He checked each passing woman who even looked like a faint possibility for his collection. Hestudied shapely young coeds, older women professors, and female visitors in the Duke BlueDevils T-shirts that seemed de rigueur for outsiders.

He licked his lips in anticipation. Here was something splendid up ahead ... A tall, slender,exquisite black woman leaned against a shapely old oak in the Edens Quad. She was reading theDuke Chronicle, which she'd folded into thirds. He loved the smooth shine of her brown skin,her artistically braided hair. But he moved on.

Yes, men are hunters by nature, he was thinking. He was off in his own world again. “Faithful”husbands were oh-so-careful and furtive with their looks. Fresh-eyed boys of eleven and twelveappeared very innocent and playful. Grandfathers pretended to be above the fray, and were just“cute” with their affection. But Casanova knew they were all watching, constantly selecting,obsessed with mastering the hunt from puberty to the grave.

It was a biological necessity, no? He was quite certain of that. Women nowadays were demandingthat men accept the fact that their female biological clocks were ticking ... well, with men,it was their biological cocks that were ticking.

Constantly ticking, those cocks.

That was a fact of nature, too. Everywhere he went, at virtually any time of day or night, hecould feel the pulsing beat inside. Tick-cock.

Tick-cock.

Tick-cock!Tick-cock!A beautiful honey-blond coed sat cross legged on the grass intersecting his path. She wasreading a paperback, Karl Jaspers Philosophy of Existence. The rock group Smashing Pumpkinswas contributing mantra like riffs from a portable CD player. Casanova smiled to himself.

Tick-cock!The hunt was relentless for him. He was Priapus for the nineties. The difference between himand so many gutless modern men was that he acted on his natural impulses.