There are some people who simply can’t be happy unless others are miserable. This is just such the case with “men” who have nine to five jobs–or worse, the type of job that forces them to rise even earlier than that. And though you might have given him an orgasm just hours before, he seems to suddenly have forgotten the service you’ve done him, in turn doing you the disservice of shuffling you out of his boudoir and therefore apartment so that, God knows what, he can prevent you from riffling through random boxes that might reveal what Carrie Bradshaw would call his “freakdom.” But then, considering that everything of incriminating or sentimental value is intangible nowadays, this speculative paranoia really makes no sense.
What’s the harm in letting the one you banged remain a little longer in your sandpapery sheets? Doesn’t she deserve the luxury of sleeping in, of collecting herself so that she might take stock of just how damaged she’s becoming from all the strange “dicks” she allows inside of herself? Or is it that a sick part of the natural sadist within the “man” wants to envision her walking down the street looking mangy, like a rode hard and put away wet (though vaginally dry) animal? Whatever his motives might be, none of them could possibly warrant ejecting the woman he boned out like some common prostitute. Because at least prostitutes get paid for their shame and disposability.
“Men” already have so little to offer in the present time period–certainly not stimulating conversation, unless you’d like to wax poetic about the hyper-realism of Zelda. And, worst of all, not even loyalty. For as flaccid and uninterested in sex as they are these days, they’re still liable to turn right around and stab you in the back (as opposed to in the vagina, with their dick) and abandon you either for another, less complicated girl or for a pursuit that they’ll never fulfill (like “becoming” a musician).
But to add insult to injury, now “men” aren’t even capable of fulfilling their true biological purpose–insemination–anymore. At least that’s what a new study published in the Human Reproduction Update has ascertained. And, most telling of all, it is the younger demographic of “men” that “are falling into the infertile and sub fertile categories.” But not just any “men”–Western “men.” Who knows what’s contributing to their sudden inability to produce viable sperm: pesticides? Hormones? Too much porn-watching? The jury of science sleuths is still deliberating. The only thing that is clear is that women should probably move to South America, Asia or Africa if they want to get their Eggo prego.
If you think there’s nothing more demoralizing and nerve-racking to a woman than having to come up with some bullshit dirty talk in bed, then maybe you’ve never been subjected to having to talk like a life coach in between the sheets (though the “men” you gravitate toward probably don’t even have sheets, as they’re all musicians). To have to tell someone what he should already be confident in as it stands, or at least feign the confidence in such a way as to make the woman he’s entering at least faintly feel like she’s having a good time.
But no, “men” always seem to ask, in an almost Ed Koch reminiscent manner, “How’m I doing?” As though your instruction is going to be used not on you, but in the future on some other girl who will most likely be younger and dumber and yet still somehow get the benefit of all the helpful hints you gave to this flailing panisse with a vague body attached. And as he continues to ensure he’s pleasuring you in just the right way instead of actually pleasuring you, you’ll eventually succumb to pulling a Romy and start screaming incongruous assurances and lies about his velvety touch and throbbing thrillhammer. You are America and he’s really just kind of pillaging you to find out what works best for others, not discovering you.
Every “man” is a musician, whether he is aware of it or not. His ability to play women like fiddles, cellos and any other stringed instrument that can be plucked and massaged is an innate gift that makes him a natural “virtuoso.” The notes he hits with that “Ooo baby I love you” or that “When we live in Europe together…” future plan-making shtick strike the perfect pitch every time. Fall on women’s ears with the sweet sonority they can’t resist.
These melodies at the outset are like those of frothy, vibrant pop or electronica music, ultimately segueing into death metal when he suddenly doesn’t have the patience to create the more pleasant, quality beats for you anymore, the ones that indicate accompanying lyrics will be tantamount to the sentiments expressed in The Beatles’ version of “Till There Was You.” The death metal comes, when, instead, he wants to agitate you, get on your nerves so that you lose your patience and abandon ship–leave him to play the next woman, or rather, instrument. All the while, he’s probably listening to classical music, skull fucker that he is, on his own time. Because students in the art of playing must listen to the backbone of instrumentation.
As time wears on and certain parties start to more commonly bandy terms like “gender essentialism,” the existence of a thesis statement like Missing a Dick constantly comes under fire by “men” (and even women, as there’s so few wholly straight ones left–then again, it’s been decreed by Kinsey that no one is or can be wholly anything). They’ll say it’s not “woke” enough, insist that the content is far too discriminative, and that its literal reference to dicks is insensitive to trans people who actually got their panisse removed.
Well, fine, call it “insensitive.” But what about the uncaringness of other non-heteronormative types? The ones who nitpick at every little thing you say relating to gender because it’s now deemed antiquated, not “up to date” with the times and indicative of your overall obstuseness in how you view the world from your narrow-minded, non-pansexual little eyes. Or, worse than not being pansexual or transsexual or try-sexual, simply “promoting heterosexuality as the norm” with “your little Missing a Dick blog.” And yet, there are so few spaces for women to adequately rant about “men” without the censorship of such shittaytay outposts as xoJane. It seems that at this rate, talking about anything from a straight lens as a straight person will somehow be tantamount to saying Oriental or Negro: hopelessly out of touch with what’s going on. And all because you can’t change your sexuality to fit the current mold. Is this payback for the 1950s or something? When male-female monogamy was at its peak propaganda-wise. Because that wasn’t my fault–it was Senator McCarthy’s.
