The saving of face is so important to the “male” gender, though this seems strange when taking into account just how much they tend to humiliate themselves on a day to day basis by simply opening their mouths and closing their hearts. This is perhaps what drives them to do such priggish, bastardly things, like deny thy existence and refuse thy name–when you don’t even want to bang them at all or ever again.
But because you’re a woman and you have at least the same size organ pumping blood throughout your body as The Grinch, a moment of weakness forces you to show empathy with a terse text in response to the bullshit he said to attempt getting you over to his apartment to ward off the loneliness of life with the insertion of himself into you, perhaps hoping to make himself whole in literally affixing to another body for one brief orgasm. He tries his best to act aloof when he feels your response was shaming, less than enthusiastic. And by aloof one means feigning he didn’t know who he was talking to and claiming to have lost “a bunch of numbers a few weeks ago,” when in fact you only met him one week ago and have since ghosted him because you’ll never get over the one that got away and have difficulty feeling anything for anyone so why bother going through the motions of a date? And with communications like these, one can’t really be blamed for said lack of desire.
Like hashtags, abbreviated words (“nvm,” “txt,” “l8tr,” etc.) and Donald Trump’s presidential campaign, the color box status update on Facebook is something that seemingly came out of nowhere, an entity with origins too unclear to trace. But what’s even more unclear than this is why “men” so especially favor using this means to express themselves on social media, to update us all of their general “amazingness” a.k.a. complete and utter dicklessness.
The most banal of statements, like “Wrote an email to my landlord,” cannot be masked or made more interesting by the presence of bold, vibrant colors. And isn’t this the probable intent of the color boxes on Facebook? To make others believe you’re living out loud via the distraction of bombastic chroma. But no hue from the color wheel can conceal the truth about you, “man”: you’re an irrevocable asshole with nothing going on in your life other than the not so unique ability to regurgitate quotes or give a cut and dried account of all the meaninglessness in your life.
While it’s all very noble or something to attempt to commingle the sexes in a platonic manner for this generation’s sick need to disprove the thesis statement of When Harry Met Sally, it gets to a point of parody when “men” have so many female friends that it starts to look vaguely like a harem of vestal hens just hoping to pounce on the rooster at the center of it all when his guard is down. But it’s not their fault for feeling this way. It’s only natural to start to catch feelings for someone you share an emotional and intellectual connection with.
Ergo, the “man” who, for whatever psychologically fucked up reason, decides to frame his universe solely with women as though to make one giant cluster of a super female to probably sub in for his mother or some such cliche, is really only doing them all a disservice in serving himself. Maybe he thinks he can learn something about how to treat his eventual girlfriend if he spends enough time among the vages. Or maybe, he, too, thinks that most “men” are missing a dick and simply can’t be around them. It’s too much faux alpha “male” energy. But if that’s the case, he really ought to just get a sex change. It’s not like his penis is doing any woman any good by not sticking it in one of them. Nobody likes a pussy tease, for fuck’s sake.
“Men” have a lot of balls in spite of having no dick. For one, they try to come at you (rather than in you) after y’all’s inevitable demise and make threats illuminating how they’re going to write a tell-all about you with all the gory details (every “man” is a writer in Brooklyn, you know). Well, for one, it’s not all that threatening considering no one reads anymore, and for another, how does he fail to forget about all those dick pics he sent you that also foolishly featured his stubbly-ass face in the shot?
And even if his face wasn’t included, does he not realize that you can pretend any picture of a barely there nub could be used against him as collateral? Because, even after all this time, there is still nothing more embarrassing to a “man” (especially a white one) than his own genitalia–primarily because it is a mirror in size of his capacity for love and genuine emotion.
In these “modern times,” one supposes it’s only natural for a girlfriend and a boyfriend to separate more regularly. It’s only… what’s that word?–healthy. That two people should live independently of one another, not risk becoming so enmeshed; you know, in preparation for the inevitable breakup. Maybe that’s why so many couples are comfortable with taking solo trips these days in spite of being “together.” It helps keep their material fresh, their heart grow fonder in absence. That is, unless the “man” a woman is with encourages her to engage in sex dealios with others while she’s on her journey and perhaps feeling particularly lonely. After all, any woman who wants to fuck more than once a week is a nympho during this anti-libidinous epoch.
So of course she should be feeling lonely, a bit needful on her separate journey from her so-called boyfriend. Thus, because polyamory is just another indication of how lazy and non-committal millennials are, he will think he’s being oh so evolved and generous in suggesting that she ought to find her sexual release with another. And maybe even he will do the same, should he feel so inclined and if he can manage to tear himself away from quietly masturbating in his hostel bed. Sadly, when the girl decides to take him up on his offer in the hope that he’ll actually care, she’ll find that not only does he not, but he also decided to extend his trip indefinitely. And so go “relationships” of the “mature” variety in the twenty-first century.
On a Fourth of July that marks a certain orange one’s first year in office, “celebrating” the U.S.’ independence feels somehow cartoonish, a mockery of the document that begat it in the first place: the Declaration of Independence. It took five “men”–John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin, Roger Sherman and Robert Livingston–to draft and ratify this life-changing document and, apparently, only one “man” to destroy it. Of course, many before Trump have “loosely interpreted” a.k.a. slaughtered the meaning of this hallowed script.
