It’s got to be said, darling, that whenever a “man” needs a lot of fanfare for anything, most especially something as simple and straightforward as his name, well, then, it’s fairly likely he’s got something to hide. And that something is a phantom panisse. Think about it: did the greatest lotharios, the most illustrious sex machines rely on some long flowery moniker to distinguish them to women? Certainly not. Don Juan, Marquis de Sade, Ron Jeremy. These are all extremely succinct. In the old days, a cumbersome nom might have been a sign of nobility–but when was nobility ever a sign of virility?

When you start involving the lengthiness of a name like Prince Charles Philip Arthur George, it becomes clear just what is not lengthy where it counts in duration of coitus and size of appendage delivering the performance. No one needs to know your credentials based on the largeness of your name, but on how pleasantly large you can make the clitoris swell and then contract at the opportune moment of orgasm. So unless reciting your unnecessarily protracted name while having sex helps you protract the enjoyment of the ingenue you’ve managed to convince of your greatness in stature and finances (there’s a reason rich girls flock to bartenders and waiters), a one-word designation will suffice. Like the most tangible personification of sex there ever was, Prince.