One-night stands are an understandable source of discomfort when it comes to cultivating a special form of awkwardness upon reencountering the “man” in question in public. But those few “men” who you’ve had fairly long-term relations with (by New York standards, which is two to three months) and then run into later on down the road post-demise really have no business making matters even more awkward by choosing to ignore you full-stop.
And sure, while he might be in the company of another woman (probably Asian and nothing like your loca ass), it doesn’t mean he should pretend that your time together never happened, that you are but another random stranger in the endless sea of NYC denizens. After all, he was inside you. Some people still tend to think that’s about as intimate as you can get. Then again, maybe he wasn’t even aware he was inside you as a result of his dick being but a phantom. Which is more challenging to ignore than any woman.
Asian women. Perhaps the most fetishized ethnicity of female known to the planet. Especially the insulated planet that is New York. For whatever reason–thinness, complexion, so-called “subservience”–white “men” adore them. And no, it’s rare that anything about the brain is alluded to when mentioning an Asian woman, so much as, well, the pussy. But note that you’ll never see a white woman with an Asian “man,” and if you do, please take a picture and start a Tumblr.
While racial fetishism of any kind is rather weird, disgusting and kind of deplorable, the level with which white “men” in particular salivate over Asian women truly takes the mooncake. It doesn’t help when certain–not all, for the court records–Asian women pander to the stereotype white “men” want them to fulfill for their own benefit, usually financial. Then again, who can blame a bia for using this bizarre form of sexual discrimination to her advantage? Of turning the white “man’s” foolhardy obsession and wielding it against him for her own self-interested purposes.
Missing A Dick isn’t saying that true love between a white “man” and an Asian woman can’t exist (if true love exists at all) or that there are always impure motives behind it on both sides, but, you know, it’s a historical pattern that tends to speak for itself.
Criticize Italians all you want (they’re lazy, infidelitous and incapable of paying their employees on time), but the one thing they’re always good for is food. Except, of course, when they’re merely only “of the descent.” You know, Long Islanders, Staten Islanders–in short, Eastern Seaboard Italians. Their willingness to compromise on the quality of the core of what makes pasta delizioso–sauce—is not only a desecration to their heritage, but also to food itself.
Worst than even using Prego or Bertoli is when they don’t bother mixing the sauce together, just pile it on in the center like one massive pile of shite. I don’t know if something in the dilution of their blood from pure Italian to bastard one twelve generations removed is what causes this compromise in the grade of product they choose to use, or if it’s that they, as “men,” simply expect a woman to do the cooking and therefore can’t be required to be left to their own devices. Whatever their reason, you won’t catch me over at an Italian American “man’s” house for dinner anytime soon.
If you’re ever fool enough to believe that a “man’s” affections are genuine, remind yourself of the last time the “special one” in your life actually did something for you or expressed tenderness of any kind without some underlying ulterior motive. If you can think of one, chances are, you’re in a mental institution like Audrey Tautou’s erotomaniac character Angélique, or, indeed, he simply needed something like money or a blow job (though, admittedly, don’t we all?).
After a “man” gets over the novelty of “knowing you” (alternately, grows bored with fucking you and starts to notice your personality is more annoying than he previously had the attention span to notice), his interest in displaying anything resembling sentiment will wane, leaving him as the sole breadwinner, rich in receiving but not giving any caresses.
Then, one day, when you least expect it, he’ll bequeath you with a love burst that simply doesn’t compute. Seconds to hours later (you know how “men” are in their arbitrariness with time), he’ll finally reveal the true reason behind his sudden ardor, and, whatever bullshit it is, you best dangle the promise of forgiveness or a yes for as long as you can if you want to capitalize on the last glimmers of his effusiveness before they’re gone.
Maybe it’s because “men” are always “desirable” that they seem to have a lower sense of urgency regarding time. As Cher from Clueless once elucidated (what doesn’t she elucidate, to be honest?), “Christian said he’d call the next day, but in boy time that meant Thursday.” It’s unclear whether “men” are genuinely just this blacked out about days and hours, or if they, too, feel that it’s important to play games in order to establish who will have the alleged upper hand in any emotional dealings.
Even when a “man” at first seems suspiciously into it (it’s always suspicious, as affections never endure to the same level of intensity as the outset), and you think he might actually text you to make arrangements in a timely fashion, his interest will fall by the wayside after a day, and you probably won’t hear from him for another three. You see, they have “options,” other butterflies to get distracted by like the little skunk from Bambi that they are. And whenever they feel that they’ve totally exhausted all of their distractions, then, maybe, they’ll resort to getting back to you.
In the end, they’re the ones with time on their side (which is why the all-male Rolling Stones sing a song called “Time Is On Your Side”–and it really has been for Mick and Keith). They have nothing to worry about when it comes to being viewed as a shriveled carcass once they exit their twenties, so this is probably where the laxity stems from with regard to keeping the momentum of attraction going.
“Men” used to be reliable for at least one thing, and that was self-sufficiency. It was the gung-ho, can-do attitude that made them take jobs in factories or work thankless hours in the cubicle just to support their families. But like Celine said, “Those days are gone.” Monogamy and propagation are deader motivating forces in a “man’s” life than Blanche Hudson on the beach (oops, spoiler alert). Now, you’re not only lucky if a “man” even goes to college (though there is a fair share of faux learned “men“), but also if he manages to find it in his lackluster wherewithal to get a job after that will get him off the double breast of his mother and father.
His lack of drive is only further spurred on by the shittaytay parents of today, who, instead of inflicting any sort of work ethic on their “male” children, encourage them to “take their time” in “figuring it out” for their own selfish motives of using the “men” they raise as continued tax write-offs. Because if you’re going to have a blob, you might as well have one that gives you as many financial benefits as detriments. It’s already pushing the limits of youth when a “man” is still not able to do his own tax return by the time he’s twenty-four. Anything after this point is quite simply Exhibit A of perpetual babydom. As one New York-based CPA has remarked, “Your kids can be dependents on your tax
returns forever.” And, thanks to the milquetoast fuckboys being birthed more prolifically with each passing day, they probably will be.
While most “men” who celebrate Saint Patrick’s Day are rarely actually Irish but instead solely retired frat boys (albeit frat boys can never really retire), there’s still the intermittent brogue sporter that will use his best attempt at connecting to a woman in a bar via their assumed shared heritage.
Though, to be sure, the city of New York is rife with Irishwomen (did Brooklyn teach you nothing?), just because a girl has pale skin and/or red hair doesn’t give a fella the right to chat her up with cheesy jokes about drunk priests and potatoes (inanimate objects can get drunk too in Ireland). When the victim of his flirtation–not wearing green, much to his dismay–finds the chance to tell him she’s not Irish, he’ll up the annoyance ante with a line like, “Anybody can be Irish if you add an “O'” to the front of their last name. I’ve also got other ways of puttin’ a little Irish in ya…”
It is around this point that the female in question will inwardly condemn herself for believing she could be permitted the luxury of drinking in the daylight on Saint Patrick’s Day, the one time it’s too early for a “man” to Irish goodbye.