So many “men” can’t help but possess a congenital and unshakeable Peter Pan Syndrome–one that they tend only to cling to all the more as they get older. For the further away they get from youth, the further away they get from having a viable excuse to be such a fuck-up. An “average” if you will. In this fashion, anytime the discovery of a “vintage” photo (vintage, meaning, in this case of “male,” 1990s) comes along–usually by the subject’s over fawning mother, largely responsible for this hollow excuse of a being–a “boy” seizes upon it as an opportunity to show his fake friends throughout various channels demanding a profile picture that, yes, he was once a pure spirit. Not the diabolical knave you see before you today–or rather “see before you” on the internet.
In general, the sort of “man” that gives us a childhood profile photo will keep it there for quite some time (unless, of course, a novelty photo materializes from Vegas to up the appearance of his so-called game–for some reason, every “man” seems to actually want to look like a fuck”boy”). So that we may always understand the exact proportions of his dick–for it has never expanded its dimensions beyond preadolescence. But isn’t he just so fucking cute and forgivable in zygote form?
There’s a lot of “freaks” out there. It was the basis of an entire Sex and the City episode, for fuck’s sake (season two, episode three–“The Freak Show”–you should watch it, even though it’s really hard to be reminded of New York when it wasn’t so flaccid). But most of them are freaks not because they would have served well as extras in Tod Browning’s film of the same name, but because they actually have the gumption to sell themselves in this manner, parading themselves as “open,” “progressive” and hippy dippy or what have you when, in actuality, at the end of the day all they want is a muhfukkin basique. A non-Katie (a.k.a. complicato), like all the rest.
Yet possibly due to a typically youthful desire to seem rebellious and/or original (unfortunately youth extends interminably in most “men’s” “minds” these days), the faux freak “male” likes to feign that he’s as kooky and creepy as any sideshow attraction. This often translates into making a lot of random sounds, pretending to take an interest in off-brand bedroom behavior (when really, missionary is always his go-to in between the usual lackadaisical request for up the ass) and, for a time, seeking to pair with a girl who is as equitably 1950s queer as he is. However, every faux freak of a “man” grows tired of the charade with the girl who is genuinely a weirdo, ultimately taking his circus tent to a new metaphorical town (read: vagina) to perform another private show (as Britney Spears would call it), one that will enrapture a more basique element in the end, for that is what he truly wants–to be the so-called “special” one of the relationship.
As the “feminist” “movement” increasingly becomes the sort of fad that prompts Urban Outfitters to sell t-shirts with the three syllable word on it, “men’s” commonly held notions about what one should look like (chiefly a short-coiffed, homely, ill-dressed, long armpit-haired being) ought to evolve quickly if they don’t want to further incriminate themselves to the world about just what narrow-minded pieces of shit they are.
This false perception “men” have of only “ugly” women being capable of rage and contempt for the centuries-long acceptance of female oppression probably wasn’t helped by our Lord and Savior, Valerie Solanas. Then again, most “straight” “men” have nary a clue who that is unless they happened to catch a certain episode of American Horror Story: Cult. What’s more, when the type of dickless “men” I’m referring to think “ugly,” it is in the manner that has so often prompted the Hollywood trope of a woman getting a makeover by the simple removal of her glasses and the addition of a form-fitting dress to her wardrobe.
And yet, it’s actually easier for “men” to position a feminist to themselves in this manner–the manner that assumes she wouldn’t be a feminist if she was pretty enough to finagle herself a “man.” Comforts them in the belief that it’s merely a “trend” that will pass more attractive women by after enough time has lapsed and some more liberal celebrity takes the presidential office.
John Michael McDonagh’s 2016 film, War on Everyone, oft memed, rarely watched, paints this issue most succinctly when Alexander Skarsgård in the role of Terry Monroe daftly asks, “Can you be a feminist and still wear hot pants?” The guilelessness of this question gives a genuine insight into how most “men” think, persisting in truly believing that to be hideous is to be a feminist–in their minds, still a synonym for harpy. That is, if such an age-old insult is even in their Newspeak vernacular. So to break down the answer to that query very simply: you can be a feminist and wear whatever the fuck you want. Even the polar opposite wardrobe piece, a burka–which packs even more power because it hides the only thing “men” care about in a woman: her body.
“Men” are the great manifestations of the saying, “Give an inch, and they’ll take a mile.” And yes, that’s precisely what Britney Spears did in briefly taking leave of her senses long enough to think that marrying Kevin Federline would be a good idea. K-Fed, for as dumb as he’s painted to be, was shrewd enough to see that this was likely to be a short-lived opportunity, therefore impregnating her twice so as to bind her bank account to his forever. And, when the inevitable divorce did come, the settlement left K-Fed with $20,000 a month in child support payments (as if Federline is actually spending all of that on anything other than Doritos dipped in gold–have you seen his figure lately?).
