One burning question has lingered in the thoughts of women across the world since the very beginning of civilization. "Why the hell are guys like that?" Or more specifically, "Why can't I have a rational conversation with a guy without him looking at my boobs every five seconds or having his eyes glaze over as he strokes his mental stiffy with thoughts of me in a naughty French maid outfit, two nipple clamps and a short but firm whip?"

The Male Conspiracy has kept the answer to this question closely guarded, forcing you gals to come up with your own wild conjectures. Some of you have studied animal behaviors and attributed those to us. Others say that evolution has programmed us with this behavior and even millenia of civilized living cannot counter that. Still others blame our culture for fostering an ideal of the womanhunter that we all strive unconciously to attain.

Nope. The true answer is that fire is the reason and you are the cause. Totally, completely, 100%, en totale your fault. You did it. Well maybe not you specifically but other women like you. Specifically, it was our Moms.

You see, men have an ingrained love of destruction, specifically fire. All of the problems with how we men view y'all started when we were around 4 years old at the family campsite. Dad started the camp fire and then went off to set up the tents leaving you to watch us while unpacking enough supplies to bivouac a brigade of marines for a fortnight. Your professed goal was to unload and set up said gear but we know the truth. Your true desire was to stop us from fulfilling our all encompassing desire to play with that camp fire.

"Stay away from there!" you shouted as we edged a bit closer, long stick in hand. "It's not safe. you'll burn yourself." You ignored all of our pleas, all of our statements that we watched Dad do it. "Your father is a grown up and he knows what he's doing." Right, as if there is some critical education needed to put one end of the stick into the fire while holding onto the other one. "Stay away from that fire or you'll be in the tent when we roast marshmallows." That was very clever of you, teasing us with a future chance to play with the fire if we behaved now. Threatening to take away the chance to make marshmallow torches if we messed up. How could you be so cruel?

So we did behave. We didn't mess with the fire. We helped unload the coolers and sleeping bags and bided our time until we could sacrifice marshmallows to the gods of flame. But you tricked us, didn't you? You didn't bring out the marshmallows until the fire was burned down to coals. Burned down so low that there was no way to achieve ignition without resting that spun sugar benediction right on top of those ash covered embers. Burned down so low that you could keep an easy eye on us to make sure we didn't do what we so needed to do. "Hold that up higher! You're going to burn your marshmallow. If you burn it you're going to have to eat it!" As if eating marshmallows had anything to do with toasting them! Honestly, did you really think that we wanted to eat those oversweet confections?

Then when you finally tired of your sick little game you declared the roasting over and did the unspeakable. You poured water on the camp fire! As the steam hissed in that former inferno's dying last gasp a little piece of us died as well. Did you notice that tear in our eye when you shuffled us off to bed? No, I didn't think so.

But you didn't recon on how clever we could be with our backs against the wall, did you? No, when you took the car the next day to go get supplies and souvenirs and left us fishing with Dad you thought that all was well, didn't you? Well you forgot that Dad is a guy too and that means he was not competent to keep his eye on us while doing something as complex as stabbing worms and drinking beer. He didn't notice when we snuck back to the camp fire (a bit burned low from the breakfast but still workable) with our big stick in hand. And then we were in heaven.

We played with that fire. We stroked it lovingly, rearranging its elements in loving tribute. We gave gave it sticks and twigs and grass and pine needles, all of nature was fair sacrifice to our flaming lover. We stuck our stick deep into its fiery depths. We made that fire our bitch.

Then you got back. We didn't even here you pull up, so captivated were we by the dancing flames. We sure heard you when you got a look at what we were doing though and that was your final sin, the act that crystallized our attitudes toward women for all time, the catharsis of the intricate trap you had lain for us. You ripped us from the depths of our hypnotized blissful state, thrusting us rudely into the world of the living - the world of cold, static matter. You took advantage of our beffudled state, viciously lashing us with your verbal vitriol when we did not have even our juvenile responses available. Oh, the trauma on our young psyche. Oh, the humanity.

And that did it. Something snapped into place in our immature subconcious that will be with us for all our lives. Because of that childhood trauma we now have this implacable recessed desire for those flames. Because it was you who did it to us that desire is forever tied to the female. We see that fire in every woman we meet. We see that fire in you. Just like that kid with the camp fire we want to explore, manipulate, play, struggle to control the uncontrollable. In our maturity that has translated to sexual desires. We still want to slide that stick into your fiery nether regions.

So don't blame us for what we cannot control. Don't blame us for what you yourself have created. In fact, it would be very good for your karma if you attoned a bit for your heinous actions. When our eyes glaze over while you're talking, consider running your tongue over your lips or smiling suggestively. When our eyes are drawn magnetically to your cleavage, perhaps you could inhale deeply or even pop out a nipple. These simple things can help to bring us back to reality quickly and safely and eventually might even heal the damage you caused so long ago in our forgotten youth.