Ironically, a similarly abhorred “man” was the cause of its invention–of America itself. Yes, King George III was the monarch who Americans, in many ways, ought to thank for our independence. For if he wasn’t such an asshole, levied so many taxes against Englishmen in the colonies without their consent and generally treated pre-Americans with so little regard, we might never have known the level of freedom illuminated by the Declaration of Independence, the type of freedom that no other culture had thus far been bold enough or saw fit to claim. And with the immortal words, “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all ‘men’ are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness,” perhaps the Founding Fathers unwittingly fucked some of us over. Because 1) it still only apparently applies to “men” (white) and 2) it also gives license for shittaytay politicians like Chris Christie to pursue their happiness in a way that invokes murderous rage in others. These are the “men” who have lost sight of what the Declaration of Independence means.
Whereas a statesman like Abraham Lincoln used the tenets of the prose for the good of all, a “man” like the orange one wields them as he pleases, unmoved by the spirit and significance of these words that once comprised the optimism and can-do attitude of U.S. denizens, but now seem only to be used to justify every “man’s” evils, though a handful in particular in a certain administration at the moment.
It’s already been long ago established that “men” have nothing resembling any sense of shame. Maybe that’s how they’ve managed to get so much further ahead in life than women (while also somehow getting head in the process–as if they need another reward for their bad behavior). And maybe that’s why so many of them (particularly the married kind) prefer to outwardly accuse a woman of having an STD as opposed to being a gentleman by getting the test without telling her, finding out the results and then slinging accusations at her about the state of her health.
No, instead, the average “man” prefers to pre-shame, to jump the gun in letting the woman he derived his pleasure from feel that she’s a dirty whore who ought to stop spreading her disease all over town. Then, a few days later when he finds out he was letting the paranoia that even weed can’t justify set in, he’ll somehow have the balls (though he’s still missing a dick) to reach out to you again and ask you a frivolous, non sequitur question like, “Have you seen Blow-Up?,” as though you’re just supposed to swoon over his Antonioni 101 knowledge and forgive him of recently making you feel like little better than trash found on the street to masturbate with.
Possibly the most distinguishing factor about New York isn’t the bagels, the pizza or the pervasive stench of trash. It’s that, for whatever reason, “men” feel extremely comfortable with singing in public–whether on the sidewalks, on the train or while they’re standing in line waiting for the food and drinks they can’t afford. It doesn’t necessarily have to do with a desire to express happiness or “be discovered” as it might have in the old days of New York when people still actually had talent to be unearthed, so much as the intense need to be noticed by someone–anyone. And that person, unfortunately, is going to be you.
Though you’ve lived in New York for longer than most people ought to while still not risking coming within in an inch of your irrevocable insanity, you still haven’t learned how to tune out the vexatious sound of “men” who sing along with whatever is on their headphones or, worst of all, rap along. Who knows what it is about this “concrete bunghole where dreams are made up” that leads “men” to feel so comfortable with putting their vocal inabilities on blast ad nauseum. All that can be said is that if their bedroom moans sound half as grating, you might want to invest in an array of earplugs for engaging with “men” both in outside and inside environs.
As the twenty-first century pushes what’s left of straights into evermore “non-heteronormative” territory (even they can’t indulge in their own heterosexual “normalness”) “men” continue to either forget or are completely unaware of certain gender roles that really oughtn’t be eradicated. And yet, apparently, they must be solely for the purpose of adhering to the lack of chicness of subscribing to “maleness” or femaleness fully at this juncture in time.
And one of the most prominent areas this flimsiness in “male” knowledgeability has thrived of late is in bedroom activities. Alternately known as: the lull that comes after banging. Now that people don’t smoke anymore (and thank god they don’t vape–yet–in lieu of it after sex), the only post-coital behavior truly left is the old “rest your head on his shoulder” slide. That is, unless he is so out of touch with his “masculinity” that he somehow thinks that it’s okay for him to place his shoulder on yours instead of the other way around. The type of “male” that generally engages in this scandalizing behavior is the sort who is still seeking to re-enter his mother’s womb–or at least to return to sucking from her tit. But it’s also trickling even to the ones who aren’t overly indulgent in their natural Oedipus complex. So now, in addition to the standard awkwardness that occurs after having sex with a “man,” it becomes intensified by the fact that you have to actually remind him who has the monopoly on the shoulder.
Scientific studies are always unveiling unwanted truths you really could have done without–like when everyone in the 60s had to admit that cigarettes and red meat were killing them in the 50s. But the latest undesirable find is targeted specifically at women, mainly those who lead a non-monogamous existence. Because at least if a girl manages to finagle just one to two “loves” her entire life, she’s only absorbing a few strands of “male” DNA.
Those who bang multiple “men” on the reg, however, are probably doomed to become psychotic not only because of various DNA personalities, but also as a result of having too much “male” in their brains. Because, as if sex isn’t already sci-fi enough, now research (albeit by the shoddy Pacific Northwest entity that is University of Seattle) has shown that sperm attaches to your flesh, infuses your bloodstream and, basically, becomes one with your body–FOREVER (as Mark Wahlberg would say it in Fear). Also known as male microchimerism: it’s like all the most disturbing elements of an Almodóvar/Lynch joint. In any case, women ought to think twice about going home with that attractive but obvious serial killer type. Or anyone at all, really–because who wants “male” DNA of any kind within herself when it automatically entails being a schizoid?