Because it is naturally ingrained in women to pit themselves against one another, one of the long-held complimentary cliches “men” have used as a means to “flatter” is: “You’re not like most girls.” Ah, how touching. How truly affected of you to think that by telling me I’m not like my own “silly” gender, I would swoon for you, feel so special that you could see me as something (certainly not someone) more. Thank god I managed to convince you that I’m not like most girls, so frivolous and squawking. That I’ve managed to keep quiet and monotone enough to for you to feel unattacked by me.
Or maybe that I like video games (I don’t, unless you’re speaking of the seminal Lana Del Rey song), that I’m “one of the ‘boys.'” Thank baby J for Hailee Steinfeld’s “Most Girls,” here to shut down the myth that women want to set themselves apart from one another in order to be in the running for finagling of the biggest “dick” (if only in personality). Nonetheless, even the presence of this song in the canon of pop is likely not going to stop many a “man” from continuing to persist in his belief that women want to feel “plucked” from the sea of sameness by them. All “men,” in truth, are like each other, after all: still wanting somehow to rescue if only for the brief novelty of doing so before he throws a girl off the horse.
The Alamo Drafthouse has been known for putting customers of a shitty caliber on blast for their irascibility–from complaining about being thrown out for arriving late to being banned for texting. So it should come as no surprise that the theater is at the center of moviegoing controversy once again with its Wonder Woman women-only screening. And though the female-only showings have thus far been announced for the Austin location (sold out, by the way), Brooklyn can’t be far behind. Why “men” should feel scandalized about women coming together to celebrate the first major blockbuster starring a non-dicked person in the lead role of hero (Maleficent was all about female villainy, and Tomb Raider wasn’t Marvel or DC) is unclear.
Does this concept threaten their masculinity–that a superhero with a vag is more powerful than any “male” one that’s come before her on the screen (especially Superman, that little bitch)? And, further, what’s the big deal about women preferring to enjoy Wonder Woman in all her glory sans the twigs you call a peen in their midst? Who knows? Maybe “men” have never really been told there’s a specific area they can’t go to before (like women to the workplace or the voting polls), and the jarring nature of exclusion is too much for them to bear. All one can really say is, it’s a woman’s prerogative to be among other women for a momentous occasion such as this. Moreover, “men” generally despise being in a large group of laydays anyway, being that they’re viewed as hen-like in nature when there’s too many of them in one place. So, on a deeper psychological level, this fear of being excluded derives from the overall “male” apprehension of late that there’s going to be a female takeover/takedown. Which, if the 2016 election told you anything, really shouldn’t be a cause for concern for “men.”
When it comes to getting pregnant, or fearing becoming pregnant, it’s always–but always–the “man’s” fault. He can spin the yarn all he wants about saying the woman he had sex with was a slut and therefore didn’t deserve use of a condom, but, ultimately, it’s the panisse that expels the seed, not the vag. The culpability is clear. Thus, the least a “man” can do to compensate for the pleasure he hath snatched from a woman’s snatch is offer her a pregnancy test when she tracks him down at his place of business and tells him that she might be with child.
The appropriate (first) response is to apologize to her for contaminating her potential freedom from the lifelong burden of caring for another, and then go to the cash register (he presumably works at McDonald’s, after all) to take out $50 (one of the most expensive pregnancy tests at Walgreens is $42.99) in cash and hand it to her obsequiously, with an expression of contrition, to boot. This isn’t the type of thing to skimp on–a woman needs a real answer–not a reply that’s tantamount to getting one from a Magic 8 Ball, which, by the way, is what some “men” would rather pay for to get a response about the state of their paternity as a result of its affordability.
Ceaseless jibes at Madonna’s age and manipulated body aside, one must admit that in the early 90s, she was in her prime in every way: physically, career-wise (“Vogue,” darling, “Vogue”) and in showcasing her cutting sense of humor (see: Truth or Dare). And while Michael Jackson’s sexuality had always been “a” at best and perilous at worst (where there’s smoke there’s fire with them child molestation rumors), it seems just slightly cuckoo that Madonna would be able to “scare him off women” for good.
Try as she might to loosen Miguel up a little, to make him see that the King and Queen of Pop ought at least to be able to say they slept together once for icon posterity, the dainty child trapped inside a “man’s” body simply couldn’t react in any other way than with sheer terror at the sight of Madonna naked in his boudoir. And yet, in many respects, Michael’s actions mirror those of any average “male,” too intimidated and therefore repulsed by a woman both powerful, beautiful and appetitive of sex to engage her.
When you find within your PTSD-ridden self the courage to open up to a “man” and, once again, endure the potential shame of sharing not just your body, but your mind too (it’s become a less secondary thing ever since that manic pixie dream girl archetype), all you want is for it to not backfire–yet again. You lay all your cards on the table like a little fool, a novice poker player naively trusting her mentor to show her the way without taking advantage.
And this seems to happen every time you walk in to the gaming room that is l’amour (or the ruins of what it used to mean from the eighteenth to twentieth centuries). You suppress all that your instincts are telling you–that he will bolt when he knows too much of you–and try, once again to ignore what you can already foresee is going to happen. Mother will tell you these “negative” thoughts are a self-fulfilling prophecy. But the prophecy isn’t fulfilled by the self so much as the egregious overall character of “men,” who, when bored with your so-called bullshit, will chuck you into the trash like so much bad lettuce. So you shared your body and your mind again. That’s all over now. Because you pretty much have neither entity left to give, no wherewithal to regurgitate the same flirtations or attempts at allurement.
