Who are these men in the book ‘Porn for Women’?

EVERY day in the mail, along with form letters from Hillary Clinton and charity pitches for money accompanied by gifts of return-address stickers, I receive books from authors hoping for a review -- even a bad one -- or just a little mention.

Most of them are mysteries because that’s all anyone is writing these days. This is a phenomenon rooted in the success of Michael Connelly, who rose from the gloom of journalism to the rank of bestselling author with his Harry Bosch series.

I don’t generally read mysteries but lean more toward books of an intellectual genre. I have one in front of me right now, for instance, the mere title of which has set the synaptic connections of my brain waves sparking. It’s called “Porn for Women.”

Your expectation was probably the same as mine, that a real, honest-to-God dirty book was awaiting perusal. I noticed right away that it was published by the Cambridge Women Pornography Cooperative, and that seemed even better -- smart women performing depraved (but creative) acts of sexual degradation with animalistic men.

Then I noticed it contained photographs by Susan Anderson and my lust was heightened beyond any intellectual or literary level as I surmised that what awaited was smart women doing despicable things in living color.

Well, you can zip up, guys. That’s not what “Porn for Women” is about. Although it asks the question, “What really gets you hot?,” the mood quickly dissipates when the prologue explains, “Prepare to enter our fantasy world, girls (or guys who want to learn something): a world where clothes get folded just so, dinners await us at home and flatulence is just not that funny.”

As I turned the pages, my passion index dropped to zero, because this is not a book of women performing acts that would be banned in Oakland, but a collection of photos geared strictly toward women enjoying pleasures beyond eroticism: hunky, shirtless men bringing them flowers for no reason, leaning in to pay attention to what they’re saying, vacuuming the house and cooking gourmet dinners.

One particularly disturbing illustration is the depiction of a stud holding a trash bag, accompanied by the caption, “As long as I have legs to walk on, you’ll never have to take out the garbage.” The word “never” is in boldface.

Books like this, more so than even “Das Kapital” or “The Feminist Mystique,” threaten the basic culture of coexistence in America by striking at the balance of gender relationships. For years, men have only half-listened to what women were saying, have avoided even learning how an oven operates and considered flatulence right up there with burping as prime elements of humor.

Although my own idea of what’s funny might vary considerably from that of a hod carrier or a drywall plasterer, many of the elements in “Porn” seem related to conditions that exist in my household. I have noticed that in the age of female empowerment Cinelli isn’t inclined to honor the old standards anymore. Just last Thursday, for example, she asked me to take out the garbage.

Due to a bad back and a possible hernia, I have avoided taking out the garbage for more consecutive days than Joe DiMaggio’s famous 56-game hitting streak for the New York Yankees in 1941. I gasped and looked so horrified at her suggestion that she took out the garbage herself, fearful that the emotional trauma could shock my heart into ventricular fibrillation.

Another outrageous depiction in “Porn” is that of a man smiling warmly while cleaning the cat box and saying, “Who could object to cleaning up after the cutest thing on four legs?” Fortunately, our cat box is so high-tech that even the cat isn’t sure how it’s supposed to operate. Since Cinelli has long realized that I am helpless in the face of technology, she takes care of it.

All things considered, I am not the ideal husband in a culture that redefines pornography for women as men cooking gourmet dinners or giving their wives the better car to drive. I am willing to dance in my underwear or parade around the bedroom wearing only boots and a cowboy hat (spurs are optional), but that isn’t good enough anymore, according to the Cambridge Women, a twisted bunch if ever there was one.

OK, the book does make some valid points, and since I don’t want my wife to start lusting after young shirtless guys who are willing to sit through movies with subtitles, I am going to change my ways. Sort of.

Although I am unwilling to abandon my quest for 100 consecutive days without taking out the garbage, I will start cleaning the cat box if I can figure out the electronic process without trapping the cat in the automatic sweeping mechanism. Cinelli will be so taken with the idea that God knows what acts of animalism she will be willing to undertake. But after observing the mess I’ve made of the infernal contraption, she will nudge me aside and clean the cat box herself.

That’ll show me.