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"Sex. Women. Sex. What&amp;amp;#8217;s for lunch? Sex. Alas, that pretty much sums up Guy Brain. Hopefully, after reading this, you&amp;amp;#8217;ll have a better grasp on why my gender behaves the way we do. Oh, and if I&amp;amp;#8217;ve ever undressed you with my eyes on the subway, my apologies. I probably wasn&amp;amp;#8217;t the only one. 8:40 a.m. I shower and think about Jessica,* the tall blond from the office I hooked up with six months ago. Not good considering I&amp;amp;#8217;m currently dating a 22-year-old brunette, Anna. In six weeks she&amp;amp;#8217;s fallen for me hard, but the age difference&amp;amp;#8212;I&amp;amp;#8217;ve got her by a decade&amp;amp;#8212;has started to make me feel more like a counselor than a boyfriend. With every piece of career advice she asks for and I dole out, the sex loses its excitement. I wash my hair and ponder how to end things painlessly with Anna. By the time I reach for conditioner, I&amp;amp;#8217;m back to imagining Jessica naked. Distracted at work? Who, me?! 9:05 a.m. I spend 10 minutes selecting a freaking tie. Do women even like ties? 9:25 a.m. I spot Hipster Chick on the subway. I see her every day with her leather jacket and rock star haircut. I weigh asking her out and realize if she says no, I&amp;amp;#8217;ll still see her daily for the rest of my working life. This is the 325th morning I come to this &amp;amp;#8220;realization.&amp;amp;#8221; 11:45 a.m. I must work in the quietest office in New York; it drives me insane. No matter how low my music is, my ponytailed coworker always asks me via e-mail to turn it down. I picture what his apartment is like and decide it&amp;amp;#8217;s all houseplants and cats. 12:40 p.m. Lunch at my desk. I was thinking sushi but kept envisioning the rolls wrapped in bacon, so I go with a bacon cheeseburger. I can&amp;amp;#8217;t stop fantasizing about Jessica. Certain sexual episodes get locked in my head and then replay like porn. Jessica&amp;amp;#8217;s been in heavy rotation all week. 2:35 p.m. Anna e-mails to ask if I want to hang out later. 5:28 p.m. I e-mail Anna to say I already have plans with my friend Brian. 5:30 p.m. I text Brian to see if he wants to hang out. He&amp;amp;#8217;s busy. More States of Mental Undress 6:54 p.m. On the subway home, I picture the woman across from me with the violin case performing this Ravel piece I love, then letting me ravish her onstage at Carnegie Hall. &amp;amp;#8220;You&amp;amp;#8217;re deplorable,&amp;amp;#8221; I tell myself. My self seems unconcerned. 10:35 p.m. I look in the window of the bar near my house to see if there are any cute women (I do this every time I walk by). There are, and I feel exhilarated, like I&amp;amp;#8217;m about to embark on a road trip. I go in and know exactly where I want to sit: by the blond in knee-high boots. 11:18 p.m. Boots notices my T-shirt. &amp;amp;#8220;Great band,&amp;amp;#8221; she says. We crack jokes for an hour. Boots is like a drinking buddy I want to see naked. When I ask for her digits, she says them slowly, like a magical incantation. Then I ask her age. &amp;amp;#8220;Twenty-two.&amp;amp;#8221; 12:48 a.m. Heading home alone, do I balk at the prospect of Anna 2.0? No, I do not. I know that instead of finding someone age-appropriate, I&amp;amp;#8217;ll wait two days, then call Boots to make a date. Selective memory: works every time. 8:40 a.m. Back in the shower. Thoughts of Boots&amp;amp;#8212;or rather, scenarios in which her boots might come off&amp;amp;#8212;keep me conditioning my hair for a very, very long time. Jake is a real, live single guy dating in New York City."^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
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