The general go-to when it comes to chalking up a woman’s “insanity” to something–if she’s even allowed the “courtesy” of being given a reason for said unhingedness other than her gender–is that she must have daddy issues. This, too, must also be the reason why she can never be satisfied by any “man”–least of all one in her age bracket. No, she’s too busy subconsciously comparing him to her father–even if he was never around to make for much of a comprehensive comparison.
But “men,” often more unwittingly convinced of the Electra complex than women are of the Oedipus one, are too quick to write off a woman’s neuroses to the very first “man” she ever had any dealings with in her life: old Daddy-o. Except, in most latchkey kids’ cases, there wasn’t much interaction with her patriarch anyway–of course, they (therapists?) say that the absence of this key “male” figure in a girl’s life can be just as damaging in the same ways that a ubiquitous “father” can be with his invariable verbal and/or physical abuse. Regardless, a woman’s alleged “madness” can’t be attributed entirely to the one “male” in her life whose job it was, by twentieth century and prior standards, to make her “palatable” to another “man” who would be responsible for taking care of her (since, basically, a “woman” had to be passed off, as it were, by the time she reached a certain “marriageable age”). Except, in truth, this obligation always fell to the mother. In any case, if we’re going to place blame on anyone for a woman’s “batshit” ways, let’s place it on all “men,” largely immune to common decency and morality as they are, not just those “penises” responsible for bringing a child into the world against her will.
“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.”
Discovering one’s “Top Nine” photos (don’t ask me why it’s such an arbitrary amount) is the thing to have done in the last days of 2017. But, truth be told, determining what images will be put on display in collage form needn’t endure the scrambling code of an app to tell any of us what these pictures from the dickless will yield: they’re going to be of himself, his “travels” (though one really oughtn’t count running or mountain hike photos) and his exercise regimes.
How sodding original. Worst of all, his hashtag will be as generic as #topnine. Not even something more unique in its blandness like #kingofadventure #cantstopwontstop #topnine. And what is his aim in partaking of this particular inane trend? To appear more attractive (even as an “attached” “man”) to the equally thirsty women following him. Because every “man” sans dick knows the importance of building himself up to the outside world in order to soften the blow (or lack thereof knowing most “men’s” stinginess with performing oral) when a potential new female comes to know him in real life–without, of course, ever cumming at his hand (he’s likely a finger banger to substitute for the nub). The usage of Top Nine, for a “man,” is thus, just an undercover form of a Tinder profile.
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” 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.
There are many claims in the current “feminist” era on the part of a “man” that a woman’s intellect is a driving force behind why he chooses to “be with someone” (in quotes in that we’re all always alone no matter who we latch onto to try to delude ourselves into thinking we’ve found a “like-minded soul” to mask the total isolation of existence). But, even as stamped out as sexuality becomes à la 1984, the primordial biology within a “man’s” makeup can’t help but respond to the Barbie archetype.
Thus, when you with your witticisms and Valerie Solanas look suddenly find yourself standing with your “man” in the midst of a woman who is, frankly, far more attractive than you are with her big tits, blow job lips and sun-kissed complexion, it’s only natural that he should completely ignore you. Because all “men” are visually-oriented swine that might consider putting their tongues back into their mouths if there was a woman there waiting to guillotine it off. Alas, you are still trapped in the twentieth century concept that being dainty and self-effacing is what makes all the “boys” come to the yard. After enough time spent being treated as invisible, however, you may soon come to realize that the best offense is a good plastic surgeon.
For “men” who have gotten wise to the game called Attracting A Woman, the trick most easily picked up on is: don’t be yourself. Ever. Least of all if you want to sustain that rarity called steady pussy (a coup that doesn’t seem as important to “men” as the steady dick concept is to women). And yet the only thing more irritating than a “man” who wears a mask all the time is one who never takes it off. Mainly because what he’s masking is usually something more terrifying than merely the fact that he takes gnarly shits or has a set of fake teeth.
No, what’s lurking behind that mask is often so much worse than anything pertaining to the visual or olfactory senses. In the most predictable and expected of cases, the “man’s” veneer is concealing his sociopathy–which women are frequently fools in ignoring the signs for. In other, more off the beaten path instances, he’s a colonic fetishist (giving, not receiving). So while it’s all very polite and considerate to keep some modicum of one’s mask on for the sake of not revealing the full extent of unavoidable “male” douchery, it’s rather helpful to a woman to save her the time and trouble of finding out about what the mask is cloaking later on down the road. Because even if “men” find women to be largely “light-minded,” there can be no denying that one of the strongest aspects of female genius is exposing a phony baloney.
