Eros," the God of Love. Porn comes from the Greek "Porne," the largest chariot parts distributor in Athens. The former is about hearts and the latter about parts. This is the difference between women and men, hearts versus parts.
I love word derivation, especially the fabricated kind. Erotica comes from the Greek “Eros”, the God of Love. Porn comes from the Greek “Porne”, the largest chariot parts distributor in Athens. The former is about hearts and the latter about parts. This is the difference between women and men, hearts versus parts.
Think about it. What happens the first time things start to heat up between a man and a woman? All the courting stuff is completed. It worked. There is mutual interest, and there is opportunity. The woman is all about violins, candle light, romance, long soft stares, hours of caressing—you know, mushy heart stuff. Meanwhile, all the guy has on his mind is: “hope my part is big enough”, “hope my part doesn’t explode prematurely”, “hope my part works long enough”, “hope she helps me find her part”, “hope I don’t go in the wrong part”, “hope she has part protection”, “hope she gets those violinists out of here”—you know, chariot parts distribution stuff.
Men like things to be simple, to the point. It is a good match for their smaller, uncluttered brains. Hell, men can’t even take the time to call it pornography. It takes too long. It’s a mouthful, so to speak. So men call it porn. It’s a nice word, four letters, fits their predisposition for single syllable words. Women, on the other hand, like things to take time. They like words that sound romantic, that sound Italian. For instance, the original word for erotica was actually “erot”. Yeah, really. A guy named Benny came up with that. But women didn’t like the short, abrupt, harsh sound. So they smoothed it out like a gentle jazz riff and called it “erotica”. It takes a lot longer to say. It sounds Italian too.
I know. It all seems so … so sexist. I suppose it is, but what can I tell you.
Men like parts. Men like putting this part with that part. Who’s the one that spends most of Christmas Eve putting bicycles and wagons together. It’s the guy. Raise your hand if you are a female auto mechanic, that is, a heterosexual female auto mechanic (not that there is anything wrong with any other kind). Aha! Raise your hand if you know a female auto mechanic. As I thought, none!
Men like parts because parts don’t talk about their feelings, besides they usually come with cool diagrams and instructions! Men love instructions as long as they don’t have to hear them. When they hear instructions, they sound more like directions, which remind men of their mothers. For the most part, men don’t like to be reminded of their mothers. So men prefer to read their instructions. Men would love women a lot more if women came with diagrams and instructions that men could read and study up on. That would be very helpful.
[A question: should men come with instructions? My inclination is that it is unnecessary, but if they did, they would be short, maybe a sentence or two, similar to instructions that might come with a cereal bowl. I’d like to hear from women on this.]
Anyway, because of this difference (i.e., hearts versus parts), men and women are best served if they refrain from actually building things together. The closest my parents came to divorce was not from rearing four boys. It was from working on a stained glass, lampshade kit together. Within four hours dad was threatening to solder mom’s mouth shut while she held a piece of pink glass to his throat. It was ugly.
Once, I tried to put a grill together with a woman. She thought it would be a nice way to bond. I had my doubts. I was right. It didn’t go so well. First, she insisted on saying we were “making a grill together”. Women love to make things. They make cookies. They make beds. They make babies. They even make themselves up. Oh yeah, and they make love. Guys don’t make love, they have sex, which is a short for putting parts together as efficiently as possible. Guys put things together. Guys don’t make a grill, they put a grill together, part by part. But I didn’t have the energy to argue the point. So I let her believe we were “making a grill together”.
Next, she started in on the instructions, asking “why” to every sentence. I kept telling her, “um … because it’s um … an instruction?” I sensed her growing frustration with the same answer I gave to the repeated inquiries. Finally, after we completed the first page—we had twenty-two more to go—she wanted to stop and take a moment or two for me to share my feelings with her about our first page experience. I answered, “I’m filled with guarded congeniality”. She soon left to “make” a phone call—I think it was for a taxi, if I remember correctly.
When I started this little piece, I wasn’t sure where it was going to lead me. Now that I know, I think I’ll stop here before really say something I’ll regret, although I sense it may be way too late.
Yeah, I’m looking at the size of the hole I just dug and it’s pretty damn big—big enough to fit me and that stupid grill I “put together”. Well, let me just jump in now. There are plenty of shovels to go around. Feel free to start tossing the dirt on top of me, if it will make you feel any better—and I say that with the most sincere, unguarded, congeniality.
This article was written by humorist Robert Crane. Author of "Still Living in the Sixties" and "The Single Adventure of Inlin Freebosh", Robert also writes a popular blog of casual observations and confessions, all of which can be freely read at his website located in the outer edges of the "internets":
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