But now that Federline has escaped his food coma haze long enough to realize that Britney made bank during her Piece of Me residency ($475,000 a show will really help increase the integers of one’s worth), he’s demanding more. That Federline would deign to make this request after all Spears has given him over the years (including, but not limited to, access to her vagina and drugs) is a cardinal exemplification of how “men,” when they can no longer get something physical or emotional out of a woman, must then seek other avenues through which to plague her. Mercifully for K-Fed, Spears has the kind of money that has and is allowing him to suckle further from her milky financial teat until it shrivels even more than it probably already has physically. Luckily for “men” who have run out of ways to torment post-breakup, this trend of women being more successful is only working out in their favor, as it gives them the opportunity to collect the bounty they feel has been stolen from them in “permitting” women to get ahead in any way, least of all feel the freedom of not being paranoid about how their ex is going to come for them in monetarily damaging fashions that will never allow them the full enjoyment of the fruits of their rewards.
Because a “man” cannot get away with the expression of such blatant disapproval–least of all for women–these days, he must be more undercutting in the ways he chooses to connote derision or malcontentment. Thank god or whoever, then, that he has sometime ago now been bequeathed with the option to use the “gentle” term “Smh” as a means to let a girl know that she’s nothing more than a little dodo bird. To make her aware of, frankly, how much condescension she deserves while also maintaining the illusion of not being totally undermining in his utterance of criticism.
Yet the most upsetting part about the use of “Smh” isn’t that a “man” can’t just be straightforward with his ire, but that he also can’t even be bothered to show the woman he’s “s-ing his h” at the amount of care it would take to actually move his head from side to side. Like the girl he disapproves of isn’t even worth that much physical exhaustion. So not only has “Smh” allowed “men” to maintain their thinly veiled contempt for most and all things pertaining to female behavior, it’s also afforded them the luxury of being even lazier pieces of shit.
What could be wrong with a celebration of love?–regardless of whether that government-sanctioned day is, as Liz Lemon noted, “a sham created by card companies to reinforce and exploit gender stereotypes.” Nothing, one supposes–at least on the surface. The surface of which is made those who retch at the sight of couples in restaurants that have been overcrowded on February 14th to feel like they’re overreacting for such retching. But are they, when it’s one of the most blatant visual manifestations of phony baloneyness?
Why can’t “men” feel inclined to express this level of a bathetic display every day of the week, if he’s so goddamned in love, huh? Why is the effusiveness treated as obligatory rather than of his own bona fide volition (as opposed to engaging in the V-Day charade solely for the benefit of cajoling his significant other into doing something “different” in bed, because straight people need an excuse to do such things). In short, Valentine’s Day speaks to all the ways in which passion can never be sustained in the way we’re taught to believe it can by essentially every piece of pop culture (and, for some of us, even our parents have managed to outfox the goading average statistic of divorce).
This is precisely why a “man” walking down the street with flowers in hand on Valentine’s Day or taking “his girl” out to a restaurant is the very symbol of the perpetuated lie we’ve all bought into for so long. The myth of the happy couple that, more often than not, can feel just as miserable as someone “doomed to wander the planet alone like the Incredible Hulk.” Because they’ve told themselves that to believe in the lie is to avoid the shame of being seen alone in public on occasions like Valentine’s Day, Christmas Day and essentially every other day of the year that is tailored for single-shaming. So if you’re a couple who, like many an “unattached” person that chooses to stay sequestered on February 14th, maybe there is a shred more genuineness to your relationship than those parading it around like self-righteous little assholes.
More than any other gender, clear-cut or somewhere in between the spectrum, “men” seem to be the ones most fond–most likely to experience ejaculation–from being “right” via proving that a woman’s method and approach to something did not end up “working out” for her. Of course, what he means by it not working out is that she has not managed to achieve what she set out to do as quickly as she might have had she, say, sucked some literal or metaphorical cock.
But, as all women with their eye on the prize will ultimately come to find, they generally, without fail, always accomplish that which they set their sights on (primarily sweet death). It’s just a matter of our own process of getting there. If we don’t want to plaster a fucking “sweet” smile on our faces while we do it, or if we want to go about a certain task in a, shall we say, more roundabout, time-consuming fashion, that’s our fucking business. What should it matter to a loomingly observing “male” who apparently has nothing better to do than wait for a “woman” (even his own girlfriend most of the time) to err? Is it that satisfying for him to feel vindicated in knowing that his dick is still intact somewhere within the recesses of his groin?
This deep-seated need to see women unable to “perform” on their own terms stems from decades upon decades of conditioning. Like Lucy Ricardo’s many attempts at doing things her own way, only to have them very literally shoved back in her face as glaring mistakes, her constant fear of Ricky finding out is a testament to the inherent nature of most women: combative and defiant beneath that surface of perceived obsequiousness. We’ll fucking show you all when we’ve turned “men”–especially those softboys feigning emotionalism–completely into decorative pieces too afraid to say anything that could be viewed as offensive, let alone open their gaping maws any further at all beyond breathing. How’s that working out for you?
