When you find within your PTSD-ridden self the courage to open up to a “man” and, once again, endure the potential shame of sharing not just your body, but your mind too (it’s become a less secondary thing ever since that manic pixie dream girl archetype), all you want is for it to not backfire–yet again. You lay all your cards on the table like a little fool, a novice poker player naively trusting her mentor to show her the way without taking advantage.
And this seems to happen every time you walk in to the gaming room that is l’amour (or the ruins of what it used to mean from the eighteenth to twentieth centuries). You suppress all that your instincts are telling you–that he will bolt when he knows too much of you–and try, once again to ignore what you can already foresee is going to happen. Mother will tell you these “negative” thoughts are a self-fulfilling prophecy. But the prophecy isn’t fulfilled by the self so much as the egregious overall character of “men,” who, when bored with your so-called bullshit, will chuck you into the trash like so much bad lettuce. So you shared your body and your mind again. That’s all over now. Because you pretty much have neither entity left to give, no wherewithal to regurgitate the same flirtations or attempts at allurement.
Lana Del Rey may be a sucker for a “man” who likes his video games, but if you’re dealing with a woman who doesn’t wear New York Yankees dresses, chances are, she’s not going be to be into your obsession with an alternate reality. Considering the plethora of options in the video game world (we’ve come a long way from the simplicity of Super Mario Bros.), a “man’s” propensity for entering virtual k-holes is much higher–and causes a far greater chance for a low libido.
Women don’t expect much of “men” these days (how can they when most “men” don’t work?), but they do expect regular and zesty sex. And the “man” who plays video games full-time cannot provide that. He would, instead, prefer to engage with the women in his video game. A porn addiction would almost be more bearable because at least she can try to get involved in it. With video games, all a woman gets is ennui and carpal tunnel.
Being that “men” and breasts possess a creepy Oedipal undertone, it’s no wonder that they’re so consumed by touching, sucking and grabbing them. With this in mind, it often seems as though they forget there’s actually a human being attached to the other side of these largely non-functional body parts.
This is why it can often feel as though your breast is about to be ripped off, Ted Bundy-style, when you’re engaged in physical contact with a “man.” So enraptured by the bulbous shape (it’s assumed you have breast implants if you can afford to live in Williamsburg) of your tits, he’s liable to paw and grasp at them until you feel like they might just come clean off from all the passion. Chain mail, thus, seems to be the only recourse.