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.
Women are just so vocal these days, it can be more of a nuisance than ever to attempt to engage with them. That’s why necrophilia is an increasingly viable option for “men,” even the ones who didn’t grow up with “Mary Jane’s Last Dance” being played in heavy rotation on MTV. But the “men” who resort to necrophilia, in truth, are the most misogynistic of them all.
Honestly, what kind of person, regardless of appendage attached or not attached to their body, gets off on the so-called delight of being able to verbally and physically abuse a body that can’t fight back? Sure, it’s easy–uncomplicated–to tool around with a corpse you can do whatever you want with (or to), but doesn’t it get boring, being “right” all the time? Having no one to verbally spar with or challenge your views, thoughts and feelings? The “man” content to spend his days with an inanimate shell is, well, probably a serial killer (yes, talking to you, Dahmer) and/or a “man” who simply can’t get any woman to be interested in him due to his bland personality and likely corresponding looks. Is that any reason to punish the dead for the living’s ability to engage in one of the only universal luxuries that money can’t affect: free will? Well, just ask Frankenstein, emblem of homoerotic necromancy and according manipulation.
Though “men,” for the most part, do all they can to shy away from the paternal (always demanding a DNA test on former trash TV staples like Maury and Jerry Springer), there is something biological that occasionally possesses them to, for no apparent reason, clutch to a woman’s stomach. It can be someone they know intimately or merely an acquaintance in passing. There is no rule for degrees of familiarity that will prevent a “man” from the impromptu stomach clutch.
Whether this is due to a woman’s so-called “ripeness” for pregnancy or because the “man” in question sees something in her that makes him want to father her child is indiscernible. All that’s known for certain is that any sensible woman would do well to keep her midriff area angled strategically from any and all “men” approaching, lest it be grabbed at random and for an indeterminate amount of time. I mean, what if she really was pregnant or something and didn’t want to call attention to it? It’s really enough to make a girl feel absolutely rotund from having to suck it in out of nervousness. Jesus, it used to be all you had to worry about was an ass or tit grab, but now we have to add the paunch to the mix, too? Oh, yeah, and apparently pussy thanks to Trump. Is no body part on the female sacred? Well, the answer to that was already made clear when God or whoever told us all that Eve was crafted from Adam’s rib. If she’s an extension of his body, then why shouldn’t he be able to paw at her as he pleases?
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.