The saving of face is so important to the “male” gender, though this seems strange when taking into account just how much they tend to humiliate themselves on a day to day basis by simply opening their mouths and closing their hearts. This is perhaps what drives them to do such priggish, bastardly things, like deny thy existence and refuse thy name–when you don’t even want to bang them at all or ever again.
But because you’re a woman and you have at least the same size organ pumping blood throughout your body as The Grinch, a moment of weakness forces you to show empathy with a terse text in response to the bullshit he said to attempt getting you over to his apartment to ward off the loneliness of life with the insertion of himself into you, perhaps hoping to make himself whole in literally affixing to another body for one brief orgasm. He tries his best to act aloof when he feels your response was shaming, less than enthusiastic. And by aloof one means feigning he didn’t know who he was talking to and claiming to have lost “a bunch of numbers a few weeks ago,” when in fact you only met him one week ago and have since ghosted him because you’ll never get over the one that got away and have difficulty feeling anything for anyone so why bother going through the motions of a date? And with communications like these, one can’t really be blamed for said lack of desire.
In these “modern times,” one supposes it’s only natural for a girlfriend and a boyfriend to separate more regularly. It’s only… what’s that word?–healthy. That two people should live independently of one another, not risk becoming so enmeshed; you know, in preparation for the inevitable breakup. Maybe that’s why so many couples are comfortable with taking solo trips these days in spite of being “together.” It helps keep their material fresh, their heart grow fonder in absence. That is, unless the “man” a woman is with encourages her to engage in sex dealios with others while she’s on her journey and perhaps feeling particularly lonely. After all, any woman who wants to fuck more than once a week is a nympho during this anti-libidinous epoch.
So of course she should be feeling lonely, a bit needful on her separate journey from her so-called boyfriend. Thus, because polyamory is just another indication of how lazy and non-committal millennials are, he will think he’s being oh so evolved and generous in suggesting that she ought to find her sexual release with another. And maybe even he will do the same, should he feel so inclined and if he can manage to tear himself away from quietly masturbating in his hostel bed. Sadly, when the girl decides to take him up on his offer in the hope that he’ll actually care, she’ll find that not only does he not, but he also decided to extend his trip indefinitely. And so go “relationships” of the “mature” variety in the twenty-first century.
Scientific studies are always unveiling unwanted truths you really could have done without–like when everyone in the 60s had to admit that cigarettes and red meat were killing them in the 50s. But the latest undesirable find is targeted specifically at women, mainly those who lead a non-monogamous existence. Because at least if a girl manages to finagle just one to two “loves” her entire life, she’s only absorbing a few strands of “male” DNA.
Those who bang multiple “men” on the reg, however, are probably doomed to become psychotic not only because of various DNA personalities, but also as a result of having too much “male” in their brains. Because, as if sex isn’t already sci-fi enough, now research (albeit by the shoddy Pacific Northwest entity that is University of Seattle) has shown that sperm attaches to your flesh, infuses your bloodstream and, basically, becomes one with your body–FOREVER (as Mark Wahlberg would say it in Fear). Also known as male microchimerism: it’s like all the most disturbing elements of an Almodóvar/Lynch joint. In any case, women ought to think twice about going home with that attractive but obvious serial killer type. Or anyone at all, really–because who wants “male” DNA of any kind within herself when it automatically entails being a schizoid?
For whatever reason, a lot of women succumb to the trap of settling. Generally, it’s as a result of hitting a certain wall, age-wise, and then realizing she ought to just take what she can get that’s semi-decent right quick. Otherwise, she might not get anything at all. And what could be worse than being alone–apart from being with someone you can’t stand? It’s rather neck and neck, one supposes. And, speaking of necks, there’s no more uncomfortable feel than that of a disgusting “man’s” lips on yours.
Yet, what else are you supposed to allow him to do since, you know, sex is clearly out of the question. You don’t want to fully discourage him from touching you because, as they say, just one touch from another human being–particularly that of a sexual nature—can improve and expand your life. Still, sometimes the texture of his scaly dry skin and/or lips is enough to make your entire body shudder on contact. That’s why, an endless and steady supply of champagne and wine ought to be funneled into your gullet, Amanda Woodward enduring Peter Burns-style. Then, suddenly, everything and anything feels glorious. Even loose “male” skin with a hint of crust.
Ceaseless jibes at Madonna’s age and manipulated body aside, one must admit that in the early 90s, she was in her prime in every way: physically, career-wise (“Vogue,” darling, “Vogue”) and in showcasing her cutting sense of humor (see: Truth or Dare). And while Michael Jackson’s sexuality had always been “a” at best and perilous at worst (where there’s smoke there’s fire with them child molestation rumors), it seems just slightly cuckoo that Madonna would be able to “scare him off women” for good.
Try as she might to loosen Miguel up a little, to make him see that the King and Queen of Pop ought at least to be able to say they slept together once for icon posterity, the dainty child trapped inside a “man’s” body simply couldn’t react in any other way than with sheer terror at the sight of Madonna naked in his boudoir. And yet, in many respects, Michael’s actions mirror those of any average “male,” too intimidated and therefore repulsed by a woman both powerful, beautiful and appetitive of sex to engage her.