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.
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?
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.
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.”
So many “men” can’t help but possess a congenital and unshakeable Peter Pan Syndrome–one that they tend only to cling to all the more as they get older. For the further away they get from youth, the further away they get from having a viable excuse to be such a fuck-up. An “average” if you will. In this fashion, anytime the discovery of a “vintage” photo (vintage, meaning, in this case of “male,” 1990s) comes along–usually by the subject’s over fawning mother, largely responsible for this hollow excuse of a being–a “boy” seizes upon it as an opportunity to show his fake friends throughout various channels demanding a profile picture that, yes, he was once a pure spirit. Not the diabolical knave you see before you today–or rather “see before you” on the internet.
In general, the sort of “man” that gives us a childhood profile photo will keep it there for quite some time (unless, of course, a novelty photo materializes from Vegas to up the appearance of his so-called game–for some reason, every “man” seems to actually want to look like a fuck”boy”). So that we may always understand the exact proportions of his dick–for it has never expanded its dimensions beyond preadolescence. But isn’t he just so fucking cute and forgivable in zygote form?
There’s a lot of “freaks” out there. It was the basis of an entire Sex and the City episode, for fuck’s sake (season two, episode three–“The Freak Show”–you should watch it, even though it’s really hard to be reminded of New York when it wasn’t so flaccid). But most of them are freaks not because they would have served well as extras in Tod Browning’s film of the same name, but because they actually have the gumption to sell themselves in this manner, parading themselves as “open,” “progressive” and hippy dippy or what have you when, in actuality, at the end of the day all they want is a muhfukkin basique. A non-Katie (a.k.a. complicato), like all the rest.
Yet possibly due to a typically youthful desire to seem rebellious and/or original (unfortunately youth extends interminably in most “men’s” “minds” these days), the faux freak “male” likes to feign that he’s as kooky and creepy as any sideshow attraction. This often translates into making a lot of random sounds, pretending to take an interest in off-brand bedroom behavior (when really, missionary is always his go-to in between the usual lackadaisical request for up the ass) and, for a time, seeking to pair with a girl who is as equitably 1950s queer as he is. However, every faux freak of a “man” grows tired of the charade with the girl who is genuinely a weirdo, ultimately taking his circus tent to a new metaphorical town (read: vagina) to perform another private show (as Britney Spears would call it), one that will enrapture a more basique element in the end, for that is what he truly wants–to be the so-called “special” one of the relationship.
As the “feminist” “movement” increasingly becomes the sort of fad that prompts Urban Outfitters to sell t-shirts with the three syllable word on it, “men’s” commonly held notions about what one should look like (chiefly a short-coiffed, homely, ill-dressed, long armpit-haired being) ought to evolve quickly if they don’t want to further incriminate themselves to the world about just what narrow-minded pieces of shit they are.
This false perception “men” have of only “ugly” women being capable of rage and contempt for the centuries-long acceptance of female oppression probably wasn’t helped by our Lord and Savior, Valerie Solanas. Then again, most “straight” “men” have nary a clue who that is unless they happened to catch a certain episode of American Horror Story: Cult. What’s more, when the type of dickless “men” I’m referring to think “ugly,” it is in the manner that has so often prompted the Hollywood trope of a woman getting a makeover by the simple removal of her glasses and the addition of a form-fitting dress to her wardrobe.
And yet, it’s actually easier for “men” to position a feminist to themselves in this manner–the manner that assumes she wouldn’t be a feminist if she was pretty enough to finagle herself a “man.” Comforts them in the belief that it’s merely a “trend” that will pass more attractive women by after enough time has lapsed and some more liberal celebrity takes the presidential office.
John Michael McDonagh’s 2016 film, War on Everyone, oft memed, rarely watched, paints this issue most succinctly when Alexander Skarsgård in the role of Terry Monroe daftly asks, “Can you be a feminist and still wear hot pants?” The guilelessness of this question gives a genuine insight into how most “men” think, persisting in truly believing that to be hideous is to be a feminist–in their minds, still a synonym for harpy. That is, if such an age-old insult is even in their Newspeak vernacular. So to break down the answer to that query very simply: you can be a feminist and wear whatever the fuck you want. Even the polar opposite wardrobe piece, a burka–which packs even more power because it hides the only thing “men” care about in a woman: her body.
More than any other gender, clear-cut or somewhere in between the spectrum, “men” seem to be the ones most fond–most likely to experience ejaculation–from being “right” via proving that a woman’s method and approach to something did not end up “working out” for her. Of course, what he means by it not working out is that she has not managed to achieve what she set out to do as quickly as she might have had she, say, sucked some literal or metaphorical cock.
But, as all women with their eye on the prize will ultimately come to find, they generally, without fail, always accomplish that which they set their sights on (primarily sweet death). It’s just a matter of our own process of getting there. If we don’t want to plaster a fucking “sweet” smile on our faces while we do it, or if we want to go about a certain task in a, shall we say, more roundabout, time-consuming fashion, that’s our fucking business. What should it matter to a loomingly observing “male” who apparently has nothing better to do than wait for a “woman” (even his own girlfriend most of the time) to err? Is it that satisfying for him to feel vindicated in knowing that his dick is still intact somewhere within the recesses of his groin?
This deep-seated need to see women unable to “perform” on their own terms stems from decades upon decades of conditioning. Like Lucy Ricardo’s many attempts at doing things her own way, only to have them very literally shoved back in her face as glaring mistakes, her constant fear of Ricky finding out is a testament to the inherent nature of most women: combative and defiant beneath that surface of perceived obsequiousness. We’ll fucking show you all when we’ve turned “men”–especially those softboys feigning emotionalism–completely into decorative pieces too afraid to say anything that could be viewed as offensive, let alone open their gaping maws any further at all beyond breathing. How’s that working out for you?
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.