Photograph by Christopher Anderson / Magnum

Boy, I just don't understand women. I really don't. Who are they? What do they want? Are women really from Venus, as the book tells us? And, if so, why aren't men allowed to travel there on rocket ships for a little fun in the sun? More important, is it true that women can walk directly through walls, like ghosts? Or is that something only ghosts can do?

Please explain to me what women are.

The real problem for me is that women are so inscrutable. The more you think about them, the more of a mystery they become. For instance, do women require oxygen to survive, or, like plants, can they extract energy through the process of photosynthesis? Are they of the human race? Where do they live? The Earth's core? Doesn't it get hot down there? All my life, I've pondered these questions, and yet I'm still no closer to any answers.

This lack of concrete facts has got me into quite a bit of trouble. I'll head out to a bar, for example, and try to be a nice guy by buying a woman a drink, only to suddenly find that the woman I've been speaking to already has a boyfriend. Or that I've been talking to a bucket propped up on a stick for the past forty-five minutes. Or that I haven't left my apartment in days, and just daydreamed the whole thing while spilling soda all over myself.

But such is the enigmatic nature of the opposite sex, I suppose!

Now, sure, obviously I've tried using online dating services to meet women. Honestly, I really have! But I always get hung up on the what-ifs: What if we aren't compatible? What if there's no chemistry? What if she's the kind of woman who can grow into a hundred-and-twenty-five-foot-tall giant, pluck me up in her massive fingers, and then hurl me into the sun? As much as I want to know more about women, I'm afraid that's just more of a risk than I'm willing to take.

Still, what I'd like to know more than anything—and I think all men are with me on this—is what women really want. Based on expert reports from the scientific community, many believe that the answer is sheet metal, which women rely upon for sustenance. Because of this, every night, before bed, I place a bit of corrugated iron on my windowsill for women to grab with their mandibles. Strangely enough, though, they never appear.

Could it be that I am a woman? Somehow I doubt it. But, then again, maybe!

If someone could provide me with even a basic definition of "women," that would be tremendously helpful. But, unfortunately, if you look up "women" in the dictionary, all you'll find is a picture of a little guy shrugging his shoulders and looking at you as if to say, "Sorry, pal, your guess is as good as mine!"

Ultimately, it comes down to a matter of opinion. Some see women as a state of mind. Others as a type of matter that is neither solid nor gaseous. A few people—myself included—think of women as a sunny day in Central Park, when you've just purchased an ice-cream cone and are thoroughly enjoying it on a bench without getting even a drop on yourself. Each and every one of these answers is correct in its own way.

Which leads me to my central question: Are women real? Yes, I suppose you could argue that. Although, then again, ask yourself: When was the last time you saw a woman face to face? Frankly, I can't remember once in my life seeing an actual woman. Awfully suspicious, wouldn't you say?