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.
Just as it is that every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings, so it is that every time a “man” wears flip flops in public, the earth becomes just a little bit ickier. Of course, it’s one thing for a being claiming to have a penis to wear flip flops in a confined, private space (presumably not his own home due to the fact that “men” never have their own homes). But to take that sanctity of the private space in question and try to translate it into the public realm is not only gauche, but also, quite simply, an overt affront to one’s fellow “man” (since we all know “men” aren’t motivated in any way to impress or cater to their fellow woman, but then, why would they be if she’s saying shit like, “Living my best life“).
Plus, whenever he walks through the streets with his stench-ridden feet, made all the more stench-ridden from the sweat that comes with the heat of the summer, it most assuredly accelerates global warming by one degree–and is that something we really need all for the sake of his ability to “feel comfortable” in and out of the domicile he doesn’t even pay for? By the same token, if he’s saving all this money on being unkempt, can’t he at least pay a few extra bones (since he has no boner) to, at the bare(foot) minimum, buy a pair of closed-toed shoes so that the rest of us don’t have to bear witness to the atrocity exhibition? Even those rare women who fetishize shrimping can’t get off on an unclean, city grit-endured set of toes.
Just as it is with film, so it is with books that “men” of an often pretentious nature have a very specific arsenal of go-to recommendations tailored toward impressing women that they think are intellectually inferior anyway. From Raymond Chandler to Gunter Grass, the “man” with the book recommendations is calculated in his choices, wanting to be just esoteric enough, but not so obscure that the girl he’s trying to impress is made to feel totally stupid. Because heaven forbid she could actually know anything beyond what was suggested to her based on titles she’s viewed or purchased on Amazon. Or even be cognizant of what “true literature” (code for: written by a blowhard) really is.
And while the novice sort of female, the kind who is usually too young and not well-read enough to know better (this is, in point of fact, just one of two reasons why “men” have a predilection for zygotes), might be impressed by the “sweet nothings” not so much whispered as touted in the form of his literary knowledge, those who have been through it all before at this point will know that the best approach to “listening” is simply nodding along as best as you can without eye-rolling. Letting him have the orgasmic satisfaction of believing that you believe that he hasn’t recommended these same exact novels to every other pussy that has had the misfortune of entering his con artist life. That this is “custom content,” if you will–reading advice given purely from a place of wanting to suggest something tailored to your personality and interests, when, in reality, it’s about his own self-validation. You’re so smart, [insert white guy name here]. You’re so worldly, [insert white guy name here]. And before you know it, he’s cum all over the books he’s peddling toward you.
While everyone knows that Tinder can be quite depressing and lead to nothing more than a burning sensation as opposed to a burning desire, it doesn’t mean that a “man” should take the often desperate measure of turning to his female roommate for penile solace. Because it’s so “evolved” and “mature” for “men” and women to live together as sexless beings in the present (this would never have happened in the world depicted by Mona Lisa Smile). But this notion of “sexlessness” remains a ruse, a lie we tell ourselves to help corroborate George Orwell’s 1984 prophecies. And unlike Winston claiming, “It was always the women” who are responsible for “men’s” troubles, who initiate sex, in most instances of roommate dalliances, it is always the “bloke” who manages to capitalize on a drunken evening.
Not thinking that perhaps this is going to offer some awkward and unwieldy consequences in the morning and in subsequent days, the “male” roommate simply lives in the moment of ephemeral pleasure as his mother helped condition him to. The roommate with the misfortune of having a vagina, try as she might, cannot help but feel a weird possessiveness in the future when the “boy” who banged her out of a combination boredom and necessity does manages to find someone outside of the apartment to bring back and fuck. It can really make for an emotional rollercoaster in one’s already unpleasant living space (for all living spaces are unpleasant when you live in Brooklyn on a paltry 60K-70K a year–yes, it’s disgusting that that much money amounts to a penny in NYC). But the “male” roommate cares not about destroying what is meant to be the only safe space in a city that thrives on mental warfare. He cares only for convenience. And what could be more so than a vag right next to him on the bed bug-ridden couch scooped up from the street or bought for too much at a “vintage” store?
And fluid takes a human form in “men” who wear belly chains. Currently trending in the world of “men’s” jewelry and fashion is this emblem of being a 90s woman or early 00s era Christina Aguilera. No one knows how or why “men” suddenly decided they wanted to graft sartorial inspiration from women, especially considering how much they seem to despise them in every other regard, but one can trace its most blatant recent origins to 2017, with “men” all in a frenzy (I will not make the pun “gaga” to reference the perpetual infantile state of “man”–especially since Lady Gaga further ruined the use of that word) over “male” rompers a.k.a. romphim. From there, it was only going to be a quick ride into the territory of belly chains.
