As a result of having a “penis,” it doesn’t matter what sexuality a “man” claims when it comes to falling prey to the unfortunate syndrome called: Let Me State the Obvious. Falling in line with the unfortunate congenital need to “man”splain so as to prove his worth as a species (of which he really can’t, try as he might with his needless and unwanted explanations about “how the world works”), an unshakeable desire to make glaringly obvious statements further pertains to the “male” inability to fill a silence with anything valuable (unless it is the screams of a woman from orgasm, but how often does that really happen outside of a “male”-created porno?).
So we have Troye Sivan (content to ride the coattails of Charli XCX’s talent on “1999“), responding to the vacuous Teen Beat sort of question posed by The Coveteur, “What’s one thing people don’t know about you?” to which he stated, “A good pasta is, like, my favorite thing in the world.” Wow, does he like music and breathing too (as Emma Roberts’ character in It’s Kind of A Funny Story might ask)? Because such “favorites” would be equally as expected and obvious of statements. But to the garden variety “male,” declaring such banalities is just another way to accordingly pepper an earth in which the most pea-sized brain (and wang) belongs to one of the most “powerful” “men” in the free world.
If you would like to state how much you love pasta as though it’s novelty information that is somehow surprising, consider that 1) it would be more shocking and profound if you did not like pasta (communist!) and 2) be prepared to have a mound of it tossed on you like Samantha Jones in “A Woman’s Right to Shoes.” Because some of us still, even despite being forced to exist in this century, prefer our sentences arcane and dissectable.
“Men” have many a comprehension issue–deficit, really. Among one of the more unfortunate ones is their inability to compute that you can hate “men” while still being a straight woman. Or as straight as a woman can be during these times of extremely slim pickings (most of which consist of the toadish fat “man”). You can wanna get railed and still feel the strange urge to bash a “man’s” head against a railing. Such are the many tortured dichotomies of being a woman with complex emotions beyond “me want food.” But the one thing that is almost enough for a girl to will a change in her congenital sexual orientation is when “men” say shit like, “Why don’t you ‘just become’ a lesbian?” As though it were as easy as blinking one’s eyes I Dream of Jeannie style and “making it happen.”
In turn, one must ask the question of a “man,” “Why don’t you just start taking dick up your ass since you have to rape women in order to get sex? It would save us all plenty of heart and pussy ache.” But, of course, just as a “straight” “man” knows he cannot “develop a taste for penis” (other than his own), so, too, should he be aware that a misandrist cannot simply conjure an enthusiasm for rug munching, her “predisposition” for genitalia that can really penetrate being what it is. And for the most part, the only reason any “woman” still holds out for “being with” a “man” is because of the strange catharsis that comes with being entered. And a “woman” cannot offer that substitute, try as she might with a strap-on. So next time you think to suggest that the solution to all of a “man-hater’s” (because any woman who calls bullshit on what “men” do [and don’t do] are deemed as such) problems is transforming into a lesbian like Cinderella from a poor person to someone you could actually look at, try to envision a knife going through your throat the way a pork sword might go up your rectum should you “just change” into a gay “man.” Since it’s fairly obvious you hate women more than they hate you based on the systemic chauvinism you were taught to believe was normal (therefore aren’t even cognizant of) since the day you were born.
A running theme throughout the grotesque narratives that have come out of the endless barrage of women finally feeling “somewhat” at ease enough to report the abuse both physical and emotional that they have endured at the hands (or rather, pathetic nubs) of “men” is that they are lying. At first, it was all, “Okay women, we’ll let you have your fun with Harvey Weinstein and some other Hollywood types.” But now that the #MeToo “crusade” has hit the political arena, “men” in suits want to put a stop to the Pandora’s box that has been opened, and they will do so by the most classic means necessary: gaslighting, writing women’s recollections off as “crazy” or “overblown.” That they’re caricaturizing the events or, as the U.S.’ own president claims, are just doing it for publicity or money. This, in turn, has brought about the #SheDominatedMeToo/#SheTheShrew movement.
In the aftermath of the Kavanaugh hearing, it is more apparent than ever that “men” are doing their best to repurpose women’s traumas as nothing more than a “witch hunt,” a way to take down “powerful” “men.” Or, worst of all, that she was rejected and therefore wants to get back at her rejector (see: BØRNS). It would be rather interesting, however, if “men’s” perceptions and memories of a situation weren’t so fucking blacked out, presence of alcohol or not. For you see, the “male” amygdala, a key piece of the brain that helps to process memories and the emotions associated with them is almost as small as their penis, with studies on the effects of the female amygdala finding that “women tend to experience greater enhancement of their memory by emotion.” No fucking shit. This is precisely why to deride a woman for having the courage to come out thirty-five years later with her story (which, frankly, still isn’t enough time to have learned to deal with the scar left on your psyche) is quintessentially callous in terms of a “male” reaction. For a “man” can erase with more efficaciousness than a pencil (not to be confused with his pencil dick). Filing away events and feelings as effortlessly as a girl Friday, the “male” mind has no room in its data bank to consider such things as being ruined for life by the careless action of another. No, he has much more important subjects to think about: like who to abuse next.
