Some of us are connoisseurs, which one dictionary defines as "one who enjoys with discrimination and appreciation of subtleties." I've acquired certain passions through life, but the one which slayed me from birth, and which remains, is that for feminine beauty. Walk me through a shopping mall in your average city and there will be found gems. Hunting for lunch in a local food court with a female friend from work, she will halt our conversation respectfully as another blossom floats by; she knows it's a moment of reverence for a sick man. There are women out there who have no idea what wonders they carry with them in their very presence. And there are those who do. Both have earth-shaking power.

I like to think that I'm subtle and inoffensive as I take in the wandering treats. To offend a beautiful woman would be a crime. To force oneself upon any woman is something I've never understood. Speaking utterly selfishly, to be desired by one you desire is the payoff. Anything less would seem to be unworthy of hopeless, intrusive pursuit.

Yet I write this article to propose that sexual rape be legalized. Further, I not only propose it, I predict that it is inevitable. Curiously, proponents of forcing others upon you have held back from this final frontier. I don't understand it. We are told that it is wrong to discriminate for all manner of peculiarities or regularities. Characteristics and opinions, we are told, are the currency of a retired age, "open-mindedness" (blindness) being our new religion.

Ethnicity among females is something I'm weird about; I don't have a preference that I'm aware of. Show me a group photo of the Miss World contestants, and I'm as likely to favor a Turkish lass as an American, or a beauty from Cameroon over another man's knockout from Lansing. That may come from growing up in a house where we had people from other countries flowing through like a river. I can get along with almost anybody, despite geographical origin. So how do I feel if I see a personal ad where a black female indicates a preference for a black man? What's wrong with white men? Why the discrimination?

The final frontier. It's going to be a doozy. When I, a white man who has no problem being sexually attracted to a cute black woman, can force myself on one, then I'll know all is wrong with the world — completely and consistently wrong. I await with expectation the moment when I may call up some federal agency and register an official complaint that my sexual signals and entreaties were scorned — my pickup lines frozen in flight, tinkling to the floor as shattered ice. If the woman against whom I advanced was so stupid as to mutter something about me being an awkward, bald guy, I'd say that's pretty much the very definition of prima facie something or other, warranting extra penalties when she's served with an injunction to cease her protestation and resistance.

Marriage is what I'm ultimately gunning for. How many beautiful women at the local food court do you suppose would seriously entertain my proposal? Yet if they apply for a job with my private company, I'd be screwed, blued, and ballyhooed should I have any objection to a characteristic other than the presence or lack of a pulse. Come to think of it, maybe I was too hasty on what constitutes the final frontier of forced association. Why are dead people treated as though they have nothing to contribute? Who really knows what goes on inside the head of a dead person. Could there be feelings and rights we don't see? May I ask that a body which becomes dead inside my establishment be removed? Do I need to wait until closing time, when it's still understood (2003) that I have the right to ask everybody to leave? Why are these questions sounding less and less preposterous each day, in the same way the parody newspaper The Onion is running out of things to mock? It's all gonna explode one day.

I have no opinion on Chinese people. I haven't met all or enough of them to think there's something Chinese-ish that I don't like (other than those weird noises they make with their mouths). But let's say I can't stand 'em. I don't want them on my land — "my land" being something that doesn't exist in America, but still has some power as a relic phrase. If it's my home, I may still say I don't want them there, but I have to be damn careful I don't say, "freaking chink" when drawing down on one and firing as he tries to break in.

However, if "my land" is a business, we've achieved in this country an artificial divide which makes my opinion and wishes regarding Chinese people not only powerless, but offensive to the point where government may literally destroy me with impunity and popular support. You can talk to anyone about this conundrum, and you'll never get anything more logical than, "That's the way I like it. It's right. I'm a humanitarian. You will be forced."

Okay then. I'm just going to sit back and enjoy the ride. It's only a matter of time before I can walk up to a choice beauty, tell her she's mine, and ask if she prefers . . . no, to hell with what she prefers!

The only problem is that once this "policy" becomes law, there will be no choice beauties. The law will have destroyed that which it sought to guarantee in abundance to the rapists (thereafter named "deserving human suitors") without regard for the preferences of any except those who claim, lying through their teeth, that they have none.

I have a preference: I want to continue to be rejected by most women I would have for my own. That is the way it must be. And when one stops to think about it with a distorted enough view, I am the true victim in all of this — I and the millions of men who cannot have freely everything they desire, be it flesh, minds, land, wealth, or lives.