Though we keep telling ourselves that gender roles are an illusion (and soon enough so will reality be altogether thanks to, among other things, persistent hologram concerts from the likes of Roy Orbison and Amy Winehouse), it would seem that many “men” still rely on the tried and true Jay Gatsby go-to of making a shit ton of money in order to both impress therefore “procure” a woman. Tragically, what he can’t seem to procure is a clue regarding how to be sociable in a way that doesn’t scream “eccentric millionaire” (although one hopes, at the very least, not at quite the same decibel as Howard Hughes). So he goes about his usual manner of being a bumbling idiot that somehow managed to make him vast sums of money not in the face of but precisely because he is socially inept and generally daft.
The girl, of course, is partially at fault for falling into the cliche trap of wanting to be, to use a gross, parody of something Frank Sinatra would say, wined and dined, allowing herself to fall prey to the inevitable sandpaper hangout session. Because, what can she say, that statistic about women making seventy-five cents for every dollar a “man” makes still rings true, and thusly, she could use a paid for meal every now and again. Yet for all his best attempts to treat the dinner like a job interview and go on about his various qualifications for the role of potential fuck and maybe–if she’s lucky–boyfriend, she is, as usual, of the Shania bent, not impressed much. And in truth, sort of just trying to get through the dinner without vomiting her food too prematurely (that’s for later, in the privacy of her own bathroom). So it must be said that just because a “man” has a wallet more burgeoning and thrilling than his so-called panisse does not mean it is enough to 1) keep a woman’s interest or 2) even reel her in in the first place. Because there’s something to be said for the non-faux pretension of poverty dick. Crusty though it may be.
Because stereotypes make everything easier and generally hold some grain of longstanding truth (e.g. Italian Americans working in construction or plumbing), it is safe to say that the reason “men” hold such general contempt for women is a result of their many luxury “needs” (though some “males” would like to deny their unwitting complicity in the success of the beauty and fashion industries). The things, in short, that make them so very susceptible to desiring and coveting the bourgeois lifestyle. Certainly, it’s not as on blast as it was in the 50s, when Lucy was asking for all manner of increase in her allowance from Ricky, or in the 80s, when Bret Easton Ellis was inspired to write about someone as frivolous as Evelyn in American Psycho. But the residual materialistic airhead trope is hard to shake even with the firm presence of the twenty-first century as well (see: Paris Hilton, the Kardashians, Kylie Jenner specifically and, for some reason, Tiffany Trump).
The resentment “men” have toward women of this nature (which is to say, most of them), stems from the reflection it gives back of his own inadequacy as a functioning member of a capitalist society (the only society still recognized by mainstream media). Because, yes, for the most part, “a scrub is a guy who thinks he’s fly” but also has no fucking money to at least back up a shitty, irascible personality in addition to being bad in bed. So it is that they balk at the bourgeoisie so as to make themselves feel slightly less deficient about being unable to ever be a part of it. Because you know goddamn well if you could be, you would be. That you would not be so quick to balk at an endless reserve of cash if you could actually access it without more than the effort it takes you to get out of your pathetic excuse for a bed.
Balking also aids in convincing the girl whose vagina they’ve briefly managed to enter that she’s the one who’s in the wrong–insane, in short–for wanting access to such vacuous things as a memory foam mattress or a Nespresso maker. Convince her that it’s the more proverbial “man” who has infected her brain with these false and inane aspirations that set us all back to the June Cleaver era. But like, again, if these things were handed to a “man” instead of him actually having to work for them, where would his balking be then? Probably slightly muffled by the taste of homemade bread from a stand mixer.
While we are all aware that the “democratization” of fame has been a blessing for some (e.g. Tao Lin), for most of the rest of us, it has come with the curse of being able to instantly pinpoint the ego of the type of “man” who would be unable to resist turning on a Google alert for whenever his name comes up in an article from a semi on the radar website (blogs, of course, obviously don’t count).
The desire to know he’s being talked about is more of a source of ejaculation potential than analog banging ever could be (because how can a “man’s” ego possibly be fortified by his fucking skills these days?). “I didn’t see that article come up in my Google notifications,” he’ll admit unabashedly when someone mentions they saw something about him on the internet recently. It’s the kind of exchange that tends only to occur in New York, where everyone keeps track of everyone for the sake of knowing where their place is on the insignificant totem pole called “talentless microcosm.”
The “man” who needs to be notified of being “eloquently discussed” by some middling “publication” (non-ink laden with typos and grammatical errors, as it were) is clearly clinging to whatever bread crumbs of relevancy he can in order to stave off the unshakeable thought that he is just as irrelevant and meaningless as he knows himself to be deep down. But with the “frequency” of Google alerts, he can help perpetuate the fallacy of self-importance that his Asian girlfriend can only do so much to support as one person. It is the foremost tool of modern “fame” that has been perhaps one of the greatest contributors to the deterioration in quality of art. Because if you’re only in it to see how many times your name crops up in some crevice of the internet, how can you possibly create something enduring? What’s more, high-level fame (the Madonna tier) does not require one to be notified of their “many” achievements if there are enough to lose track of.
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.
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.”