So when it comes to how baffling it is that “men” have such a predilection toward cold clinicism in their relationships with women, in short, it’s like Cardi B said, “Teach me to be like you so I can not give a fuck.” In truth, “men” only react in an emotional way when something they say has been challenged or the perception of their nonexistent virility is questioned. Which is precisely why they’re all so fucking scandalized by the women emerging in droves to tell it like it is. That it’s not okay. And it’s not a witch hunt, it’s just that the witches themselves have finally caused the bitches to reach their threshold for pain. “Crying rape” is not crying wolf any more than denying what really happened makes what a “man” did go away.
Because stereotypes make everything easier and generally hold some grain of longstanding truth (e.g. Italian Americans working in construction or plumbing), it is safe to say that the reason “men” hold such general contempt for women is a result of their many luxury “needs” (though some “males” would like to deny their unwitting complicity in the success of the beauty and fashion industries). The things, in short, that make them so very susceptible to desiring and coveting the bourgeois lifestyle. Certainly, it’s not as on blast as it was in the 50s, when Lucy was asking for all manner of increase in her allowance from Ricky, or in the 80s, when Bret Easton Ellis was inspired to write about someone as frivolous as Evelyn in American Psycho. But the residual materialistic airhead trope is hard to shake even with the firm presence of the twenty-first century as well (see: Paris Hilton, the Kardashians, Kylie Jenner specifically and, for some reason, Tiffany Trump).
The resentment “men” have toward women of this nature (which is to say, most of them), stems from the reflection it gives back of his own inadequacy as a functioning member of a capitalist society (the only society still recognized by mainstream media). Because, yes, for the most part, “a scrub is a guy who thinks he’s fly” but also has no fucking money to at least back up a shitty, irascible personality in addition to being bad in bed. So it is that they balk at the bourgeoisie so as to make themselves feel slightly less deficient about being unable to ever be a part of it. Because you know goddamn well if you could be, you would be. That you would not be so quick to balk at an endless reserve of cash if you could actually access it without more than the effort it takes you to get out of your pathetic excuse for a bed.
Balking also aids in convincing the girl whose vagina they’ve briefly managed to enter that she’s the one who’s in the wrong–insane, in short–for wanting access to such vacuous things as a memory foam mattress or a Nespresso maker. Convince her that it’s the more proverbial “man” who has infected her brain with these false and inane aspirations that set us all back to the June Cleaver era. But like, again, if these things were handed to a “man” instead of him actually having to work for them, where would his balking be then? Probably slightly muffled by the taste of homemade bread from a stand mixer.
While we are all aware that the “democratization” of fame has been a blessing for some (e.g. Tao Lin), for most of the rest of us, it has come with the curse of being able to instantly pinpoint the ego of the type of “man” who would be unable to resist turning on a Google alert for whenever his name comes up in an article from a semi on the radar website (blogs, of course, obviously don’t count).
The desire to know he’s being talked about is more of a source of ejaculation potential than analog banging ever could be (because how can a “man’s” ego possibly be fortified by his fucking skills these days?). “I didn’t see that article come up in my Google notifications,” he’ll admit unabashedly when someone mentions they saw something about him on the internet recently. It’s the kind of exchange that tends only to occur in New York, where everyone keeps track of everyone for the sake of knowing where their place is on the insignificant totem pole called “talentless microcosm.”
The “man” who needs to be notified of being “eloquently discussed” by some middling “publication” (non-ink laden with typos and grammatical errors, as it were) is clearly clinging to whatever bread crumbs of relevancy he can in order to stave off the unshakeable thought that he is just as irrelevant and meaningless as he knows himself to be deep down. But with the “frequency” of Google alerts, he can help perpetuate the fallacy of self-importance that his Asian girlfriend can only do so much to support as one person. It is the foremost tool of modern “fame” that has been perhaps one of the greatest contributors to the deterioration in quality of art. Because if you’re only in it to see how many times your name crops up in some crevice of the internet, how can you possibly create something enduring? What’s more, high-level fame (the Madonna tier) does not require one to be notified of their “many” achievements if there are enough to lose track of.
Even though it’s a commonly held belief that women are nothing but mere receptacles for the pleasure release of “men,” it does not mean that they should be subjected to the shameless and free-flowing “requests” (a euphemism for demands) of the “male,” and all the strange predilections his psyche can muster. Of which there are many, especially when taking into account the fact that “men” so often suppress their true fancies from an early age, made to feel by both their overbearing mothers and society itself that even something as vanilla as wanting a finger up the ass now and again is pure taboo.
