Men Who Monitor.

No matter how increasingly aware women become of how little they actually need a “man,” there’s always going to be that sect that persists in carrying on with the so-called tradition of monogamy and the associated trajectory of marriage, an institution that, like the presidency, is frivolous, but still sort of cute (or would be if the person embodying its post at the moment didn’t induce vomiting on sight).

With the territory of marriage often comes a sense of possession and entitlement, usually on the “man’s” part if his wife is blatantly more attractive than he is. That being said, an inexorable tendency toward monitoring even the smallest, most insignificant of activities can start to become par for the domesticity course. Whether she’s washing the dishes (no doubt, ineffectually, by his standards), folding the laundry (after starching the appropriate garments, no less) or giving the requisite “at least twice a week” blow job, her “man” is sure to be watching closely, waiting to take issue with some ridiculous nuance she didn’t “perform” quite right. And the more he monitors, the more uneasy and unsettled a girl can become, questioning her every move, spiraling further and further into an Ingrid Bergman in Gaslight mentality.

Fearing the constant hovering presence of a “man” over her shoulder, the confidence with which she approaches her day-to-day former enjoyments can suddenly feel like a perpetual dry anal rape. There’s nothing worse than constantly self-questioning in the non-Socratic way, after all. It can really mess with a woman’s pretty little head. Accordingly, why don’t you try to strike the perfect balance between attentiveness and not totally ignoring? It would signal far more care on your part than hyper-vigilance, which so often stems from a place of selfishness rather than love. If that increasingly mythical concept can even exist between a “straight” “man” and woman.


Men Immune to “Subtlety.”

“Men” aren’t the most adept at picking up on things, even when they’re hit over the head with them. Which is why even bothering with the nuance of being “subtle” can only lead to invariable disappointment. Just look at the most recent Golden Globes, where “men” stood there daftly with forced Time’s Up pins on their lapels, saying pretty much nothing about the reason behind having to wear them. For even when they do pick up on the sentiment you’re trying to get across to them, they tend to express their emotions as adroitly as a woman who despises children would hold a baby.

They don’t mean to be such dullards when it comes to the expression of feelings and understanding, it’s simply that they’re perhaps still coping with a time-honored indoctrination of bottling up empathy of any kind. That being said, it’s easier to tiptoe around what’s being very plainly directed at them by a woman, usually rage and/or sadness. Because “men” tend only to be capable of evincing these emotions in between occasional attempts at placating you with an orgasm. Which is why they would prefer not to further poke the bear that is a female’s fury. It’s better, in his mind, to pretend his car hasn’t been just set on fire than to actually acknowledge any wrongdoing on his part–copping to why his car deserved to be incinerated–thereby eliciting another mudslide of feminine “overreaction.”

Men Who Are Not Even Freaks In Bed to Make Up for Not Being Freaks in Life.

There are still plenty of “freaks” in the world, sure. They just so happen to be of the genuinely scary variety as opposed to the fun, drum up this humdrum existence variety. Take, for example, any “man” in the current Cabinet of the United States, among other strange creatures far too close to our homes. Rather than the pure form of freakdom that once existed in Tod Browning’s day (or shit, even John Hughes’ day), we are now faced with a more frightening breed: the normal and boring sort.

This, of course, spreads into the “dating” and “sex” arena (if you can call being treated like a blow-up doll for the evening as such), where there is no shortage of stark-raving typicals claiming to be “so weird” the same way a certain sect of women go out of their way to pretend to be quirky. But their only weirdness lies in how they just lie there in bed stiff as a board making you wish for the Amphibian Man in The Shape of Water to come take you from this flaccidity-infested land. As a masquerading straight “man,” if you’re not going to be even remotely interesting or endearingly bombastic in personality, at least have the decency to show some level of imagination behind a closed bedroom (or bathroom) door.

Men Who Say “PT Anderson.”

While the Orwellian prediction of “Newspeak” makes the constant and vexatious habit of abbreviation no surprise in the present, one would have thought that it could have at least managed to evade usage on people’s names. Alas, not so with Paul Thomas Anderson, whose ardent, largely “male” fanbase has prompted the overly familiar epithet of “PT” to arise. But unless we’re talking about the famed ringmaster, no “man” should have the misfortune of such a bastardization of his moniker. What’s more, as the auteur known for sweeping, lengthy cinematic experiences, doesn’t he at least deserve the courtesy of being addressed as his own overly long for the American tongue name?

