There are certain things that men seem to do a lot more often than women. Such as, oh, to pull a random example out of the news, pay for sex.

And when you see a news conference where some disgraced person is apologizing deeply and humbly for a politically disastrous sexual extravagance, the penitent is generally a man (flanked by his mortified wife, who stands by in a silent display of implied and possibly fictitious, or at least extremely costly, solidarity).

Men are also your principal consumers of pornography. Some men have concluded from this that women are simply not particularly interested in sex, but that is faulty logic. We're just not interested in the sort of porn conceived by men. It's monotonous and lacks compelling dialogue.

In college, assuming that what's good for the gander is good for a goose, I peeped into a copy of Playgirl that someone had bought as a joke. I was appalled. It contained page after page of freakishly disfigured men with oddly contemplative expressions on their faces, as if they were trying to remember the words of a song.

Yes. I looked at their faces.

The closest equivalent that women have to porn -- which Mr. Webster defines as "writings, pictures, etc. intended primarily to arouse sexual desire" -- is romance novels. They cater to what we find sexy, which is a story, possibly including pirates, cowboys or masked noblemen, in a place, preferably with a windswept, craggy shoreline, where people say passionate things and wear fabulous clothes that are described in great detail. By the time that bodice is ripped, you know exactly what color silk it is made from.

And it doesn't get ripped until there has been a lot of adventure, flirtation and compelling dialogue. Or, OK, what passes for compelling dialogue in romance novels. "My heart will always be yours alone, Roderigo!" ... I can't defend it, really, but it's no worse than "How else could I pay you for this pizza?"

Anyway, I thought that we'd all just have to make do with romance novels until one of my colleagues slipped me a slim, lurid little volume called "Porn for Women." It's a picture-book of 30 postcards (send 'em to a lonely friend! Tape 'em inside your locker!) produced by the Cambridge Women's Pornography Cooperative, a group formed in 2005 to "salvage the term 'pornography' from the gold-chained, hairy-chested, leisure-suit-wearing knuckleheads, and reclaim it for the rest of us."

So what is "porn for women"? Picture this: an attractive guy stepping in through a door, fully clothed in a flattering, dark suit and dress shirt (no tie -- cute). He is smiling and extending toward you a bouquet that includes Gerbera daisies and doesn't look like it has been wilting in a bucket at the supermarket all day. And, in a sound balloon, he says ...

"I don't have to have a reason to bring you flowers."

Oh, baby. That's hot.

In another picture, that same guy (let's not call him Roderigo), still fully clothed, is offering a piece of chocolate-raspberry cake. (I can tell.)

And he is saying, "Have another piece of cake. I don't like you looking so thin."

Mmmmmmm.

He's a keeper, that one. He's shirtless on the book's cover, gazing hypnotically from atop some kind of furry rug that looks very soft and asking, "Want to snuggle?"

There are pictures of men dusting. Vacuuming. Cleaning the stove! Cooking! Scooping the cat's litter box! Putting the toilet seat down! Yes! Yes! Yes!

And they're murmuring wonderful, delicious things like, "I like to get to these things before I have to be asked," and "I made some Niman Ranch lamb tenderloin with garlic, black pepper and Indonesian soy sauce for dinner. I hope that sounds OK." Do nothings come any sweeter?

Sure, you can put a guy on a motorcycle or a horse, or you can drape him over a lifeguard chair at the beach, and that's pretty sexy. But to achieve the level of porn, mere visual appeal isn't adequate for us. We want content. Subtext. The promise of attentiveness, devotion and affection. Also, surfactants. The tight T-shirt alone doesn't explain the allure of Mr. Clean.

A recent Associated Press story with the optimistic headline "Men Who Do Housework May Get More Sex" quotes a psychologist who said, "If a guy does housework, it looks to the woman like he really cares about her." Looking like you care is half the battle.

And when you do the math, doing the dishes is a remarkably low price to pay.