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.
It’s never been a combination that can compute for “men”: a woman that’s intelligent and attractive. The dichotomy, to them, is stronger than a dog that can walk on its hind legs. A woman with tits and brains means that one of those characteristics will always be downgraded in a “man’s” eyes–and that characteristic is, more often than not, her “sharp cookie” persona. She can know a few things that might impress a “man,” sure (like the appropriate lines from Ulysses), but it will never be enough, as far as he’s concerned, to be an equitable match for his own so-called intellect. She is, at her core, only suitable for arm candy, and must be “educated” on a near constant basis about those things that she knows nothing of (“Tell me the part about Kenny G again,” comes to mind).
While a little bit of Eliza Doolittle/Professor Higgins role playing can be kinky now and again, the problem with this dynamic is that, in the end, he fundamentally only wants her to be visually pleasing over mentally stimulating, and will therefore come to resent her in the long run as she continues to flourish–or rather, resent her in the short run, when you gauge just how quickly a “man’s” opinion of the one he “loves” can devolve. Soon, he begins to bear a grudge toward her for being too deft of a caramel inside that smooth, eye-catching chocolate shell. This, to him, makes her an incongruity. She is someone to be embarrassed of, undercuttingly mocked and, eventually, used for some form of artistic fodder. Yes, it’s exactly what happened to Marilyn Monroe with Arthur Miller. And, like Marilyn Monroe, all you’ll end up for your trouble of attempting to impress a “genius” of a “man” with your never-adequate-enough intelligence is an intensified addiction to drugs as a replacement for the lack of love you’re getting return. Thus, he has technically succeeded in making you dumber than he (is that grammatically correct enough for you?) for choosing to stick around and letting your mind be whittled away by the abuse of his ridicule.
No matter how increasingly aware women become of how little they actually need a “man,” there’s always going to be that sect that persists in carrying on with the so-called tradition of monogamy and the associated trajectory of marriage, an institution that, like the presidency, is frivolous, but still sort of cute (or would be if the person embodying its post at the moment didn’t induce vomiting on sight).
With the territory of marriage often comes a sense of possession and entitlement, usually on the “man’s” part if his wife is blatantly more attractive than he is. That being said, an inexorable tendency toward monitoring even the smallest, most insignificant of activities can start to become par for the domesticity course. Whether she’s washing the dishes (no doubt, ineffectually, by his standards), folding the laundry (after starching the appropriate garments, no less) or giving the requisite “at least twice a week” blow job, her “man” is sure to be watching closely, waiting to take issue with some ridiculous nuance she didn’t “perform” quite right. And the more he monitors, the more uneasy and unsettled a girl can become, questioning her every move, spiraling further and further into an Ingrid Bergman in Gaslight mentality.
Fearing the constant hovering presence of a “man” over her shoulder, the confidence with which she approaches her day-to-day former enjoyments can suddenly feel like a perpetual dry anal rape. There’s nothing worse than constantly self-questioning in the non-Socratic way, after all. It can really mess with a woman’s pretty little head. Accordingly, why don’t you try to strike the perfect balance between attentiveness and not totally ignoring? It would signal far more care on your part than hyper-vigilance, which so often stems from a place of selfishness rather than love. If that increasingly mythical concept can even exist between a “straight” “man” and woman.
The abstraction that is the “bad boy,” perhaps both helmed and perfected by James Dean in Rebel Without A Cause, has long been romanticized, fetishized and all the other positive “-izeds” a woman can give to a “man” parading around as too moody and emotional beneath the veneer of “badness” for this life. Something of an embryonic form of the “fuckboy,” a bad “boy” is possibly an even worse entity to contend with, because he’s usually impossibly good looking, has a motorcycle and offers the promise of taking you to the freedom of the open road with him. As a young female, this sounds endlessly alluring, and you’ve got a lot more time to waste on the fantasy of running away with someone who proves “the world was built for two,” which eventually includes the naive thought that the bad “boy” will grow restless with his wandering life and want to “calm down” a little bit. But the only definition of calming down a bad “boy” knows is giving up on any musical aspirations he might have had.
This unique ability to dupe women for long periods of time is what makes the bad “boy” such a powerful force. What also makes him far more dangerous than a fuck”boy” is how much easier it is to fall down the rabbit hole for him, because the signs of his fuckery remain shrouded in his aura of arcaneness and his intoxicating good looks that seem to easily make up for not having much in the way of anything intellectual to say (but everything he says sounds so profound specifically because it’s so sparse). And while someone like Michelle Pfeiffer as Stephanie in Grease 2 might be able to forgive away every flaw of the bad “boy” with the justification that he’s “just like super sensitive underneath it all,” the truth is, dear dick seeker, he’s a bad person, not a bad “boy.” Because bad people exhibit this sort of detached, dissociated behavior all the time. Often become world leaders, in fact.
The general go-to when it comes to chalking up a woman’s “insanity” to something–if she’s even allowed the “courtesy” of being given a reason for said unhingedness other than her gender–is that she must have daddy issues. This, too, must also be the reason why she can never be satisfied by any “man”–least of all one in her age bracket. No, she’s too busy subconsciously comparing him to her father–even if he was never around to make for much of a comprehensive comparison.
But “men,” often more unwittingly convinced of the Electra complex than women are of the Oedipus one, are too quick to write off a woman’s neuroses to the very first “man” she ever had any dealings with in her life: old Daddy-o. Except, in most latchkey kids’ cases, there wasn’t much interaction with her patriarch anyway–of course, they (therapists?) say that the absence of this key “male” figure in a girl’s life can be just as damaging in the same ways that a ubiquitous “father” can be with his invariable verbal and/or physical abuse. Regardless, a woman’s alleged “madness” can’t be attributed entirely to the one “male” in her life whose job it was, by twentieth century and prior standards, to make her “palatable” to another “man” who would be responsible for taking care of her (since, basically, a “woman” had to be passed off, as it were, by the time she reached a certain “marriageable age”). Except, in truth, this obligation always fell to the mother. In any case, if we’re going to place blame on anyone for a woman’s “batshit” ways, let’s place it on all “men,” largely immune to common decency and morality as they are, not just those “penises” responsible for bringing a child into the world against her will.