And, to be sure, this abridgement is employed primarily by “male” acolytes of his oeuvre. Because, by and large, women only get on the Paul Thomas Anderson train when their boyfriends do, generally for the cachet of being one of the “cool girls” of the sort that Tove Lo declares herself to be. And because women are typically better at savoring and appreciating things, they’re less prone to blurt out Paul Thomas Anderson’s name in an incomplete form. Their “male” counterparts, however, get a vague titillation out of the, in their minds, “informality” of addressing him as such. Which is really nothing short of dweebo.

So next time you think of asking someone if they’ve seen such and such “PT” Anderson movie, please, use your words. It’s not that many more syllables.

Men Who Post Pictures With Their “Little Nieces” (Especially Around the Holidays).

Something within each shady fuck”boy” of a “man” is aware of an antiquated tactic that really doesn’t (at least not anymore) appeal to the evolved woman who no longer wishes to have children in the current wisdom of knowing full well that there are zero rewards to having them (unless you’re rich and want to pass your “legacy” name and money down to subsequent generations, Hilton-style).

Yet, because a “man” remains primitive in his approach to women no matter how many apps appear in the proverbial meat market of “online dating” (I use this in quotes merely because it’s an obsolescent term in the way that social media is becoming), he thinks that catering to her “biological need” for a child and being able to envision a “man” who can be a “good father” (which, these days, means being a stay-at-home dad with an occasional freelance graphic design gig) is going to work. But since the “man” in question who would use an unwitting relation as a baiting method would never actually have a child himself (unless he finally turns fifty and finds an Asian twenty years his junior), the only truss he can use to support the false impression of being “likable” “Dad material” is a niece. With the holiday season upon us through January 2nd, the calculated “man” knows full well that there’s no greater opportunity for press and promotion than this time of year–a chance to post plenty of photos with niece(s) and stock up on a plethora of material for future profile curating options.

Fortunately for this classic and artless fuck”boy” strategy, many a woman of the Missing A Clit variety falls for the yarn, thinking how “sweet” this “guy” must be to while away his free hours with children. As for the rest of us, asshole, we know you don’t give a fuck about your “little niece”–are merely using her as a prop for pussy. Would probably fuck your own kin as a matter of fact if incest and pedophilia weren’t so frowned upon. But keep telling yourself you’re not the creepy uncle.

Men Who Are Scandalized by The Sight of What They Wish Could Be Their Own Genitalia.

It never ceases to amaze that anyone can be shocked in the current year we live in, as we hurtle evermore through time under the presumed guise of collective acceptance. Yes, 2017, when two ugly fat men control power from the West to the East and you’re deemed a dinosaur of anti-progress if you still identify concretely as anything. Fittingly, one “man” living on the Lower East Side has taken offense to the existence of a freshly painted mural that he has a ringside seat to every time he opens his window. Painted, appropriately, without balls by Swedish artist Carolina Falkholt on the day many need the cheer of dick most of all–Christmas Eve–its size is no doubt also threatening to the few straight “men” still left in the borough.

Accordingly, the reaction of feeling a combination of shame and outrage and then blaming it on being “not good for the kids” is an overt projection of one’s own issues. With his extremely small and useless panisse. Sure, it would be awful and scandalizing to open your window to the sight of a veiny, mammoth wang baiting you if you yourself had no penis to speak of. But that’s your own crying-for-therapy issue. That’s why it’s a shame someone like Samantha Jones or Dr. Ruth isn’t willing to live in a tenement on the LES.

Men Who Think Their Erection Is Your Issue.

“I’m gonna punch you in the fucking face,” I say as, once again, this “man” tries to insert himself in me even though I’ve already given him the requisite orgasm for the night. That might turn some “men” on as images of most of the plotline for Californication are conjured, but in this case I mean it in the strictly threatening and non-sexually evocative way. The polite protocol, as far as initial sexual encounters go, is to allow the “female” you’ve penetrated to roll over and repose for as long as she sees fit. If she’s generous enough to anoint your dick into her vag in the morning, you may count your lucky stars that she hasn’t simply up and slinked out wordlessly.

