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.
“Men” aren’t the most adept at picking up on things, even when they’re hit over the head with them. Which is why even bothering with the nuance of being “subtle” can only lead to invariable disappointment. Just look at the most recent Golden Globes, where “men” stood there daftly with forced Time’s Up pins on their lapels, saying pretty much nothing about the reason behind having to wear them. For even when they do pick up on the sentiment you’re trying to get across to them, they tend to express their emotions as adroitly as a woman who despises children would hold a baby.
They don’t mean to be such dullards when it comes to the expression of feelings and understanding, it’s simply that they’re perhaps still coping with a time-honored indoctrination of bottling up empathy of any kind. That being said, it’s easier to tiptoe around what’s being very plainly directed at them by a woman, usually rage and/or sadness. Because “men” tend only to be capable of evincing these emotions in between occasional attempts at placating you with an orgasm. Which is why they would prefer not to further poke the bear that is a female’s fury. It’s better, in his mind, to pretend his car hasn’t been just set on fire than to actually acknowledge any wrongdoing on his part–copping to why his car deserved to be incinerated–thereby eliciting another mudslide of feminine “overreaction.”
There are still plenty of “freaks” in the world, sure. They just so happen to be of the genuinely scary variety as opposed to the fun, drum up this humdrum existence variety. Take, for example, any “man” in the current Cabinet of the United States, among other strange creatures far too close to our homes. Rather than the pure form of freakdom that once existed in Tod Browning’s day (or shit, even John Hughes’ day), we are now faced with a more frightening breed: the normal and boring sort.
This, of course, spreads into the “dating” and “sex” arena (if you can call being treated like a blow-up doll for the evening as such), where there is no shortage of stark-raving typicals claiming to be “so weird” the same way a certain sect of women go out of their way to pretend to be quirky. But their only weirdness lies in how they just lie there in bed stiff as a board making you wish for the Amphibian Man in The Shape of Water to come take you from this flaccidity-infested land. As a masquerading straight “man,” if you’re not going to be even remotely interesting or endearingly bombastic in personality, at least have the decency to show some level of imagination behind a closed bedroom (or bathroom) door.
While the Orwellian prediction of “Newspeak” makes the constant and vexatious habit of abbreviation no surprise in the present, one would have thought that it could have at least managed to evade usage on people’s names. Alas, not so with Paul Thomas Anderson, whose ardent, largely “male” fanbase has prompted the overly familiar epithet of “PT” to arise. But unless we’re talking about the famed ringmaster, no “man” should have the misfortune of such a bastardization of his moniker. What’s more, as the auteur known for sweeping, lengthy cinematic experiences, doesn’t he at least deserve the courtesy of being addressed as his own overly long for the American tongue name?
And, to be sure, this abridgement is employed primarily by “male” acolytes of his oeuvre. Because, by and large, women only get on the Paul Thomas Anderson train when their boyfriends do, generally for the cachet of being one of the “cool girls” of the sort that Tove Lo declares herself to be. And because women are typically better at savoring and appreciating things, they’re less prone to blurt out Paul Thomas Anderson’s name in an incomplete form. Their “male” counterparts, however, get a vague titillation out of the, in their minds, “informality” of addressing him as such. Which is really nothing short of dweebo.
So next time you think of asking someone if they’ve seen such and such “PT” Anderson movie, please, use your words. It’s not that many more syllables.
White “men” have a lot of hangups and shortcomings, to be sure. So many and so much so that it makes one wonder how they’ve been able to ascend to and sustain “supremacy” for such a long period over the rest of humanity. That being said, one of the many issues white “men”–particularly those branding themselves as “intellectuals” have is with pronunciation. Specifically of those overly colloquial words used by “black folk” (as Nicole Richie would say). Unless, of course, he’s at the other end of the spectrum of how white “men” approach rap and its vernacular, and we’re dealing with an Eminem type that’s overly boca-happy with “informalities.”
But for those “men” at the Jeopardy player spectrum of whiteness, he would unwittingly seek to incur humiliation of a different kind–even if it means literally thousands of dollars ($3,200, to be exact) are at risk for simply saying a word incorrectly (though, yes, technically “correctly”). Because a “scholarly” white “man” would rather suffer the slashing of his pockets than risk sounding “uncouth,” instead preferring not to risk the slashing of his so-called integrity.
As was the case with a certain Jeopardy contestant that Alex Trebek (the last of the dickfuls) saw fit to put right into place by throwing back the real answer to a question that required locution in his face: “Gangsta’s Paradise Lost.” Not “Gangster’s Paradise Lost,” you poor misguided “academic.” Now not even rich enough to make up for a minuscule panisse.