“Men” are capable of a lot of fucked up shit, granted. But perhaps the worst crime of all they can’t go to jail for is regarding a woman as though she’s Sally Hawkins in The Shape of Water–simply not there. They’ll go to great lengths to get their sexual “taste,” so to speak. But once they’ve achieved their end game (mainly, regular dick sucking without giving head in return), it’s just a matter of time before they’ll reach their expiration date on wanting to continue dabbling physically with you, let alone talk to you. Isn’t that just so interesting though? That after all that sweet finesse your tongue and mouth lent to his so-called appendage (which incidentally has more feeling in it than the contents of his mind–and therefore the outpour of his emotions–ever will), it’s like you don’t even exist anymore. Like you’re as irrelevant to him as Paris Hilton imitating Kim Kardashian for Yeezy Season 6.
If only “men” could be forced to gag on their own cum every time they saw (in any form, whether in person or on social media) the very woman who gagged on his, so as to give him his goddamned prized pleasure. It wasn’t prized enough, however, to warrant actually showing her the decency to, if not actually stick around, then at least not treat her like the prostitute he cheated on his wife with in Vegas every time he sees her in a public space. Because, as you well know, New York ain’t the big city everyone makes it out to be after you’ve sucked enough dick, weird colors, caps, widths and all.
Even more than soccer, the sport that all “men” engage in that requires zero effort on their part is arousing within a woman passions that she would otherwise like to suppress for the sake of self-preservation. Nothing is as big of a detriment to dignity than becoming emotionally vulnerable. However, as Dawson’s Creek taught us, whenever a “man” displays enough interest and determination, a woman is invariably prone to fall victim (not, in this case, a product of self-victimizing) to his “charms.” This usually means a lot of drunk texts, messages and, now and again, just “happening” to be at the same local haunt as the object of his ephemeral affection. Yet, as is always the case unless the “man” is being financially motivated to stay with his “love” “object,” he will grow restless and weary once the “having” of a woman is achieved. It’s the “having” that is the majority of the thrill. And then, once she’s fully succumbed, let down her guard in every way (even ceding to taking her makeup off at night in a manner that goes against the Mrs. Maisel regimen), he will recoil, proving that his intent to love was never really there, so much as an irrepressible “curiosity” that needed to be explored on his part. The signs of his withdrawal won’t be evident to the woman, in all her naïveté, and so the abandonment will seem like a botched excision as opposed to a gentle, anesthetized one.
It is, of all people, Bob Marley who said, “The biggest coward is a man who awakens a woman’s love with no intention of loving her.” This ganja-smoking, free love-touting (“Rasta men are permitted to have multiple female sex partners, while women are expected to reserve their sexual activity for their one male partner”) emblem of chillness managed to stay married to the same woman, Alpharita Constantia “Rita” Marley, for his entire life–love the same woman his entire life. And she, in turn, popped out eleven children, not all of them Marley’s, but all were essentially treated as his. While sure, it actually sounds like a waking nightmare to be saddled with that as a fate–not to mention impossible to find child care for the evening–at least Marley was a practitioner of his own aphorism. Even if all it took was regular engagement in extramarital affairs–on her part as well. Still, it seems somehow more palatable than a “man” simply up and leaving the woman whose love he’s awakened, never to be heard from again–never to offer an explanation of exactly why and when his alleged former ardor went cold. Of how the intent to love became so easily dispensed with. Like piano lessons taken up in the ambition of youth, only to be allowed to fall by the wayside in favor of something less time-consuming and involved.
“Men” aren’t exactly known for being loyal to anyone other than themselves, their own kind or their mother. But one would think that after a certain amount of time spent in a relationship with the same woman, he would feel inclined to be honest and forthcoming about the closeness that tends to come with a substantial period of fucking the same person. This, in the twenty-first century, peppered with FOMO-inducing social media as it is, entails some photographic indication of being together displayed proudly and, what’s more, vomit-inducingly to those of your Facebook friends and Instagram followers that are still single.
And yet, many a “man” either doesn’t even think about such sentimental acts or is too skittish to perform them without starting to question if this is all too much and does he even want to be with this mid-twenties old bag who he’s soon to throw over after wasting her most viable trolling years? That being said, leaving behind an internet trail of evidence that he’s with someone “seriously” could prove detrimental down the line, when the compulsory breakup that comes with existing outside of the 1960s ensues.
So rather than being forced to engage in a little Regina George-inspired photo cutting (on a metaphorical level, of course, what with nothing being tangible anymore), he would prefer to simply not have to go through the effort of visual manipulation later on, thereby abstaining from the presence of too much evidence that he is or ever was in a monogamous “situation.” It’s much easier than expressing beyond hollow words to his current girlfriend even a faint glimmer of emotionalism and sense of attachment. Therefore, if you find yourself as the only party in the relationship posting duo selfies with glee, beware the surefire moment when you’re caught as the sole person meandering through the digital wreckage of your memories.