I love to watch men play sports. I’ll watch any sport – basketball, baseball, football, swimming, rugby, Gatorade commercials. Really, I’m not picky. The cute little uniforms, tight shorts, muscle flexing, field frustration and men, sweating it out for my viewing pleasure, while I sip on a Guinness.

According to a recent issue of Biology of Reproduction, the presence of male sweat reduces female stress levels. Eighteen heterosexual women were used to test this theory – all had extracts of male sweat applied to their upper lips. All 18 reported that they felt less tension and more up beat after the application.

Shit, I could’ve told you that. Really, what woman doesn’t want a guy to sweat it out for her? I call it the “slave driver instinct.”

On the average, women must look into the subliminal – the sweat if you will – to achieve a desired outcome. You know, like men working. For us. For me. To fix my car in 90 degree weather. To go shopping, buy me fabulous shoes and carry my bags. If he’s sweating, I’m one step closer to Gucci. You follow me?

Men are almost wholly incapable of satisfying women otherwise with two exceptions – great sex and what I call the “period of pursuit.” And at both times, the men are sweating – and they are sweating for us.

The period of pursuit is the only extended period time a man is capable of satisfying a woman without the woman having to read into subliminal signals to hear what she wants.

Take for instance, my charming ex. His idea of pursuit included everything but the kitchen sink. I mean walks on the beach, cooking dinner, candlelight and disgustingly adorable calls just to say hello. I mean really, if I wasn’t me at the time, I would have regurgitated my liver.

Four months later, our average day was something more along the lines of: walks to the ATM, heating the frozen burrito, TV screen light and disgusting calls to cancel something. And now I am regurgitating my liver. Not that my ex became a bad person, he just got over the pursuit idea. The secret garden was mowed. I showed him the money. He had me at hello… (Am I going too far with the “Jerry Maguire” thing?).

Anyway, it’s spring quarter and ay, popi, amor est