Through delicate inquiries into the ovulation cycle of a female, I have learned to detect her ripeness by means of olfaction alone. I venture out onto the streets of my borough and at once the sweet perfume of reproduction overtakes me. Yet these females, who bear such tender fruit, only chase the jocks who do not even savor their magnificent flows and discharges. I, a sommelier who worships the intricate machinations of their womanhood, am constantly rejected. What am I doing wrong?