Mama’s “boys” are more powerfully inutile than a hanger without a hook in a back alley abortion. But a girl can forgive him his emotional crippledness if he at least has the presence of mind to understand that the reason she’s chosen to cast him out and/or ignore him is because she knows she will never–in his mind–be able to eclipse the greatness and importance of mommy dearest.
And yet, some “men” just can’t except that not every woman is going to be on board with the fucked up Bunny and Trey MacDougal dynamic for the sake of having a “dick” in her life. There are detached penises with far fewer emotional issues anyway. So worse than his inability to unlatch his boca from mother’s tit in both a literal and metaphorical way is his incognizance in understanding why a woman would abandon him so much so that he needs to converse with his matriarch about it for assurance. And she, enabling little sycophant that she is, will only insist that it was the girl with the issue, that she’s probably got a longstanding history of mental illness in her family–and really what kind of girl doesn’t value the parent-child relationship, huh? Is that really the kind of valueless whore he wants in his life?
There are a lot of “men” in this realm that still claim to care about you even after affronting you in some awful and unspeakable way–like saying that y’all should go on a trip to Japan together then kind of just going on his own without mentioning it again or offering to introduce you to his parents (even though, frankly Mr. Shankly, that’s more punishment than reward), then suddenly doing an about-face and ghosting so quickly it almost makes you think he found an old sexual test result you had laying around.
When you finally reach out to him, pull from him like the jaws of life some half-assed answer about where it all went wrong, he’ll insist it’s not you, it’s him. His own little internal turmoils and melodramas that make him “ill-equipped” (and not just in the groin region) to handle anything beyond the confines of his computer-generated world. And while you stand there bleeding for him, offering your heart and soul on a silver platter, he’ll sit there nonchalantly wondering what porn motif to watch next. ‘Cause, darlin’, he don’t care ’bout you. You were just a blip on his road to “self-discovery.” And please, try to clean up those blood spots on your way out the door. He’s got other waifs to screw over later in the day.
To begin with, Brooklyn is gentrified. By and large. Those parts that are not will eventually be, just as soon as the appropriate number of bars and coffee shops (one to two each) make their way toward the New Lots Avenue stop, it’s all just a matter of quicksand in the hourglass.
Any “man” who was concerned about causing the phenomenon ought either to have 1) thought about that before moving anywhere that wasn’t the Upper East Side or Financial District, where whitey has already long had a foothold or 2) not been a member of any zoning committee circa 2005. The jig is up. If you’ve moved to B’kay, you aren’t adding to the problem, merely ousting white artists who got there before your corporate, parent-paid for ass.
And yet, one of the most oblivious Reddit users of all-time apparently saw fit to begin a thread called “How would a wealthy white kid move to Brooklyn and not contribute to gentrification?” The array of responses started out coddling and kindly enough, with the most obvious suggestion for his reminder, “money isn’t really an issue” (thanks to his parents), being: “don’t move to Brooklyn” and “don’t accept your parents’ money.” This extremely valid and straightforward advice, however, is lost on the type of freshly college graduated “man” who wants to keep up the appearance of not hailing from the very predecessors of the juggernaut that encourages and perpetuates gentrification.
The more dickful thing to do, in truth, would be to put a Kangol hat on and try your best to say or do nothing shameful, like act as though you give a shit about ousting anyone other than your nub of a penis from its overpriced condo, or worse, Banksy-themed building.
Well, all right. It’s foul enough when women wear rompers. Especially the twiggish ones trying to channel that whole Lolita thing. At least fat women wearing them are sort of endearing. In any case, the point is, in the gender-discriminating world that is Missing a Dick, it used to be that “men” could at least evade dicklessness by not donning a romper. Now, all of that has changed, and it’s just one more thing to add to the list of disappointments both emotional and sartorial that “men” inflict.
At this rate, one would almost prefer the gender neutrality and shapelessness of clothing from Oak. But no, an army of romper-wearing “males” will inevitably be seen on every corner of Williamsburg this summer. Probably wearing fucking matching ones with their own babies. And those without children will simply employ it as their work uniform on the way to the VICE building.
Plus, not only is it stealing a fashion trend from women and making it somehow less inconvenient for themselves (just like everything else already is) by adding a zipper to the front for easy bathroom going, but it’s also yet another way to suggest not so subtly a permanent clinging to childhood, to this desire “men” have to remain on their mother’s tit forever. But, you ain’t gettin’ no bottle from this bitch other than the one I bludgeon you over the head with when I see you wearing a romper.
Ever since Fight Club was rendered to the screen by David Fincher and the character of “Narrator” was immortalized by Edward Norton, “men” have seen fit to take a page from his third act excuse to Marla Singer (Helena Bonham Carter) for treating her like shit for the duration of their time together. That excuse, illustriously, was: “You met me at a very strange time in my life.” And yet, isn’t it always a strange time? Isn’t mere existence a reason to tell someone that they’re simply “going through it” and not to take it personally?
The fact of the matter is, “men” rely on this variation of the defense for their behavior because it is a way to most politely exonerate themselves from culpability. Imaginary friend/split personality or not, a “man” has no reason to treat a woman like a ragdoll he can fuck with gusto one minute and toss out with verbal abuse the next. If he’s truly going to believe that the “it’s just a strange time” deflection is viable, he ought have thought about that before leaving the womb. Because life is one nonstop bag of strangeness and only getting stranger.