I always thought it was weird how men in books were typically described in appearance as “He was tall, blond and lanky, with a wiry build and a farm boy’s warm face, kindly, youthful, with cornflower-blue eyes. As he made his way down the corridor, his walk seemed both hurried and relaxed, his steps wide but unstressed.” Whereas a woman’s is “She had on a purple pantsuit, a power suit, a corporate, business look, that was still well-tailored enough to show the curves of her buttocks and accommodate the slight sway of her hips as she walked ahead of him. He could see the slight upturn of the blazer where it met her lower waist, then turn inward and upward as it gently hugged her toned waistline. Her pace and stride suggested confidence, but he sensed a sort of cover - as though somewhere inside, those firm footfalls in the strappy black block heels were intent on hiding a well-buried vulnerability. With each click of her step, her black hair, soft yet emanating power, shifted slightly, falling in waves to the small of her back. When they reached the door, she turned to face him, the blazer opening on a bright white, satiny, buttonless blouse, into which her cleavage was curtained like a nude between drapes in a faux-Classical painting.”

That is: Men can be described in a couple sentences. Women have to be described in as many sentences as it takes before the male author reaches climax.