In these “modern” times, it’s a challenge to find anyone–“male” or female–that dresses on your level. More often than not, you’re lucky if you stumble upon someone who wears anything other than a snuggie-similar garment upon exiting the apartment. But for those who still actually put clothes on that have buttons and zippers, being seen in public with the garden variety schlub that tends to abound in this town can be a constant source of embarrassment. I mean, didn’t New York used to be the only U.S. hub of high fashion?
Further, when taking into account just how fey and feminine “men” have become ever since the term “metrosexual” was coined in 1994 and became a household word as a result of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy and David Beckham, one would think that they would at least feel inclined to take greater pride in their appearance. But no, it’s just as Cher Horowitz said: “I don’t get how guys dress today. I mean, come on, it looks like they just fell out of bed and put on some baggy pants, and take their greasy hair—ew!—and cover it up with a backwards cap and, like, we’re expected to swoon? I don’t think so!” This is, however, apparently exactly what “men” expect, making you look as though you’re constantly dressed in a ball gown in comparison to their perpetual frumpery. So until you find your Jareth the Goblin King, you might prefer to walk the streets alone to spare yourself the trauma of being seen with someone sartorially unworthy.
It might have been romantic–even “edgy”–to get a “Love Will Tear Us Apart” tattoo when the song first came out in 1980 and held a meaning that wasn’t overly commodified by the abstract noun “hipster.” But in 2017, seeing a “man” sporting this Ian Curtis aphorism (especially if it’s situated right above his heart) is nothing if not an indication of just how little he cares for anyone but himself. The tattoo is not an expression of his sadness over a love lost or his genuine belief that l’amour causes nothing but heartache. It is a method of luring in naive pussy.
Because yes, a certain type of girl will find it charming that a “man” has emblazoned this mantra on his skin–a sign of tenderness and passion. But the only thing the lyric signifies in tattoo form is a tender dick and passionless mind. He is a phony baloney with no concept of just how fucking much it pains to experience attachment of any kind. He can let go in a way Ian Curtis never could–which is, in part, why he had to commit suicide, being unable to choose between two women and all. The “man” with the immortal quote on his body, however, is likely to live a very long life sustained on his egoism and falseness alone.
It’s got to be said, darling, that whenever a “man” needs a lot of fanfare for anything, most especially something as simple and straightforward as his name, well, then, it’s fairly likely he’s got something to hide. And that something is a phantom panisse. Think about it: did the greatest lotharios, the most illustrious sex machines rely on some long flowery moniker to distinguish them to women? Certainly not. Don Juan, Marquis de Sade, Ron Jeremy. These are all extremely succinct. In the old days, a cumbersome nom might have been a sign of nobility–but when was nobility ever a sign of virility?
When you start involving the lengthiness of a name like Prince Charles Philip Arthur George, it becomes clear just what is not lengthy where it counts in duration of coitus and size of appendage delivering the performance. No one needs to know your credentials based on the largeness of your name, but on how pleasantly large you can make the clitoris swell and then contract at the opportune moment of orgasm. So unless reciting your unnecessarily protracted name while having sex helps you protract the enjoyment of the ingenue you’ve managed to convince of your greatness in stature and finances (there’s a reason rich girls flock to bartenders and waiters), a one-word designation will suffice. Like the most tangible personification of sex there ever was, Prince.
The word supremacist really oughtn’t exist at all, as no one on this planeta is supreme in any way or by any means. We’re all assholes really, in some fashion or other. Then again, some assholes are bigger than others, chiefly “men” who subscribe to being white supremacists. Where the notion of their so-called supremacy comes from is difficult to pinpoint, as white “men” have been responsible for just about every war (not to mention heartbreak) in history. It’s almost impossible to fathom that they could think their actual skin tone is superior, being that we all know pasty and pallid tones certainly make one look much fatter.
Their use of “science,” or rather, pseudoscience, in defending their presumed “dominance” over other races is just one of many platforms for their “cause” that rather indicates, if anything, inferiority to those they wage their vitriol and violence against. Sadly, even the most “enlightened” of thinkers–Voltaire, for example, who once wrote, “It is a serious question… whether the Africans are descended from monkeys or whether the monkeys come from them.”–have fallen prey to this illusion of race. The U.S. especially has shed most of its blood solely based on this construct.
In UNESCO’s first official statement issued on race in 1950, entitled somewhat pejoratively, “The Race Question,” the apparently timeless assessment, “…’race’ is not so much a biological phenomenon as a social myth,” continues to evade the obviously daft prick of a white “male,” so convinced is he of his supremacy when its only motive can derive from having either a thin or chode-like panisse. Call it pseudoscience if you will.
Considering that “men” are too often coddled by their apparently incompetent-in-raising-children parents, it’s probably no wonder that they can barely wipe their own asshole, let alone spare the time to properly ensure that they leave a clean toilette bowl for those subjected to sharing the foul experience of trading off bathroom time with them. But one really has to ask: how is it deemed acceptable in the mind of any “man” to look behind him, see the flecks of brown caked on the bottom of the porcelain abyss and think, “Yeah, it’s fine for me to keep that there for someone else to see–for someone else to never be able to unsee”?
Does the “man” in question truly believe that this is how a toilette should be? That other people with unimpaired vision will simply be immune to the visibility of his former food items? The gall of depositing one’s “remnants” in this way is not only typically telling of a white “male” who has had everything “happen” to him for most of his life, merely expecting problems to melt away from someone else pressing a button (in this case, the handle on the toilette), but also, frankly, an uncouth entity barely evolved past cave”man” status. Except at least cave”men” had the decency to handle their elimination process somewhere behind a bevy of rocks that no one was liable to see again thanks to one’s sense of smell deflecting his interest in approaching the area.