What “men” must learn to understand is that they are owed nothing when a woman goes home with them. They must also learn to masturbate in a bathroom–instead of Kevin Spacey in American Beauty style–in the presence of a dormant lady. And sure, a “man” might think that because a female has consented–in her loosened state–to accompany him back to his shared abode that her body is somehow a free-for-all regardless of what level of interest she exhibits after a few unsatisfying thrusts. For yes, she might have found you desirable–endearing even–at the bar, but sentiments and opinions change once the environment does. And to be sure, a girl can tend to feel far more tired once she’s dragged her husk up the multiple flights of stairs leading to your shanty. So please, just because you have an erection and there happens to be a body next to you, don’t assume that said body owes you the alleviation of your boner. Unless you want it bopped on the head like a field mouse. Because nobody–but nobody–fucks with a woman’s circadian rhythm unless it’s the tooth fairy putting some much needed cash under the pillow (not to be confused with on the dresser, where hooker dough is left).

Men Who Milk You of the Best Years of Your Twenties & Discard You Just in Time for Them to End.

“Men” are constantly questioning others about why it is they seem to get such a bad rap, are so frequently vilified by “overly emotional” women. To put it in the sharpest focus, “men” are mongers of youth. Not of having it themselves, but ensuring that those with vaginas around them do. It’s not that they don’t value an occasional witticism now and again for “entertainment” value (as women aren’t valued for their intellect unless it’s repurposed as being what the British would condescendingly call “rather clever”). But what they cherish above all is taut skin, an easily moldable mind–or at least one that can bend easily to his own interests and will–and a pussy that’s index finger girth when tunneling through it with his own pencil thin dick.

A “man” can find this easily in a woman who is circa twenty-four, “catching her,” as it were at just a young enough age to really infiltrate her psyche and fuck her up on a permanent basis if and when he decides to leave her after all those sonnets spouted about loving her always and never dreaming of abandoning her. Two against the world and the world against two, that sort of bullshit. But right around the time twenty-eight rolls around for her, the “man” starts to shy away a little bit–for twenty-eight is an age that’s not too suspicious to kick a woman back into the now much shallower dating pool. Twenty-nine would be far too cruel, leaving her no wiggle room at all for her to pass herself off with the sort of carefreeness that can only come with twentiesdom.

As the closeness she once thought was unbreakable begins to crumble before her, with flimsy excuses in the vein of him needing to “find” himself passing for adequate reasoning in his mind, she will be forced with the heavy reconciliation of being sent into the firing squad of her thirties with nothing to show for it but psychological ruin.

The “man” who has cast her out under the false premise of wanting to “explore” himself (meaning allow his faux dick to explore other vaginas) will suddenly “feel comfortable” being in a relationship soon after–and oh, look at that, it just so happens to be a twenty-four year old again. Must be nice to have that sort of elasticity–in stark contrast to your ex-girlfriend’s now inelastic skin thanks to all the fine years of her prime you wasted only to toss her out like non-reusable refuse.

Men Who Enjoy Documentary Now! & Have Never Seen Any of the Documentaries Referenced.

For some reason, Documentary Now! has a tendency to creep into the arsenal filed under the Netflix and chill category. It’s humorous enough to loosen a girl up and non-committal enough to stop watching when things get sexual. And, of course, no “man” can resist Fred Armisen (Bill Hader, for whatever reason, seems to have less cachet to the straight white “male”). While the “man” who puts on Documentary Now! means well enough–has no idea that his lack of knowledge about documentary film is highly offensive–his decision to do so is indicative of a larger point: he’s a fucking dilettante.

And while, yeah, there are a lot of those in North Brooklyn, there’s no reason to be that way in terms of documentary connoisseurship. There are so few major and important ones, after all–and each of them have been covered by Documentary Now! at this point (even though it’s been renewed for a third season). The worst offense of all on a “man’s” part is having no clue what the first episode, “Sandy Passage,” is supposed to be parodying. While some might argue that no straight “man” can be expected to have ever watched Grey Gardens, it is a behemoth of not just the genre, but film itself. As one of Albert and David Maysles’ masterpieces (ranked also with Gimme Shelter and Salesman), there can be no adequate excuse for any “man,” cinephile or otherwise, having evaded this film, or being unaware of it until Armisen and Hader came along.

Watching it after seeing Documentary Now! cannot remedy the shortcoming and, in fact, cheapens the film as the “man” in question is only watching it because he’s learned about it from the show. But he’s probably already very familiar with “DRONEZ: The Hunt for El Chingon” as a result of watching VICE News “documentaries” on a regular basis. Oh how the genre has deteriorated to such a point as to enable “men” to believe that simply watching Documentary Now! is a sufficient source for their enrichment in the understanding of the medium.