Walking around the Copenhagen airport, killing time before my flight to Paris, I check out the girls in the area. I say to myself “I wouldn’t mind,” every other time I see one passing by. It basically means that I wouldn’t mind fucking them, though they don’t arise any special interest in me rather than just a meaningless, good old fashioned fuck. Not that I would invest any effort, time or energy to achieve that goal. Not that I would go talk to them to dig in their minds and souls, to find a significant and fulfilling connection. No, nothing like that. It’s more like, if they happened to land, legs spread open and pussy first, right onto my erect penis, I wouldn’t mind fucking them to completion. My completion, that is. Because, in my egoistic, misogynist male mind, I don’t care about them. These are all hypothetical fucks that will never happen. But they are good for a laugh. And for self-deprecation and those annoying deep existential questions. “What am I doing with my life?”