We took a survey of literally one people, attempting to discern the most popular sexual fantasies of the modern male. Emphasis here is on the 'modern' part of this survey, because a true quantification of male desires hasn't been attempted since 1963, when all men wanted was a diminuitive, deferential woman in a sundress, serving lemonade to them in clean glasses. Times have changed, friend, as evidenced below.

On the Boss's Desk

Ah! Is there anything more satisfying that standing to at the lee of your boss's desk, enduring his or her condescending glower, all while you stare at where you left a sweaty double-rump-print a scant ten hours before? That ain't no coffee stain, son. That's a you-and-the-cleaning-lady mark of honour. The paperwork Boss left last night seems to be ruffled again, and Boss makes a mental note to chide the head of the cleaning department. Again.

Just watch out for those hidden cameras, bro. Yeah, who needs this job anyway?

On an Airplane

There's nothing more uncomfortable or unrewarding than sex in an airplane bathroom, and it seems like the most ridiculous idea ever cooked up by the male brain. That is, until you're on a transatlantic flight for eight hours, with nothing to do but sit in hellish torture whilst being subjected to vacuous movies about pets and treasure hunters. Then your eyes lock with that one who got on the plane during the stopover in Newark.

On the ground, she's a six. Seven, tops. But each click of the altimiter adds another fraction to her score, and soon you're looking at a seven-point-two, brother. She moves towards the facilities, following your gaze as she sashays that now-wrinkled pantsuit down the aisle. Now's your chance! Go for it! At the very least, maybe she'll give you that package of peanuts she never opened...

Sex in Space

Yes, that's right. The number three response from all poll respondents revealed that man-kind (male-kind) not only has an overriding altruistic desire to conquer the lands extraterrestrial, but to snog whilst doing it. While there are no documents proving that anyone has had occasion to fornicate in zero-G, I'm willing to bet dollars to doughnut holes that it's happened already.

Picture it - Everything is basked in the eerie blue-white glow of Earth's reflected sunlight. You've just finished having a space-shower after a hard day full of space-paperwork when suddenly, some Barry White starts playing over the headsets - and look! There's a candle-lit dinner floating in the middle of the invertebrate habitat pod. That is some kind of female research scientist you've got there, comrade, and you know it's definitely time to get down to the business at hand by the way she's let her hair float up... and out. Time to practice your docking manouevers, cosmonaut!

On a Sinking Aircraft Carrier

There was a time, long ago now in America's past, when women weren't allowed to participate in the armed forces. No, they were perfectly happy to dutifully stay at home assembling P-51 Mustangs, testing dud ammunition with tiny hammers for their men overseas. There was a reason for this, and not the general sexist reason that gets bandied about like so many wiffle balls - a reason so dark and so mysterious that nobody dare even hint at its diabolic proportions. So much so that even when wimmiyin's libbers were up in arms (figuratively speaking) over their exclusion from our honoured ranks of highly-trained soldiers, and demanded that they be allowed to go up in arms (literally speaking) side-by-side with their men on the battlefield, those who knew the dark secret kept quiet, and acceeded to their demands. This secret is as follows:

Men cannot control themselves when presented with the opportunity to bump uglies on the deck of a sinking aircraft carrier.

As ridiculous as it may sound to the uninformed, this is a rare, but real, phenomenon that can and has caused men to scuttle their own aircraft carriers in order to achieve their deep, lizard-brained goal. This desire is so deep-seated that it cannot be avoided with medication, paralysation, or even decapitation. Beware, female Navy men - if your commanding officer suggests with a wry grin and a seemingly-overstuffed jacket that you meet on deck at Oh-Christ-Hundred hours, alert the sick bay. Alert someone, or your ship is going down, and you may be going down along with it.

Here. Now. You.

Men, as you may know, don't care. They want it, and they want it here. Now. On the table behind you. On the tricycle in the garage. Under the pool table. In the refrigerator. On the roof. With a goat or without. Doesn't matter. What many have suspected for a long time is true - Men are pigs, and they have the love scars to prove it.

As much as they may dismiss the notion, or play off that they're 'better than that', they're not. From king to hobo, rich man to not-rich man, we all want it. Here. Now. You.

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