Good to be bad, bad to be good?

Men with largely uncontrolled libidos, playing the field with no qualms, seem to have it all. All the pleasures of life (as some would call it) and the lack of baggage on their backs. Of course, we all know someone or many like these. And to be fair, women have their fair share of similarly wild oat sowers. Or rather they let many oat sowers plow their field. We don't really like them, for what they do. Accuse them, they won't care and thus wouldn't bother anyway. Or are we just envious we have not chosen or been able to choose to live the way they do?

Men with largely controlled libidos, playing the game of remaining as good as they can possibly be, seem to have it shoved up their chaste asses. Consider the hen-pecked husband. The obedient sucker boyfriend. And perhaps all those in between. All the heartaches and pain in trying to appease the unappeaseable, with largely no benefits, except perhaps the joy of knowing true love (and pain), and the physical joys of a monk with blue balls, at the mercy of a companion's whims. The pain and feelings of idiocy infinitely soars, when they realise their efforts are largely small in the eyes of others, when inescapable suspicion and its cousins creep into their lives.

Sometimes, I wonder. Is there a point to being nice? Sometimes while sitting on a dry bed of thorns, the grass indeed looks greener on the playing field.

Sometimes I have no idea what I'm writing about. And this appears to perhaps be one of those times.