If you’re like me, you listen to music to escape reality. If I’m feeling depressed, I’ll listen to Kool and the Gang’s “Celebrate.” If I’m feeling lazy, it’s Huey Lewis’ “Sports.” If I haven’t eaten for a few days it’s time for Weird Al Yankovic’s “Food Album.” Throughout my life, music has always been there to provide me with temporary escape routes from my humdrum existence, and for that I am grateful. And after all these years I’ve come to tune my musical tastes to anticipate how I’ll be feeling when I listen to each record. And it is for this reason that the latest trend in the female R&B realm has passed me thankfully by.

Consider songs such as “Bootylicious” by Destiny’s Child, in which the formidable foursome/duo/trio smugly inform me that they don’t think I’m ready to bust their respective cherries. Or “Minute Man” by Missy Elliot, a sweeping condemnation of gents who are quick on the draw. Never in my life have I spent hours driving a woman to climax after earth-shaking climax only to think to myself, “Now if only I had finished a little quicker, I could hear her complain about my premature ejaculation. Man, that’d be sweet right now.” The basic message that we’re getting out of female R&B acts these days can be summed up as “Ooh, look at me. I’m so sexy. You can’t have sex with me, that’s how sexy I am.” While this may be a fitting slogan for the rising postfeminist pop culture movement, it hardly makes for a suitable alternative to reality. It’s difficult for me to imagine a situation in which there were so many women trying to swallow my cock that I would actively seek out pre-emptive rejection in the form of three-minute dance boogies.

This brings us to the much-needed antithesis to the aggressive, confrontational themes of female hip hop. Escape need not be sought any further than the soothing music of middle-class white women. If growing up in the ghetto hardens a woman and hones her self-confidence and assertiveness, growing up in the foamy lap of American suburbia reduces her to a submissive mound of sexual pudding, fostering every conceivable insecurity until she has no choice but to beg me to have sex with her in her music. I’m “everywhere” to Michelle Branch. Sarah McLachlan swears my love is “better than ice cream.” And if I could ever hack my way through Jewel’s turgid poetry, I’m pretty sure I’d find her asking me to bone her, too. And that’s plenty pleasing to my ears.

Not only are white female folk singers more forthcoming with their boxes, but they’re just as attractive as their hip hop counterparts, and in some cases more so. (At least in the case of Missy Elliot. Hey, Missy. You know what? Maybe the reason guys don’t last so long for you is that your mountainous flab squeezes their semen out like toothpaste before proper stimulation has been attained.)

In conclusion, I strongly encourage young men to mimic my music-buying habits, for the simple sake of self-esteem and escapism. Furthermore, I encourage young women to do the same, since I’d hate for all those self-confident, independent, successful female songwriters to put any ideas into their heads.