There are just scores of straight “men” who love to lay claim to a year-round relishment of Halloween, and declare that you, too, can enjoy it as much as they do any day of the year. And yet, for those who have any familiarity with a certain drag icon named Sharon Needles (or familiarity with drag queens in general), it makes us wonder if these “men” are not aware of any bombast outside of the straight world. And if they are, do they choose simply to ignore any sect that isn’t their own? Well, it wouldn’t surprise one, considering how insular and oblivious the “heteros” are.
Hence, their declarations about fucking Halloween up the asshole with zeal are, to them, truly pure and genuine, as though drag queens don’t dress up in costume literally every damn day. Where’s the credit for that, huh? The unbridled commitment to everything Halloween stands for–entertainment, drinking and disguise–is exhibited by the drag community. Not little bitch “boy” blancos who don’t even put effort into their costume, instead relying on a supposed enthusiasm for horror movies as their crutch. But as Sharon Needles said, “You think this is a fucking costume? It’s a way of life.” And a way of life isn’t something you merely talk about once a year, assholio. So to the “straights” out there claiming Halloween passion, stick to what you know best: disappointing and abandoning.
For the most part, “men” don’t really like to like to include themselves in the “vapidity” of female conversation, least of all when it addresses something icky like periods or rape. But now that they’re all under an extreme line of fire after Alyssa Milano’s friend (who, by the way, should have been credited by name for launching tens of thousands of responses–but that’s one for Missing A Clit) suggested, “If all the women who have been sexually harassed or assaulted wrote ‘Me too’ as a status, we might give people a sense of the magnitude of the problem.” Please note the deliberate use of the phrase “all the women.” This isn’t to say that “men” aren’t and can’t be sexually abused (usually by other “men,” priests or otherwise, because, quite simply, women aren’t predatory fuckfaces). But it is to say that the #MeToo movement isn’t about their “experiences.” And yeah, I’m sure there are a lot of “well-meaning” “guys” who just want women to know that they can empathize, or at least are trying to. Sometimes, however, standing in the wings of the stage called collective confession is best.
We are living in a time of extreme dismantlement of the old guard. A time when the “smooth” lothario type à la Don Draper simply won’t be stood for anymore, whose “it’s all in good fun” behavior won’t be swept under the rug. The list of unmasked predators over the past several months alone–from Harvey Weinstein to ex-Real Estate guitarist Matt Mondanile–is only a small indication of how long this comportment has been permitted to thrive amid the fear of women who have been frightened for one reason or another to come forward. Whether out of being afraid to lose their jobs or of being discredited and made to feel “crazy” for “imagining” such things, it takes a few women’s admissions of being victims for a landslide to gain momentum. That they’ve been able to on the heels of this barrage of “revelations” about “men” in positions of power only adds to the catharsis. So please “men,” for once in your motherfucking lives, don’t make this about you.
“Men” have the natural tendency to come on strong in the beginning of any pursuit, particularly if the woman in question seems arcane and standoffish to him. His feelings of ardor reach a fever pitch the more the object of his affection rebuffs or acts coolly toward him. For it always goes that we want that which we can’t have.
So naturally once a “man” gets it, he no longer wants it, or at least, isn’t half as interested as before. This is the phenomenon most succinctly explained by Holden Caulfield in The Catcher in the Rye, when he describes telling a girl that he loves her, in spite of the sentiment being transitory–intended only for that split second when he felt it. As he elucidates, “Then, just to show you how crazy I am, when we were coming out of this big clinch, I told her I loved her and all. It was a lie, of course, but the thing is, I meant it when I said it. I’m crazy. I swear to God I am.” At least he admits it, some “men” can’t even do that.
Would that we could all have such passing fancies as “men” prone to love a girl at variable intervals, ranging from three weeks to three years. Devotion and loyalty, however, are concepts invented by Shakespeare and mafia dons who cheat on their wives anyway. So should you find yourself throwing it back in a “man’s” face that he told you he loved you, just remember that he did mean it “at the time,” it’s just that now, that no longer applies since you’ve made yourself so available and have ceased to provide any mystery.