Women are constantly offering naively confident theories about men’s sexual impulses. And lucky me, I am constantly overhearing them. One offhand comment I heard recently showcased such cluelessness I felt compelled to offer the ladies some words of wisdom.
As a teaching aid, I’m going to summarize a story by E. Hoffmann Price called "Satan's Daughter" that I truly believe should be taught to young women everywhere, right alongside Aesop's fables.
The story goes like this: An archaeologist unearths an ancient Babylonian statue called "The Daughter of Satan" (warning sign number one). The scantily clad statue comes to life and pays him a visit:
Her flesh was a warm, rosy amber…
Her delicately aquiline Semitic features were sweetened by the shadow of a smile that lurked at the corners of her sensuous mouth…
Her shapely body was a succession of fluent, rippling curves (If you need to stop reading now to go…be alone, I understand)…
The archaeologist also notes the: firm, full blossoming breasts and inward sweep of her waist.
The archaeologist can't actually close the deal because the temptress’s hips are guarded by a silver girdle; a girdle locked onto her by a jealous, ancient king (warning sign number two). The Daughter of Satan warns him that:
If you want me, we will meet in Kurdistan. But think well before you summon me in Kurdistan, first look at what remains of my long forgotten lovers.
But of course, the undeterred archaeologist still travels to Kurdistan. Along the way, he encounters a string of "desiccated bodies" resembling "the shell of a sun-dried insect." And shock-a-doodle-doo, all of them have "the red imprint of a woman's lips" on their foreheads (warning sign number three).
After a series of wacky twists, the Daughter of Satan reappears, girdle and all. She tells the archaeologist:
Deny and disown me, and go in peace. Your life will be long, but you will never forget the silver girdle that you could not remove.
She then hands him the key to her girdle and says: This is the key of doom. If you still have the courage and the will.
She literally tells him it is the key OF DOOM. When a person hands me the anything of doom, I run the other way. Someone says, "Hey Mike, this is the cotton candy of doom," I'm out the door.
Yet the archaeologist (presumably a man of letters) decides: It would be worse to wander with only the memories of a girdle without a key.
The moral of the story is that not even ancient, supernatural terrors and repeated warnings of certain, ghastly death can stop a man with sex on his brain.
And as I sit here writing this, I envy the archaeologist.