I think I recently realized why men are "commitment-phobic," and ...

k I recently realized why men are "commitment-phobic," and I wanted to hear your thoughts about my theory.

I've dated plenty of girls, and most, of course, were nutjobs, forcing me to break up with them, and it always got ugly. (Her: "Get out!!" Me: "Okay" Her: "Wait!! Where are you going?!?") One girlfriend would even start punching herself in the head if I spoke to my lawyer, because my lawyer was another female.

The best relationships I've had are with girls whom I fool around with but never get too close to. It never hurts our friendship, and we like and respect each other forever.

I'm starting to think men who don't call women back are on to something. I think that's the only way to prevent the ugly possessiveness and jealously from polluting the relationship, because you know damn well that every time a man and a woman get too close, they start getting retarded.

From now on, I think I may only have casual relationships with gals.

What do you think?

   —David

David, you yammer on about all the crazy broads you've been dating, but frankly, I think you're the nutter. Why? Because you don't know a good thing when she's standing right in front of you, smacking herself silly. Honestly, if I had a boyfriend (or even a trained monkey) that I could provoke into punching himself in the head, I don't think I'd ever leave the house. Who needs must-see tv when you've got some lunatic wildly pummeling her own noggin for your viewing pleasure?

Though, sadly, I've never had anyone go Fight Club on my ass, let me assure you that men can be just as mental as women. My first boyfriend was insanely jealous of my high school art teacher—never mind that the gentleman in question was in his sixties and homosexual. Yet another psycho ex spent two weeks in paroxysms of mouth-foaming fury because I'd "dared" to vacation with buddies instead of him. Sure, it didn't help his mood when I told him my traveling companions and I had held an impromptu "Who'll Get Fingered First" contest (which he should've been gratified to know I lost), but really—lighten up, pal. How I wish those guys had turned their anger inward instead of haranguing moi.

This may shock you, but men don't have the market on commitment phobia either. I have plenty of data that suggests women can be just as scared of getting tied down as men. I nearly had a heart attack when a guy I was dating referred to himself as my "boyfriend" two dates into the thing. What it comes down to is that because life is inherently unfair, those who want to commit to you are rarely the ones you're dying to git with.

The way I see it, you have a couple different choices: You can go with your new casual-Friday approach to dating (which is never as easy as you make it sound), or you can quit getting involved with the charismatically deranged and concentrate on finding a sane dame. Because, really David, you don't seem to appreciate all the zany hijinx that are part and parcel of banging the loonachick.

It's always been my dream to write a column like yours, but I have no idea how to start. Can you help me? Do you have any advice? Some people tell me that I will have to get experience to become a columnist, but where can I get experience? Thank you for your time.

   —Vanessa

Ah, sweet, young, impressionable Vanessa. People always ask me that question, so I'll tell you the same thing I tell them: In order to be an efficient sex columnist, you have to have a lot of sex.

I know your advisers were probably talking more along the lines of writing experience, but the first rule of being a writer is to write what you know. So my advice stands: I repeat, have a lot of sex.

Hopefully most of it will be excruciatingly bad sex—the more horrifying, the better. We're talking the kind of ghastly encounter that will not leave you basking in the afterglow—no siree—far from it. I mean the type of experience that sends you careening into the bathroom for the longest, hottest shower of your life. What you need is the kind of abhorrent rutfest that causes you to question your sexual preference once you're done. The sort of nauseating uglies-bumping that provokes you to rip that page out of your datebook, tear it up and swallow the evidence, just so you can better pretend that entire day never happened.

The correct attitude is also crucial. Say (strictly theoretically speaking, of course) you go home with someone who craps his pants just as you're about to do the nasty. Now, you could retreat into a cocoon of shock and wonder what in the hell you were doing making out with someone who didn't have any sphincter control. Or you could use the distasteful experience as fodder for your work. You could go on to write and perform a play about it, which in turn might lead to an interview on the BBC about the whole nasty business. I'd say that's worth a new set of sheets, no? Think lemonade from lemons.

Frankly, no one wants to read about your happy, well-adjusted love life and how much mind-blowing sex you're having. (Lucky for me.) Can you think of anything more annoying than sitting around in your underpants—a beer in one hand, vibrator in the other—and being subjected to some stupid slag's tale of her blissful marriage? I can't. So just remember, sweet Vanessa, as long as you're more miserable than your reader, all is right in the world.