Paris, London, Wherever – Lucasta V–, the sole emotional support of her aging father figure, has found herself longing for a personality in the small hours of the night.
“It is true, I am blonde and virginal and am embroiled in an improbable yet proper romance, and that should be enough,” said Lucasta, twirling a curl of her golden tresses which naturally need no special care. “And yet!”
“Surely there must be more to life than being a cipher for the author’s fantasies of having a beautiful, uncritical girl child be his helpmeet for all his days. Perhaps he could bless me with an aptitude for punning, or fashioning hair jewelry? Or give me strong political opinions?”
After pausing, Lucasta shook her head. ‘No. Let’s not go nuts.”
Whatever else Lucasta had to say about the matter was drowned out by the male author’s heavy breathing as he described how the wind whipped her skirt up past her fifteen year old ankles. The ankles, as described, were perfectly formed.
Meanwhile, several other, potentially more interesting, female characters went ignored by the male author on account of their age, hair color, level of physical attractiveness as judged by the author, and/or potential moral complexity.