An open letter to Harvey Weinstein, by Constance Beasley (Mrs)

So please heed the following strictures. Your fellow offenders against civilised behaviour, such as Bill Cosby, Bill O’Reilly, Donald Trump, Roy Moore and Al Franken (no doubt with many more yet to come), can also profit from them.  
But first, there is one overriding question. From what I see on TV, you have a perfectly lovely and charming little wife. Why not make her the sole object of your affections? Why break her heart and the laws of God and men with your oafish attempts at infidelity? 
Now here are my rules. By following them, you may conceivably achieve some small measure of redemption. I call them the Constance Beasley Principles of Proper Courtship:  
1. Clean up your act. The photos of you that appear in the press and the images that appear on TV indicate that, physically, you are a mess. No woman with the slightest bit of self-respect will want to be seen in public with you. First, drop thirty pounds. Women want to see pecs of iron and abs of steel, not a gut like the one on Jabba the Hutt. Second, either shave every day or grow a proper beard. No woman wants to get near a face that feels like a cactus and looks like Pete the Tramp.  
  2. Refine your technique. Approach your intended lady love like the late, great Cary Grant, who was a model of suave and debonair deportment. Stop coming on like gangbusters or the Incredible Hulk.  Appearing at your hotel door in a bathrobe (or less), demanding a massage, and suggesting that the lady watch you masturbate may have been popular seduction techniques in the age of Neanderthal Man, but not anymore. The modern woman is a delicate, sensitive flower who requires gentleness and finesse.  
If I may refer indelicately to a habit you are rumoured to have, I must advise you never, never, to expose your genitalia to public or private view. I cannot understand how any man with a functioning brain could possibly imagine that any woman could possibly have the slightest interest in seeing his pathetic little honker. Even the large ones resemble nothing more attractive than a deformed hotdog. (So I am told. Being a lady of impeccable breeding, I have no personal experience of such filth.)
3. Woo her in style. Should you be attracted to a young lady, ask her out to a posh restaurant. Present her with a bouquet of the most exotic flowers. Wine her and dine her in an elegant setting. I’m not talking about the local noodle stand, I’m talking about a prestigious venue like, say, The Oriental. Toast her with the finest wines, with Merlot or Chablis, not with lao khao or Mekhong.  Treat her to Kobe steak, or duck l’orange, or pheasant under glass – not to somtam or yentafo. Do not be a cheap Charlie. Your status in her eyes will vary with the size of the bill.
4. Dazzle her with your erudition. Bone up on Aristotle and Kierkegaard, Wittgenstein and Kant. Don’t bore her by nattering about the Dallas Cowboys or Manchester United. Present yourself as a widely educated and refined cosmopolitan, familiar with the Greek classics, the mysteries of subatomic physics, and the byzantine depths of Freudian psychology – not as a one-note Johnny who only babbles about football.
5. Entertain her with an eclectic mix of music, dancing, art and theatre. Does she like Mozart and Beethoven, or P Diddy and Pussy Riot? Treat her to the opera, or the latest concert by Miley Cyrus.  Take her dancing. A young lady of elegance and culture is sure to prefer the waltz, the foxtrot, and the tango to whatever barbarous dance forms may be currently in vogue. Take her to art galleries, to see the works of the great French masters: Renoir, Monet, Cezanne and Stephff. Take her to the theatre, too: Shakespearean dramas are sure to set her heart a-flutter.
6. Be patient. Rome was not built in a day, nor was the heart of a fair maiden ever won by a five-minute romp in the backseat of a broken-down Packard. After six months of introducing her to a variety of venues, restaurants, and performance genres, you may win her favour sufficiently to venture a peck on the cheek. This is the way they did it in my day – all properly chaperoned, of course.  
My husband, who is a bit of a caveman not unlike yourself, is at my elbow at this very moment, champing at the bit and demanding that I tell you when you can “do it”. I presume he is referring, in his boyish but inarticulate way, to participating in an act of sexual congress.
Well, young man, here’s the bad news. You get to “do it” only after several years of courtship have elapsed and you have met her family, received their blessing, and married the young lady in a proper church ceremony conducted by a bishop, an archbishop, or a clergyman of comparable rank in the faith of your choice.
Should you be too impatient to endure all this, and should you be interested only in a short-term relationship, I suggest that you pay a visit to Thailand, where I am privileged to live. Thailand offers a number of commercial establishments where the formalities are considerably more liberal than the ones I have outlined above. My husband, Horace Beasley, has kindly offered to provide his expert guidance for a modest fee.   
Wishing you success in your properly conducted romantic endeavours, I remain, my dear sir,
Yours faithfully,
Constance Beasley (Mrs)
PS: Horace says you also have to pay for his drinks.