Mama’s “boys” are more powerfully inutile than a hanger without a hook in a back alley abortion. But a girl can forgive him his emotional crippledness if he at least has the presence of mind to understand that the reason she’s chosen to cast him out and/or ignore him is because she knows she will never–in his mind–be able to eclipse the greatness and importance of mommy dearest.
And yet, some “men” just can’t except that not every woman is going to be on board with the fucked up Bunny and Trey MacDougal dynamic for the sake of having a “dick” in her life. There are detached penises with far fewer emotional issues anyway. So worse than his inability to unlatch his boca from mother’s tit in both a literal and metaphorical way is his incognizance in understanding why a woman would abandon him so much so that he needs to converse with his matriarch about it for assurance. And she, enabling little sycophant that she is, will only insist that it was the girl with the issue, that she’s probably got a longstanding history of mental illness in her family–and really what kind of girl doesn’t value the parent-child relationship, huh? Is that really the kind of valueless whore he wants in his life?
Like most manufactured holidays (Mother’s Day, Grandparents’ Day, Secretaries Day–or, rather, “Administrative Professionals” Day–, etc.), the pressure to get the perfect gift for Father’s Day consistently leaves one feeling bereft, inadequate and generally stressed. Especially when one is a “man” simply trying to prove to his father that he has surpassed him in life in every possible way: romantic choice, financial success and place of inhabitance.
The relationship between father and son is often more complicated–and even creepier–than the one between father and daughter, as the unspoken competition to transcend the lifestyle set forth by the patriarch becomes intensified as his son enters adulthood–or rather, reluctantly gets shoved into it with his heels dug in and his mouth emitting silent shrieks pleading to remain a child. But once he admits that he’s there, the tendency to pit himself against daddy-o as the rival that can’t be matched often becomes a constant factor. Just look at The Royal Tenenbaums, There Will Be Blood and Big Fish. And if a son isn’t trying to outshine his father, then he’s trying his hardest to be the palest possible shadow in order to avoid the arduousness of competition altogether. In which case he’s also missing as much of a dick as the overzealous, overachieving son. It’s a Goldie Locks sort of a balance that sons must strike when it comes to acquiring that ideal present. One that says, “I love you, Dad, and, no, I’m not trying to kill you.”
As Missing A Dick has broached many times before, the majority of all “men” are hesitant to transcend to that state of existence that fully cuts the umbilical cord from their mother. There is something too comfortable, too easy about this relationship that seems to make them never want to fully part from it, least of all when looking for another woman to essentially replace her. Because having sex with your mom is taboo (for some).
Philip Roth: definitely the sort of person who would ask his girlfriend to breastfeed him
Thus, it’s not entirely shocking that there are “men” in this world who would dream of asking their girlfriend to breastfeed them, whatever the smokescreen “motive” may be. The woman who agrees to it is, of course, equally as depraved, but the “man” demanding it is of a more unhinged variety. His desire for the tit in an infantile rather than sexual way is a grand metaphor for the craving of a regressive state that can never be recaptured. Unless, one supposes, he finds that rare willing girlfriend. Which, when you think about it, might not be that much of a challenge considering the paucity of “straight” “men,” a population size that tends to give them all the power when it comes to making unreasonable demands.
For a large bulk of “men” in search of an orifice in which to place his so-called lower appendage, the aim is not to find a woman who is unique or particularly memorable, but rather, to release the contents of his testicles, which is often why he tends to complain, “All women are the same.”
Tony Soprano, a sociopath with dick issues
Moreover, most “men” can’t acknowledge the fact that the purported sameness of the women they bone stems from the unavoidable reality that they’re all in search of a female who either blatantly or subtly mimics the personality and/or aesthetic of his mother. It’s a sad Oedipal part of life, but it’s true. Hence, every woman he dates, fucks or befriends tends to feel like a copy of the last. So if a “man” wants to get a sense that no two women are created alike, it is key for him to break out of his psychological mold, which can be a challenge when it’s being run by a nub of a penis.
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.
I’d be lying if I said that I’m all for a “man” who loves his parents. Rather, I accept the guilt that comes with feeling like you owe your parents something when, as a white “male,” they probably paid for your college education and are still paying for your various needs as you navigate the “real world.” The attachment to one’s parents is, if we’re being totally honest with one another, generally motivated by financial incentive. Of course, a certain amount of emotions hinges on a natural rapport as well (they’ve known you since birth, so it’s kind of a vanity thing, you being allured by how much they give a shit about your biography. But make no mistake, it’s only because they’ve invested so much time and money into you turning out a specific way). And sure, everyone’s always going on about how having a child is the most selfless thing you can do, but it’s really a means to wield a modicum of authority over someone for the rest of their lives for one’s own selfish, power-hungry purposes. To have a child is the ultimate admission of feeling like there’s nothing else you can do. It’s a way to take back the power you thought you were going to have in life.
Get over it, she’s practically dead.
I’m not saying, you know, throw your parents in a trash bag and put them on the curb or anything. I’m just saying, maybe limit their influence by maintaining communication in short, controlled doses. Because, eventually, being into one’s parents comes across as decidedly dickless. Like, can’t you just form your own opinions without asking mommy and daddy for their take on a situation? It’s really unsexy. It’s okay for you to cut the umbilical cord. This isn’t Europe. This is motherfucking Williamsburg. You have no cultural excuse to continue to suck on your mother’s tit or your father’s dick (though he’s probably missing one too, if the apple falls anywhere near the tree). You should be sucking on a woman’s tit (or “man’s” dick, since that’s more likely your taste anyway) who isn’t related to you at this point.
We all know she’s the entire reason for you’re being. And probably how you can afford to live in Williamsburg for the most part. But, at some point, you have to detach your umbilical cord in order to reattach your dick. Being too into your mother is not only Oedipal in the most cliche way, but also a detriment to your emotional and physical (read: dick) development.
An archetypal Williamsburg mom.
Although you’ve probably been nurtured in avant-garde private elementary schools your whole life and have been fed a steady diet of Fresh Direct by your tattooed mother, you’re ultimately never going to land another woman (or probably in your case, man) if you don’t stop letting her dress you and take you out to weekly brunches at Fabiane’s. Just let the woman live her life so you can finally live yours. Once you take your mother’s metaphorical dick out of your own asshole, you can at last put yours in someone else’s.