The Casanova complaint

I have this friend who thinks he has a problem. He looks like nothing on earth, and yet can't help being an object much sought after by t...

I have this friend who thinks he has a problem. He looks like nothing on earth, and yet can8217;t help being an object much sought after by the opposite sex. A phenomenon unexplainable to most of us, but the guy himself is quite unaffectedly complacent in the belief that there is nothing strange or wrong in members of the fair sex falling over each other in falling for him.

For a married guy, one would consider he is a little too friendly with women outside his marriage. Unquestionably, he is an incorrigible flirt, launching into unabashed flirting at the drop of a hat. No, he doesn8217;t wear a hat, for he favours bathing in the light of the knowledge that his appeal is perhaps irresistible! For all his flirting ways, we his friends secretly know for sure he is one helluva harmless guy; a sheer touch-me-not. A thoroughbred modern Casanova, who is all wind and no substance8217;. The kind perhaps the legendary Don Juan used to be.

What we feared for him, though, was something else. That not once had the possibilityof his being successfully accused of sexual harassment by an overly conscious and gender-sensitive female world of today, ever crossed his mind. Especially in these troubled times when woman-power is striving hard to spell doom for the aberrant male of the gender.

His wife, herself a delightful soul, appears to suffer his presence in a lovable way; but makes no bones about considering him a total misfit in society, lacking in etiquette and in accepted manners. Worst of all, she exhibits fear of his abysmally appalling sense of humour. She dreads moments when, like a tubelight, he flickers at length to grasp a joke, and himself attempts cracking some that invariably fall flat.

Yet, wonder of wonders, there are a bevy of females that go for him 8212; throwing all caution to wind, whether it concerns themselves, or poses a threat to what he considers his own marital bliss. I have watched females flip for him 8212; some beautiful, some not, some decidedly not what you and I would consider a dish. 8216;Babes8217; they are -of all ages, hues and colours. His conquests tend to include teenage schoolgirls, sizzling college and post-college chicks, and well-manicured dames ranging from straight-jacketed executives to fashion-conscious hip-shaking hep ones of the very in8217; crowd; not to forget a few grandmothers, too, who suddenly find in him a reason to live! Sounds a real fantasy, but he is for real.

But it8217;s not the females falling for him that is his major problem I spoke of at the start. He loves them all, and generally considers this world a great place to live in. But the one thing that8217;s got him by his tail is the flood of presents that invariably accompany the female overtures.

Presents he can8217;t keep pace with, or possibly reciprocate. To the extent that the issue of presents has become a paranoia, leading him to duck, make excuses to dodge, and palm off those that still land up as pass-me-on8217;s. Not the least of his worries being the limit to which an understanding better half can yet be driven to.

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Without success,he8217;s tried his best to let it be known that receiving presents embarrasses him, humbles him, fills him with a guilt complex, and makes him obligated which he8217;d rather not be. That, minus the joy of giving8217;, the joy of receiving8217; becomes nil, as he is neither a giver8217; nor could be bothered with such finer sentiments as are reserved by the Almighty only for a chosen few.

My friend is someone who hates to hurt, while invariably in a predicament of hovering on the verge of having to hurt. Having never learnt to say a thank you8217; gracefully, and knowing not to say all that needs to be said without being crude or rude, it8217;s me his pal he8217;s now tasked to tell one and all and especially his female admirers all I have herein recorded.