good read by Florence King

[araby]

A good man is hard to find- now more than ever. A good Good Ole Boy is even rarer, but they do exist, and the woman who runs across one finds herself having a surprisingly good time with him. 
The good Good Ole Boy is named Earl, and the nicest thing about him is that he can cut the mustard. His lovemaking is not polished, but it’s vigorous and there is plenty of it. Earl does not have “problems,” he has erections. He is simplistic and uncerebral, and his work does not drain him dry. He already has an erection long before you hit the bed, and he can maintain it for as much as half an hour. After it is finally expended, Earl rests awhile, has a couple of beers, and then gets another erection. Earl’s girl friend doesn’t have to do a thing except be there. 
For a woman who has spent five years on college campuses and dated a string of tormented intellectuals, there is nobody quite like Earl. There are times in a woman’s life when she does not give a hoot in hell whether a man has read War and Peace or not. Earl’s motto is Dulce et decorum est in medio coitu mori, and he doesn’t lose a thing in the translation. 
Earl’s lovemaking is also normal. He is not interested in doing arcane things to the bend of his girl friend’s elbow, nor will he invite her to stand on her head wearing crotchless bikinis. 
When Earl takes a girl out for a special date, he will do what he calls “treat her right.” He picks the most expensive restaurant in town, where, with touching magnanimity, he tells her: “You get anything you want, you hear?” Not for him one of those dark, atmospheric “in” places like Hindu Burpee. Earl would be horrified at the very thought of taking a girl to such a place. To him, it’s a dump, and if he likes a girl, he considers her a jewel worthy of a proper setting. He may not know how to act in an expensive restaurant, but he doesn’t care- he has the courage to go anyway, and muddle through. 
Any woman who has sat silently by while a self-proclaimed wine aficionado tastes his ritual drop and then nods meekly to the snide and knowing sommelier should go on a date with Earl. He does not put on airs, and he cannot be cowed. I had given up all hope of actually being out with a man who sent back the wine, but then I met Earl, who slapped his mouth, shuddered, and said: 
“This diddly-squat stuff tastes like vinegar. Ain’t you got nothin’ better ‘n ‘at?” 
It was one of the finest nights of my life. 
Earl is a prime example of Southern contradiction, for though he himself is not an intellectual, he takes fierce pride in a girl friend who reads books and does something interesting for a living. He will take her around to his favorite tavern and brag about her to all his friends. He thrusts her into their midst, saying: “She works on the newspaper, she writes pieces. Gets her name in the paper nearly evra day…She speaks French. Hey, say sumpin’ in French…Hear that?” 
Male chauvinist pig? I think not. 
I was once in a crowded suburban drugstore with Earl shortly after vaginal sprays came out. We found ourselves in the feminine hygiene aisle, and Earl studied the labels on the aerosol cans with an expression of shocked disapproval. Then, oblivious to the crowds around us, he turned around and asked: 
“What’s wrong with pussy?” 
Earl is a gallant man.