I see them everywhere I go; on the street, in a shop, on every Television show and in every magazine. They're even in the newspapers now, I can't escape. Their beauty is used as a tool, a tool that effected my pain. They (seem to) stare at me through cold glass and from glossy pages, their gazes were more than I could bear.
I speak, of course, of pretty girls.

I have made it my resolution, my oath, my solace, to no longer allow myself to look at them with hungry eyes and a lusting heart.

It used to be that I would give my full attention (pardon the pun) to any attractive young fille that crossed my path; I would hang off their every word, they would linger in my mind for hours. It gave me an inner pleasure to watch their every move, to believe that I was seeing things that nobody else did; but it hurt me also. Once they were gone from my sight, gone from my mental grasp, I felt cold and empty. I felt as though a wonderful opportunity had passed me by, and I had failed to make the best of it. That feeling hurt me more than I can say.

I made my decision at the National Gallery of Victoria, in Melbourne (or was it the adjacent gallery? It doesn't matter anyway). There I saw two beautiful paintings, the best I've ever seen; they were a pair of oval-shaped paintings, each containing the image of a lady sitting on a cloud and the moon, respectively. Both were wonderful, and after I saw them I didn't care one bit about any other potential masterpiece hanging in that gallery.
Screw the Mona Lisa.
I stood in awe for as long as I could, but eventually we were forced to leave, as the gallery was closing. It broke my heart to be torn away from that room, the room that was absolutely blank to me but for those two points of infinite beauty, created by someone I had never heard of. As I walked through the Melbourne streets, I couldn't think of anything but the loss I had just suffered, for a long time I could take no pleasure from anything but the fading memory of those paintings. I realised what they had done to me: they had made me their slave.

I don't know whether it was the beauty of the paintings themselves, or the two ladies encapsulated within them that I loved, but it hardly matters. Either way, it was an inanimate object that had controlled my emotions beyond anything I had experienced in a long time. I felt insulted that a piece of canvas would presume to hold me captive in such a way; and if a few splashes of paint could do such a thing, then what of the living people (the beautiful women I saw) all around me? I was so insulted that I vowed never to let it happen again. I decided to thereafter avert my mental gaze from any beauty I saw, so as to be emotionally controlled by nothing. It was a decision to reclaim my freedom.

I held steadfast to my resolution, and I have succeeded. I no longer give a flying fuck how gorgeous some girl whose name I don't know is, I walk by without giving her a thought, let alone a second one. It's by depriving myself of that (former) pleasure that I have become so indifferent. I can now see the world just that little bit cleaer, I can see it more in terms of that which matters.
I am enlightened.

"But what about pornography, you still look at that?" my conscience asks me meekly. So what? Pornography is a tool, a means to physical pleasure. I am physically affected by it, I cannot control the deepest and truest of human (or male) urges. I use pornography as a device to aid masturbation, so that I can get on with what's important once it's done with, and my tissue box is empty. I used to be helpless at the proverbial feet of nude models and shapely "actresses", but now I see their images as what they really are: tools, and nothing more.

I think back to when I would be instantly infatuated with any pretty girl who spoke to me, and I wish I could beat some sense into that boy. I despise that boy, he is someone that is pitiful in my eyes; he is a slave to the opposite sex without them even batting an eyelid. I have nothing but contempt for him, and I'm glad to be rid of him.

Beware now ladies, I am beyond your powers. You cannot affect me, I am free. Tremble in fear.

OH THE FOOLISHNESS OF YOUTH 

What man can resist the most powerful force in the universe? The force to reproduce. Simply stated that’s the force which men must deal with their entire lives. Oh, we fill our lives with other things but "the force" is always working on us. It lies dormant in our bodies for our first few years but then it springs to life as a seed. And from the seed is born the monster.

History tells the story. The Bible records several stories of interest. First, Adam and Eve.

Adam was beguiled by Eve. However you interpret this story, theirs’ was a complex relationship. First Adam was created alone. Then because of his loneliness, God created Eve. Then everything went to hell. They were both kicked out of the Garden of Eden as their punishment. Was "the force" behind all their undoing? Maybe....no, probably. They did have two sons, Cain and Abel. However, Cain killed Abel out of jealousy. What a mess.

Next, we read of Samson and Delilah. Samson’s long hair was the source of his strength but Delilah knew about "the force". Samson didn’t stand a chance and neither do we.

Antony and Cleopatra? You remember their story.

John F. Kennedy and Marilyn Monroe?

Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky?

J. Howard Marshall II and Anna Nicole Smith?

And we as men are going to conquer " the force"? I think not.

Here are some words of wisdom for us.

•  Recognize that "the force" is greater than we are and greater than we’ll ever be.
• Don’t be too hard on yourself: it’s a male problem we all have. (well, at least those of us who are heterosexual)
  
•  Don’t be too smug in thinking we have "the force" under control. Pretty girls are aligned with "the force" and they have evolved in ways that take advantage of us.
• If all else fails, we should find an ugly girl with whom we can be happy. Have some kids. Have a life.

Remember if it weren’t for pretty girls plus "the force" none of us would be here.