The appropriation–yes, use of the term is warranted–of belly chains ultimately by Western white women from Indian history does not need to be appropriated by white “men” as well. In Trump’s America, there’s only room for one gender of the Caucasian persuasion to steal blatantly from another culture and it damn sure shouldn’t be anyone sporting what amounts to little better than a protruding clitoris. Of course, no “man” can adhere to rules either written or unspoken, so here we are with the belly chains of “men’s” pale blanco stomachs shoved up in our faces as our heads are forced down to where life does not begin so much as ends in tears (of sperm) and all at once you just want to gag yourself with the chain at the same time as the cum runs down your throat. All the while, he’s looking for an award for his accessorizing brilliance and you’re just over here like:
As confusion as to which century we’re in continues to mount, DJ Khaled’s recent comments on a radio interview about not feeling obliged to give the mother of his child head because he pays the bills harkens back to The Sopranos. Because everything always does. With DJ Khaled blissfully oblivious to the fact that he’s about to overtake Kanye West’s “slavery was a choice” headlines, he comments without even the slightest impression of a second thought, “I believe a woman should praise the man, you know. The king. If you holdin’ it down for your woman, I feel like the woman should praise…and the man should praise the queen–but you know, my way of praising…hahaha…it’s called ‘How was dinner? You like the house you livin’ in? You like all the clothes you gettin’? I’m takin’ care of your family, takin’ care of my family–you know, puttin’ in the work.” One of the hosts of The Breakfast Club on NYC’s Power 105 then summed up, “So you’re sayin’ you don’t go down.” DJ Khaled flatly returns, “Naaaaa. Never.”
For those of you who have still somehow never seen The Sopranos (go start watching it now because it remains forever relevant), this mentality is directly helmed from mafia dons and members in general and Tony Soprano in particular. As the capo of the DiMeo crime family, Tony still technically cedes the best title to his uncle, Corrado Soprano, a man who actually calls very few of the shots. The lack of respect Tony feels for him is further augmented when he hears rumors about Corrado’s current girlfriend, who has talked up his generous oral sex abilities in the bedroom to other women. And, of course, when Corrado finds out that people are talking, he scolds his girlfriend for telling others, explaining to her that it’s a sign of weakness for a man to give a woman pleasure in this way. DJ Khaled, who also apparently sees himself as a mafia don despite the fact that the only way in which he resembles one is in girth (not of the penis kind, mind you), adds to his grave-digging interview, “You gotta understand I’m the don, I’m the king… It’s different rules for men. You gotta understand you know, like, we the king. There’s some things that y’all might not wanna do–it gotta get done. I just can’t do what you want me to do.” Shit, even Tony gave Carmela head once a year for her birthday (an occasion Angela Yee also brings up to Khaled as an important time to make a concession about one’s usual misogyny). And even Ricky Ricardo probably had more evolved views about how to treat his wife (especially considering Lucy held the key to his secured American citizenship. No one was gonna give him a work visa for “Babalu.”). In any case, one supposes Khaled’s “queen,” Nicole Tuck, might be getting some terrible head pretty soon as a result of this backlash. Meanwhile, Rihanna male alliances continue to prove fatal. Because diamonds are nothin’ when you’re not getting head from the person bestowing them upon you.
There are some “men” who simply can’t get “it” (it being their painted cherub of the Renaissance-sized dick) up without a girl spinning him some yarn about how she’s bad…naughty. These two vocab words in particular, which saw their emergence around the time of the Mae West era, when bad girls as a concept first became a source of mainstream titillation, have always been staples in assuring a “man’s” arousal. Particularly because so many of them continue to suffer from the Madonna/whore complex, even in these times touted as those of feminism. The inability to separate bad from good–that the two must be compartmentalized–is, indeed, often what prompts “men” to cheat with the so-called bad girls who can get them off more easily than their “virtuous” girlfriends. But as Mae West said, “There are no good girls gone wrong, just bad girls found out.”
And with “men” being so predictable as they are about what trigger sentences and words will prompt them to get what is becoming that evermore elusive thing called an erection, the faux good girls know just what to say to unravel the layers seductively to their “badness,” which of course was already there considering “men” think any woman who admits to having a period is bad–but if she rehashes a lesbian camp story from junior high, well, that kind of bad is acceptable. What it all amounts to is that “men” are, if nothing else, at least useful in their manipulability. That’s why Mata Hari, former exotic dancer extraordinaire was so successful before being painted as a conniving seductress of a spy, though proof of her crimes in carrying out espionage for the Germans was largely unsubstantiated. But that didn’t matter. Any woman who would take her clothes off in public had to be a bad girl–and that’s when manipulation of “men” can backfire, for they can always wield their ultimate no frills power when they’ve been “wronged” (a.k.a. shamed and exposed for the fools they are), whereas a bad girl only has her subtle and undercutting control until it’s ripped from her with the single wave of a hand and sanction of an execution. The most modern example, perhaps, being Pussy Riot’s near two year jail sentence for speaking negatively about Putin while singing a punk prayer in front of Moscow’s main cathedral. Or, one could argue, even Stormy Daniels, another bad girl who was at first enjoyed for her “badness” and is now being defamed by a deranged white “man” who still somehow has more clout despite being objectively unhinged.
