“American men have been raised on a fiction: that American women are soft, feminine and alluring. They forsake the freedom of single bliss and the grubby affairs in motels and automobile back seats for the fantasy that is held up on all sides of soft female flesh, partially hidden by a sheer black negligee; sex on silken sheets with a perpetually young and sylphlike wife with red lips and nails by Revlon and hair always in place by Toni. They dream of gay, perfumed nights of love courtesy of Sortilege.
Even before the honeymoon is over, the sucker discovers that in marrying an American woman, he sold himself into bondage to a domineering, sexless individual who regards marriage as a contest with a husband to see who is going to be the boss. And the poor chump always loses.”
Them’s the breaks.
By the by, I had to look up Sortilege — while the author is probably talking about having a gay time (ahem) with the Canadian brand of whiskey/maple syrup liqueur, I’m choosing to believe he meant the ’80s French heavy metal band.