Cupid: (n) the ancient Roman god of love represented as a winged, naked, infant boy with a bow and arrows.
Romance is idiotic.
This doesn’t mean it’s not amazing.
I’m not trying to tell you there isn’t great joy in the percolation of human sexuality.
Romance is idiotic because the justifications we generate to permit ourselves to “swoon in June by the light of the silvery moon” are downright hilariously ignorant.
I laugh whenever I hear two lovers explain that they can’t help themselves.
“The heart wants what the heart wants.”
I’m not so sure the heart has much to do with it.
But the lust wants what the lust wants.
That’s darned tootin’ true.
To further justify the erratic tendencies of romance, we have borrowed this character from mythology—Cupid.
He shoots arrows, you know.
They are arrows of love.
I think that is definitely an oxymoron.
Or it’s simply a misplacement of a vowel or a consonant, which should actually read:
“The eros of love.”
Eros is the Greek word for sexual intercourse.
So a man with a wife and three children will swear before the Supreme Court that Cupid shot him with an arrow, and that is why he ended up screwing his twenty-two-year-old secretary.
He will be very sincere.
He might even cry about the deep affection he has suddenly acquired.
But one of the greatest truths we can impart to ourselves as men is that having an erect penis is not permission to continue. And as women, getting wet may require going somewhere to dry out.
It is not an issue of decency.
It is an attempt to keep us from acting like rabbits living in a hole, constantly searching for a hole.
We may not like the responsibility of tempering our sexuality—becoming more adept at dodging Cupid’s arrows—but we owe it to ourselves to rationally and purposefully exchange seventy years of peace of mind for seven seconds of juicy pleasure.