Vulcan Fortress

I shall betray the Y chromosome by writing this, but the men of my age are so worthless I couldn't care if an emotional Holocaust beset them.
To his heart is no path, but a fortress. A fortress with rows and rows of walls that sanity has built to keep you out, to keep out every contagion and virus, every lunatic, every succubus. Let's start at the outer walls, or at least where I assume most humans are.
Gate 0: Social status. Because women are toys. Just vestigial for me.
Gate 1: Beauty. Oh, Martin (and some men) isn't shallow; he's real. For any person to deny such walls is to claim a straight man must always fall in love with every gay man who feels a certain way. I can say, my defenses are weakest at the western tip of my compass-shaped fortress.
Gate 2: Skills. Ha! Chris would make a joke here. Can she satisfy every hunger? Every? Oh such a wooden palisade I have.
Gate 3: Entertainment value. By now, each checkpoint is growingly subjective.
But men are stupid. I agree with you girls. But I'm not a man. I'm a ghost at sixteen. I'm a pilot and an inventor, an engineer of new gates.
Gate IV: Honesty. I must be among the first of my age to grow such a gate.
Gate V: Beauty. Look again. It could be an Agent pointing his gun at you.
Gate VI: Long-term objectives. Now this is just useless at my age.

It's actually pretty simple. Just attack from the proper side and use keys.