It seems, for whatever reason, that there remains a best kept secret about women. If you pursue them, they will eventually succumb to your “charms.” That is, unless of course, you really are quite disgusting. All we want to know for sure, is that you’re willing to put up the fight it takes to prove an ability to sustain prolonged contact and intimacy.
However, it is often the case that a “man” will weasel his way into your good graces, then your heart, only to convince you that, holy shit, this could really last–could really be the thing they’re always talking about in movies and books from the nineteenth century. The thing baby boomers seemed so capable of procuring: long-term monogamy. And then, out of nowhere (it could happen months or years from when you’ve convinced yourself the love is solid gold), the average “man” will prove average inconstancy, abandoning you for either another girl, another city or another life altogether.
You, on the other hand, will be left to wonder, “Why did you kiss me?” Don’t start something you can’t finish, motherfucker.
“LOL” was an abbreviation that came about in the early days of internet self-discovery, when MSN Messenger was still the premier way to communicate online. It seemed, briefly, as though the term had gone the way of the dodo in the mid-00s, only to experience an unexpected resuscitation in recent years.
Who can say why “men” feel compelled to type these three ultimately meaningless letters into a text–or worse, say it out loud to the woman in front of them. Is it because they’re incapable of real laughter, or simply real human emotion? If the former, perhaps it’s understandable, as women aren’t very funny in a wry or slapstick manner of late–I guess unless you count Amy Schumer, who mostly talks about her vagina. There’s certainly no Lucille Ball vibe to speak of among this generation. If the latter–inextricably tied to the former–“men” will invariably blame the internet for what’s become of them, of their inability to use actual words.
But the only thing hollower than saying “I love you” these days is “LOL.” It infers a certain lack of caring, a forced catering to something you’ve said that they don’t truly find “laugh out loud” humorous at all. And, as with everything overly used, it’s only become more worthless with each push of a button that’s supposed to get across your “feelings.”
“Men” are slimy creatures as a rule. There’s nothing they won’t do to fulfill whatever sexual whim they might be lusting after in the moment. And one of the best ways for a “man” to realize the fantasy he has to see two women being intimate with one another is to go to the NYC Pride Parade–most likely under the guise of wanting to be “considerate” and “express solidarity.”
Chock full of all manner of drunken revelers–including women in same sex relationships–the “straight” “man” in attendance at the parade is always someone of a dubious nature. Sure, he wants to show his support for his “friends” in the LGBTQ community, all the while ogling the two girls in the crowd who just so happen to be “subtly” making out. And, of course, if he’s truly enterprising, he’ll take a stride through the New York City Dyke March. However, those “men” who were able to get a taste of their fetishes this weekend were probably punished with the ultimate “straight” “man’s” boner killer: an appearance by Hillary Clinton.
It’s all that can come out of anyone’s mouth of late, especially when that mouth belongs to a “man” pretending to spout informed rivers of “input” at a bar in Williamsburg. “The world economy is fucked,” they say. “The British are officially stupider than Americans,” they say. But when did they ever say anything at all about Europe before?–unless it was to talk about the lavish trip they took there.
And yet, now that the Brexit crisis has given “men” an appropriate sound bite to glom onto without needing to know too many details, it’s the most intelligent conversation topic he can offer other than discussing his job title. And sure, while there are a few “men” who can say more than what’s been regurgitated over and over again in the media, it doesn’t change the fact that Americans don’t give a fuck about other countries until it affects them. Just have the dick to admit it, rather than using it as conversation fodder with a woman who is probably only wondering if you give head during the first sexual encounter.
There is a known platitude about “men’s” perception of women that was, of course, resuscitated on Sex and the City when Charlotte had to deal with Trey’s weirdnesses about wanting to bone his wife, someone he felt was supposed to be virginal and chaste. He couldn’t get past that unfortunate psychological road bump specific to males known as the Madonna/whore complex.
This form of “psychic impotence,” as Freud called it, often leads to a worse extreme: “men” only knowing how to treat women like whores in order to sustain arousal and interest. Whether this means rough trade (including, but not limited to, bite marks), verbal abuse and/or literal payment for services rendered can vary from “man” to “man.” But the tragedy of it is that women feel compelled to cater to this deeply rooted psychological desire by prostrating themselves in ways they shouldn’t in order to get just a little bit of “dick.” But beware pushing your “whore” too far–she might just push you out the window in return.
Like most manufactured holidays (Mother’s Day, Grandparents’ Day, Secretaries Day–or, rather, “Administrative Professionals” Day–, etc.), the pressure to get the perfect gift for Father’s Day consistently leaves one feeling bereft, inadequate and generally stressed. Especially when one is a “man” simply trying to prove to his father that he has surpassed him in life in every possible way: romantic choice, financial success and place of inhabitance.
The relationship between father and son is often more complicated–and even creepier–than the one between father and daughter, as the unspoken competition to transcend the lifestyle set forth by the patriarch becomes intensified as his son enters adulthood–or rather, reluctantly gets shoved into it with his heels dug in and his mouth emitting silent shrieks pleading to remain a child. But once he admits that he’s there, the tendency to pit himself against daddy-o as the rival that can’t be matched often becomes a constant factor. Just look at The Royal Tenenbaums, There Will Be Blood and Big Fish. And if a son isn’t trying to outshine his father, then he’s trying his hardest to be the palest possible shadow in order to avoid the arduousness of competition altogether. In which case he’s also missing as much of a dick as the overzealous, overachieving son. It’s a Goldie Locks sort of a balance that sons must strike when it comes to acquiring that ideal present. One that says, “I love you, Dad, and, no, I’m not trying to kill you.”
Money isn’t something you really notice in a concrete and intense way until you move to New York. Unless, I guess, you move to Tokyo, but few Americans have the stomach for that. I suppose that’s when a woman first tends to notice how uppity “men” can be about luxury, particularly when they themselves cannot afford it. To iterate, luxury to most “men” means the simple and natural act of taking a car somewhere past midnight.
Who knows where the condemnation stems from, really? It could be jealousy over the fact that the woman can pay for things that he can’t or perhaps, to him, it’s quite simply an iteration regarding the general frivolity of the female gender. Whatever the case, “men”–particularly those who orbit Williamsburg but can’t actually live in it–tend to feel miffed when a woman shows signs of balling too hard without offering to at least be his sugar mama in the process. And even some “men” are still uncomfortable with accepting that as an option. And probably as they should be, since they still act like prickheads when you pay for their shit.