Misandry. Accent on the first syllable. Webster's Collegiate defines it as: "(Rare) hatred of men." So rare, in fact, that the esteemed lexographers excluded it from the smaller desk dictionary. "Misogyny," though, is there. I guess hatred of women is a lot more common.


I am a bit sensitive on this topic, as I have been accused -- unfairly, I might add -- of a specific branch of misandry: hatred of Russian men.


A businesslike fax I received the other day ended with the query, "May I ask why you can't stand Russian men?" And another, truly delightful missive came in over my vacation. "Dear Jean," it began, "Forget about Fedya and join SWARM -- the Society of Women against Russian Men."


First of all, I would like to say that I am flattered and touched that someone out there is reading me. And I will admit that some of my more acerbic columns could be interpreted as being slightly negative on the subject of cross-cultural relationships.


But I do not want to be labeled as a hater of Russian men. I have begun to take a broader view: I have become an equal-opportunity misandrist. This is due, in large part, to a small survey I have conducted over the past few years on ethics in romance. For the sake of argument, let me take my old friends Fedya and Stan.


Although Fedya is, as more than one friend has pointed out, the embodiment of the Russian male in many respects, he does not exactly fit the stereotype. He doesn't drink much, he is almost never violent, and I have even seen him vacuum.


On the politically correct scale, we would have to call Fedya "tolerance-challenged." He doesn't trust people from the Caucasus, he hates Jews, and he thinks most women are sluts.


Fedya was witty, passionate and attentive in the romance department. But he failed miserably on honesty: He neglected to mention his marital status (married) for the first few months of our relationship, and was mum about his son for a few months after that. I didn't find out about his first wife and child until we had been together for over a year.


But I can still hear him say, with a small catch in his voice, "I have never loved anyone the way I love you. You understand me the way no one else ever has."


One week after our cataclysmic split, he was whispering the same sweet nothings in another ear.


Now Stan, from a very different background, was also a witty, charming and attentive lover. But honesty wasn't his long suit either. I can still recall the shock I felt when I learned that he had taken another woman on vacation in the United States less than 24 hours after leaving me in Moscow.


And my spies tell me that he has been sighted with yet another woman (a supposedly former sweetheart) in the past month or so.


Stan may be billed as the typical American male of the '90s. He is industriously climbing a corporate ladder while expressing his wild side by driving a sports car. He loves football, but can be a sensitive kind of guy when the occasion warrants it -- like when he is putting the moves on some unsuspecting female.


But I can still hear him say, with a small catch in his voice, "I have never loved anyone the way I love you. You understand me the way no one else ever has."


Wait a minute. That sounds familiar.


Separated by oceans and continents, these guys all learn their lines at the same school.