Maybe it’s because my tits are lacking in every way that I somehow always end up with a tit-sucker–a “man” whose mouth consistently seems to find its way onto what Shakira would call your mountains. Or for some, like myself, your chode-like hills. I don’t know if maybe things would be different if this wasn’t the part of my body I’m not most self-conscious about, if maybe 1) I would enjoy a tit-sucker or 2) because of a lack of inhibition regarding them, the “man” in question might be less interested in them.
Whatever the case, there is obviously one thing that can be said for your average tit-sucker: he has a mother obsession. Or is at least trying to re-create the best part of his life: infancy. Even though very little has changed for him since then, in that he still has his parents taking care of him, or a woman as a placeholder to do so until he invariably moves back home to “regroup.” When you come across these tit-suckers in your boudoir–or portable bed a.k.a gurney–more regularly than most, you might have to ask yourself: am I putting out a maternal or matronly vibe? As for me, that’s definitely not the case, and anything that might emanate from my nipple is the barrel of a machine gun that so many other fembots have. Because it isn’t just that looking down and seeing a fully grown “man,” for all intents and purposes, masticating your breast is rather disorienting, it’s that you know he’s reverting to the most intimate moment he’s ever had with his mother. And if I wanted things to get Greek in my sex den, I would just order from Seamless.
There are some people who simply can’t be happy unless others are miserable. This is just such the case with “men” who have nine to five jobs–or worse, the type of job that forces them to rise even earlier than that. And though you might have given him an orgasm just hours before, he seems to suddenly have forgotten the service you’ve done him, in turn doing you the disservice of shuffling you out of his boudoir and therefore apartment so that, God knows what, he can prevent you from riffling through random boxes that might reveal what Carrie Bradshaw would call his “freakdom.” But then, considering that everything of incriminating or sentimental value is intangible nowadays, this speculative paranoia really makes no sense.
What’s the harm in letting the one you banged remain a little longer in your sandpapery sheets? Doesn’t she deserve the luxury of sleeping in, of collecting herself so that she might take stock of just how damaged she’s becoming from all the strange “dicks” she allows inside of herself? Or is it that a sick part of the natural sadist within the “man” wants to envision her walking down the street looking mangy, like a rode hard and put away wet (though vaginally dry) animal? Whatever his motives might be, none of them could possibly warrant ejecting the woman he boned out like some common prostitute. Because at least prostitutes get paid for their shame and disposability.
“Men” already have so little to offer in the present time period–certainly not stimulating conversation, unless you’d like to wax poetic about the hyper-realism of Zelda. And, worst of all, not even loyalty. For as flaccid and uninterested in sex as they are these days, they’re still liable to turn right around and stab you in the back (as opposed to in the vagina, with their dick) and abandon you either for another, less complicated girl or for a pursuit that they’ll never fulfill (like “becoming” a musician).
But to add insult to injury, now “men” aren’t even capable of fulfilling their true biological purpose–insemination–anymore. At least that’s what a new study published in the Human Reproduction Update has ascertained. And, most telling of all, it is the younger demographic of “men” that “are falling into the infertile and sub fertile categories.” But not just any “men”–Western “men.” Who knows what’s contributing to their sudden inability to produce viable sperm: pesticides? Hormones? Too much porn-watching? The jury of science sleuths is still deliberating. The only thing that is clear is that women should probably move to South America, Asia or Africa if they want to get their Eggo prego.
If you think there’s nothing more demoralizing and nerve-racking to a woman than having to come up with some bullshit dirty talk in bed, then maybe you’ve never been subjected to having to talk like a life coach in between the sheets (though the “men” you gravitate toward probably don’t even have sheets, as they’re all musicians). To have to tell someone what he should already be confident in as it stands, or at least feign the confidence in such a way as to make the woman he’s entering at least faintly feel like she’s having a good time.
But no, “men” always seem to ask, in an almost Ed Koch reminiscent manner, “How’m I doing?” As though your instruction is going to be used not on you, but in the future on some other girl who will most likely be younger and dumber and yet still somehow get the benefit of all the helpful hints you gave to this flailing panisse with a vague body attached. And as he continues to ensure he’s pleasuring you in just the right way instead of actually pleasuring you, you’ll eventually succumb to pulling a Romy and start screaming incongruous assurances and lies about his velvety touch and throbbing thrillhammer. You are America and he’s really just kind of pillaging you to find out what works best for others, not discovering you.
Every “man” is a musician, whether he is aware of it or not. His ability to play women like fiddles, cellos and any other stringed instrument that can be plucked and massaged is an innate gift that makes him a natural “virtuoso.” The notes he hits with that “Ooo baby I love you” or that “When we live in Europe together…” future plan-making shtick strike the perfect pitch every time. Fall on women’s ears with the sweet sonority they can’t resist.
These melodies at the outset are like those of frothy, vibrant pop or electronica music, ultimately segueing into death metal when he suddenly doesn’t have the patience to create the more pleasant, quality beats for you anymore, the ones that indicate accompanying lyrics will be tantamount to the sentiments expressed in The Beatles’ version of “Till There Was You.” The death metal comes, when, instead, he wants to agitate you, get on your nerves so that you lose your patience and abandon ship–leave him to play the next woman, or rather, instrument. All the while, he’s probably listening to classical music, skull fucker that he is, on his own time. Because students in the art of playing must listen to the backbone of instrumentation.