Judging a Book by its Cover: A review of a book I've never read.

I was on the subway when I noticed the book that the man across from me was reading, entitled "Women" by Charles Bukowski, an author with whom I am not familiar in any capacity. You tell me if that's a tragedy. Now, I have no interest in this book. In fact, I would have scoffed mightily at the title had the man reading it not had crazy eyes. In truth, I've never read a single word beyond the title and author and I won't even be bothered to look up a synopsis, yet I'm going to tell you what it's all about and why it's fucking stupid.
This is a book written by a white man. I can gauge that from his Polish surname, but moreover from the  oblivious title of the book. And even though his name is Polish, I'm going to wager that he's American, or at least Americanized and definitely a product of Western culture, and that this is not a translation. I will also wager that he was born to a Christian family, and not Jewish.
Allow me to justify my stereotyping and assure you that I'm only playing with the fact that because I've grown so familiar with sweeping generalizations against me, I've discovered the only assumptions you can ever really properly make are the ones about individuals with real social capital, not in small part because these are the characters that we, as a whole, identify with. We see them clearly because our story is told from their perspective.
If I'm wrong about the author, it's because stereotyping is wrong and easily misleads you, obviously. If I'm right, it's only because I'm so accustomed to hearing the same perspective in every media, historical, and cultural outlet that it's as familiar to me as my own, including the prejudices that those in power hold against me and others that might allow them to assume they could write a book entitled "Women" and have the audacity to think they could speak at length about all women. I couldn't make the same judgement from the perspective of a homosexual man, or a Middle Eastern woman, because their stories are not embedded in my life and culture to an extent that I could understand them like I do white, American, English-speaking, straight, Christian men.
For example, a Jewish boy in France hears about their historic rebellion spurred by rich Christian schoolboys, and he says "we fought for liberty!", while his Christian counterpart hears a story about the trials of Jewish boys during World War 2 and says "that's him and his story". A white American girl sees a movie about a magical little British boy who saves the world, and she says "this is our story about magic!" but her brother won't go see the magic claymation movie with the female lead character because "that's a girl movie." A black boy spends his entire time in history class learning about the white men who built his country of birth and very little time exploring the stories of his own lineage's vital part in it except as a shameful footnote to the main story, a lesbian girl only sees people like her in caricatures and insults. It's only the straight, white, Christian men who are properly humanized. We know these people intimately--the main characters in the stories of our lives, the heroes in every adventure--because we see ourselves in them. They represent humanity.
So, back to "Women". Since this is a novel ("A novel" is written under the title) and not a how-to book ("How To Women: a working title"), I'm willing to bet that it's a book about a bunch of romantic trysts, and part of my reasoning is a result of the dinky little drawing on the cover of the bottom half of a woman (the important part) adjusting a high-heeled shoe. You might say "well, of course it is a book about sexual adventures. It's a book about women, so of course it's about the sexual gratification of the author." To which I say, why the fuck do you equate the two? Yet I would literally bet my back-up hard drive that this is not a book about a diverse collection of female scientists, doctors, waitresses, photographers, civil servants, artists, and lawyers who wear high-heels, including a moving portrayal of the author's mother and sister and their respective trials and tribulations. I am equally certain that it's a book mostly about working-to-middle class white women, with maybe a token Asian girl thrown in for good measure, and maybe also a tragic, drug addicted street urchin.
I will also assert that not only is this a book about a string of romantic trysts focusing on white women, most likely using ill-informed tropes, but that because women [subtext: easy women] are viewed as an indulgence in which to partake in the same vein as drugs and alcohol, that this author is also some kind of drug addict or alcoholic or something. And that he isn't very well-off financially as a result.
You might say betting that an author is a poor alcoholic isn't exactly upping the ante much, but I'm really just pointing out the direct correlation between "women" and "indulgence", as if we were a thing to be enjoyed. When was the last time you saw a personification of lust and it was a well-hung muscly man in a tangerine speedo? You have never seen that. And if you have, I would like to know where you hang out please.
Don't take away from this that I think it's wrong and shameful to write a book about a series of your romantic trysts and one-night stands. You can write whatever the hell you like, I'm not the story police. In fact, I would absolutely read it if your choice of title and cover art wasn't a perfect storm of lazy and uninteresting thought. What I am the god-damn police of is naming your book "Women", as if your stories represent the whole of womanhood itself instead of, you know, several women as viewed through the skewed and biased lens of one very-important man. I mean, generally, as a rule, if you could add "amiright?" at the end of your book title and it wouldn't change the connotation too much, it's time to re-think your material. I would advise conscientious readers to steer clear of any other vastly generalized books this particular author may have written, such as "Black People" or "The Gays". You can't claim to speak for everyone in a categorized group when you don't damn well speak for everyone in that group, especially when you yourself are not a part of that group. Or, I guess, you can claim it, but just get ready for the shit-storm once you do.
Unless Charles Bukowski is dead. In which case, rest in peace little buddy. Don't you worry your pretty little head about the womenfolk no longer.