One understands that, more than ever in this day and age, whenever a “man” miraculously consents to be pinned down via the binding ties of marriage, he’s probably especially prone to castration and other “light” methods of the gradual chopping off of his entire remaining wang. Even so, it is still difficult to fathom his ability to surrender all control over his dignity by consenting to partake of shameful photos that are really just intended to make the “unattached” women in his fiancée’s life feel bad about themselves.
Sure, maybe a standard-issue couple photo featuring the two against some tritely idyllic backdrop could pass for the “man” at least having some say in the matter. But when it reaches the level of intricacy that only a female could be responsible for (e.g. posing as an infinity circle on the floor together dressed in flesh-colored bodysuits for some reason or, worse yet, in the shape of a heart in red bodysuits), you have to wonder if there’s something particularly brilliant she must be doing to his nub behind closed doors to get him to relinquish all forms of self-respect in public. But alas, no probably not–for “men” get aroused by nothing more in this life, it would seem, than the type of basique who posts shit about tiles while in Lisbon. It is for love of this type of melba that he will let all sense of former honor for the self fly out the window of his bachelor pad and into the carefully decorated (but still somehow banal) mortgage payment-heavy home he must now share with his new wife. And it is a transition, a death of the soul (if a “man” can ever be deemed so generously as even having one to begin with), that the clearly non-discerning “male” feels (or perhaps doesn’t feel at all) inclined to immortalize in humiliating photo form. Because behind the words “I do” also, apparently, lingers the fine print, “I do…agree to spend an exorbitant sum of money to make my fiancée feel like she can at least pretend there’s anything straight about me even though she’s wielding me like a Barbie doll for her own sadistic dress up purposes and scenario creation pleasure.”
Even though it’s a commonly held belief that women are nothing but mere receptacles for the pleasure release of “men,” it does not mean that they should be subjected to the shameless and free-flowing “requests” (a euphemism for demands) of the “male,” and all the strange predilections his psyche can muster. Of which there are many, especially when taking into account the fact that “men” so often suppress their true fancies from an early age, made to feel by both their overbearing mothers and society itself that even something as vanilla as wanting a finger up the ass now and again is pure taboo.
With such forms of stifled yearning ingrained within the “average” “man,” can it be any wonder, then, that the second he loses inhibitions (the way one only can when his clothes are off and his alcohol intake met) long enough, he suddenly feels all too comfortable to make such very specific demands as, “Can you hold my balls while we fuck?” Uh, yeah, sure. Whatever works, you fucking weirdo. The fact that a “man” is so relaxed in expressing his strange brand of needs for orgasming so readily at the outset is not only telling of how often women are viewed as merely a means to an end, but also of how he’s clearly been champing at the bit to see how one woman reacts over another to whatever his bizarre whim is.
While it’s all perfectly on the level to engage in the quid pro quo acrobatic antics it can sometimes take to get off, it’s generally more appealing when these barking insistences are made to someone that a “man” is actually in a relationship with. Then again, thanks to the alive and well Madonna/whore complex, it is too frequently the case that a “man” feels he could never entreat a girl that he would be with monogamously to do such “freaky” things as the butter churner position (which, by the way, is a position best loved by the “male” who particularly enjoys manifesting the female as a human trash can).
Like many “concepts” favoring the championing of the non-real and intangible, air guitar seems to find enthusiasm among those who aren’t really capable of doing anything that actually creates something. Other than a breeze if you happen to be walking by their hands whilst they’re “playing” whatever little song they imagine in their head (what else could it be other than something from the Pete Wentz classification of “rock”?). For some reason, this practice seems to be most especially relished by “men” (though let us not forget Nanami “Seven Seas” Nagura claiming the title of Air Guitar World Champion in 2014). Maybe it has something to do with the symbolic fact that they don’t actually want to hold or touch anything–least of all a woman–lest it means they remain saddled with it (gasp! potentially for the rest of their lives).
What’s more, how can someone actually stand there, so shamelessly in front of a public, making masturbatory movements with their hands and call it anything other than comfortableness with delusion? Which, yes, “men” are far more comfortable with than women, made evident by their ability to act as though everything is fine without displaying any signs of going off the rails as a female would (e.g. the classic go-to of head-shaving)–other than, say, playing air guitar and acting like it’s completely normal to stand on a stage and be judged in such categories as “mimesmanship.” To that point, “men” are quite good at miming, exhibiting the capability to go through motions with such conviction as to almost make you believe there’s any sense of emotion behind that sweaty and unkempt chaff they call their body. But there’s not. And no amount of air guitar “playing” can make it otherwise. So please keep the practice where it belongs: in the privacy of the room in your parents’ house they were kind enough to give back to you or in the decade of the 1980s.
There still somehow exist many “men” that would like the ghost of Reagan to possess–even fuck–them (Jack Donaghy being the most overt example). When considering that we do not, unfortunately, live in the 1980s, and the stock market/Wall Street isn’t some enviable institution to be a part of signifying the promise of wealth and class ascension as it once used to, it really is quite an anomaly. And not the good kind. Like karaoke in Italy or whirling dervishes outside of Turkey.
Rather than being evocative of a “go-getter” or a hard-working “provider,” the “man” who regularly checks his stock app is not only a complete freak (and not even in a way that translates into decent sex antics) but also a cold, soulless being that will stare right through you like one of the graphs or charts indicating financial gain or lack thereof. You might initially get taken in by this type of “male” because you are transfixed by the notion of a person with a conventional job who does not spin you that yarn about relying on the gig economy as a millennial. But this is before you see him actually looking at the stock app. More than once a day. Not only is it a classic case of phubbing, but also a strong indication that if his attention is this focused solely on dollars now, it’s not going to change, and you’re probably not even going to reap the rewards of his fortune anyway when considering he will likely make you sign a prenup. Because yes, white “men” of this “caliber” do still get married, it’s part of the yuppie legacy instilled within them by their progenitors, Reagan, perhaps being one of them.
Of course, you could try to pry the phone from his clammy, dead hands to delete the app, but you might have better luck petitioning to get Reagan’s face on a piece of U.S. currency.