There is no easier way to infiltrate a woman’s mind and heart than through the words a “man” says. Words. So pretty and meaningless, evidently. Yet, it seems, we will never learn our lesson. That a “man’s” verbal prose style is, more often than not, just that: stylized. A means to the end called one or several of your orifices. He has a knack for the passion requisite of all Italians all the time at the outset, saying such things as, “I can’t imagine being with anyone else” or “You’re not like anyone else I’ve ever met.” He’ll talk about the future as though it were so secure, like he isn’t going to drop you at the first sign of something better, chasing the butterfly called other people’s pussies whenever the mood should strike him. And the mood will strike him, for it strikes them all at some point or another, while the going is still good, as it were. While he’s not just another gross old “man” with no money to offer as a tantalization to a younger woman.
The bathetic spoutings, however, will soon start to taper off in favor of a more marked aloofness. One that you’ll try to penetrate and de-layer so as to find that core that once so freely cascaded words characterized by Shakespearean ardor. Where did that “man” go? Did he ever exist at all? For all the words that you thought once comprised him and his feelings toward you have vanished. No longer correlating in any way, shape or form with his actions, which, as usual, always speak more loudly than any heavy-handed proclamations. The ones that falsely assured you of your place in the heart that he doesn’t actually have.
While the art of leering is at its most finely tuned in Southern Italy, there are still plenty of masterful leerers in the town of North Brooklyn. Though, these days, it’s more South BK, as all sexuality has been stamped out of most of the thin, pale, computer worker types that can afford to live in the former locale. Despite some arguing that leering can’t be helped, is merely an inescapable part of that natural and uncontrollable thing called the male pituitary gland, there is always the option for self-control. Lest one prefers to risk having his eyes plucked out (in the manner of Beatrix Kiddo to Elle Driver) for gawking a little too obviously at the wrong woman. Crazier things have happened, after all. Just look at the U.S.’ current “president.”
One can perhaps understand a quick glance as a show of appreciation for the superiority and magnificence of the female form, sure–maybe. One supposes that’s fine. He can’t help it that he still has a healthy imagination regarding how to mentally undress a woman in spite of having enough stock footage of porn in his head to cause even the most robust in bandwidth of databases to short circuit. But after a certain number of seconds, it gets really fucking creepy. More to the point, rapey. Like, how hard is it to remember your mother’s presumable cautioning about how it’s impolite to stare? For she, too, was probably a victim of the eerie and disgusting practice of being ogled by a “man” in her day. Little did she know she was also going to create one, add another perv to an already googly eye-filled planet. The problem of leering is so rampant, in fact, that “men” had to come up with an actual religion that forces women to cover themselves with burkas as a chief tenet of its practice. The real reason, of course? To keep from leering so intently that it leads to losing all control and simply whipping out one’s “penis” and attacking. Because no good can from a “man” who is allowed to leer for too long, which is why women must practically run past a group of them as she walks down the street, be it in East Harlem or Napoli. Just like staring at the sun too long, a woman who allows herself to be looked at for too lengthy a period will get burned in some way or another. This, again, just makes Beatrix Kiddo’s eye-plucking method seem all the more viable.
Picasso, Gaugin, Matisse. “Men” are so good at painting. False portraits. One of their favorites on the list of greatest hits called Duping a Woman is creating the illusion of a magical first (and maybe even second and third) outing together that is pretty much a replica of Javier Bardem’s sauverie in Vicky Cristina Barcelona. Depictions of eating decadent food (though not so much so as to be too full to fuck), drinking “expensive” wine (though what he views as expensive might not align with your perspective) and talking about “life and love”–whatever the fuck that means–will take the average woman for a ride. Even if she’s already been through the wringer of being made a fool of once or countless times before, she can’t help herself. Believing “men’s” lies is, in part, how women survive, persist in helping the patriarchy perpetuate the false notion that there is such a thing as happily ever after.
So she wavers, lets the falsely painted portrait appeal to her apparently dull senses. For, in truth, there is no imagination to the skeevy date agendas of “men,” the last of the “straight” ones of which will only get creative in how they can make a splash with their “penis” for the purposes of spending as little time and money on the endeavor as possible–ergo the thickness with which they will slather on the ephemeral charm. But, even Vicky (Rebecca Hall)–fortress-like pragmatist that she is–can fall victim to the full-on Monet (oops, mixing movie analogies here) that is a “man’s” presentation of how things will be, with the asterisk’d caveat that it can only be so for a maximum of no more than three to five fucks’ worth of “romance sessions.”