With such forms of stifled yearning ingrained within the “average” “man,” can it be any wonder, then, that the second he loses inhibitions (the way one only can when his clothes are off and his alcohol intake met) long enough, he suddenly feels all too comfortable to make such very specific demands as, “Can you hold my balls while we fuck?” Uh, yeah, sure. Whatever works, you fucking weirdo. The fact that a “man” is so relaxed in expressing his strange brand of needs for orgasming so readily at the outset is not only telling of how often women are viewed as merely a means to an end, but also of how he’s clearly been champing at the bit to see how one woman reacts over another to whatever his bizarre whim is.
While it’s all perfectly on the level to engage in the quid pro quo acrobatic antics it can sometimes take to get off, it’s generally more appealing when these barking insistences are made to someone that a “man” is actually in a relationship with. Then again, thanks to the alive and well Madonna/whore complex, it is too frequently the case that a “man” feels he could never entreat a girl that he would be with monogamously to do such “freaky” things as the butter churner position (which, by the way, is a position best loved by the “male” who particularly enjoys manifesting the female as a human trash can).
Just as it is with film, so it is with books that “men” of an often pretentious nature have a very specific arsenal of go-to recommendations tailored toward impressing women that they think are intellectually inferior anyway. From Raymond Chandler to Gunter Grass, the “man” with the book recommendations is calculated in his choices, wanting to be just esoteric enough, but not so obscure that the girl he’s trying to impress is made to feel totally stupid. Because heaven forbid she could actually know anything beyond what was suggested to her based on titles she’s viewed or purchased on Amazon. Or even be cognizant of what “true literature” (code for: written by a blowhard) really is.
And while the novice sort of female, the kind who is usually too young and not well-read enough to know better (this is, in point of fact, just one of two reasons why “men” have a predilection for zygotes), might be impressed by the “sweet nothings” not so much whispered as touted in the form of his literary knowledge, those who have been through it all before at this point will know that the best approach to “listening” is simply nodding along as best as you can without eye-rolling. Letting him have the orgasmic satisfaction of believing that you believe that he hasn’t recommended these same exact novels to every other pussy that has had the misfortune of entering his con artist life. That this is “custom content,” if you will–reading advice given purely from a place of wanting to suggest something tailored to your personality and interests, when, in reality, it’s about his own self-validation. You’re so smart, [insert white guy name here]. You’re so worldly, [insert white guy name here]. And before you know it, he’s cum all over the books he’s peddling toward you.
While everyone knows that Tinder can be quite depressing and lead to nothing more than a burning sensation as opposed to a burning desire, it doesn’t mean that a “man” should take the often desperate measure of turning to his female roommate for penile solace. Because it’s so “evolved” and “mature” for “men” and women to live together as sexless beings in the present (this would never have happened in the world depicted by Mona Lisa Smile). But this notion of “sexlessness” remains a ruse, a lie we tell ourselves to help corroborate George Orwell’s 1984 prophecies. And unlike Winston claiming, “It was always the women” who are responsible for “men’s” troubles, who initiate sex, in most instances of roommate dalliances, it is always the “bloke” who manages to capitalize on a drunken evening.
Not thinking that perhaps this is going to offer some awkward and unwieldy consequences in the morning and in subsequent days, the “male” roommate simply lives in the moment of ephemeral pleasure as his mother helped condition him to. The roommate with the misfortune of having a vagina, try as she might, cannot help but feel a weird possessiveness in the future when the “boy” who banged her out of a combination boredom and necessity does manages to find someone outside of the apartment to bring back and fuck. It can really make for an emotional rollercoaster in one’s already unpleasant living space (for all living spaces are unpleasant when you live in Brooklyn on a paltry 60K-70K a year–yes, it’s disgusting that that much money amounts to a penny in NYC). But the “male” roommate cares not about destroying what is meant to be the only safe space in a city that thrives on mental warfare. He cares only for convenience. And what could be more so than a vag right next to him on the bed bug-ridden couch scooped up from the street or bought for too much at a “vintage” store?
There is no easier way to infiltrate a woman’s mind and heart than through the words a “man” says. Words. So pretty and meaningless, evidently. Yet, it seems, we will never learn our lesson. That a “man’s” verbal prose style is, more often than not, just that: stylized. A means to the end called one or several of your orifices. He has a knack for the passion requisite of all Italians all the time at the outset, saying such things as, “I can’t imagine being with anyone else” or “You’re not like anyone else I’ve ever met.” He’ll talk about the future as though it were so secure, like he isn’t going to drop you at the first sign of something better, chasing the butterfly called other people’s pussies whenever the mood should strike him. And the mood will strike him, for it strikes them all at some point or another, while the going is still good, as it were. While he’s not just another gross old “man” with no money to offer as a tantalization to a younger woman.
The bathetic spoutings, however, will soon start to taper off in favor of a more marked aloofness. One that you’ll try to penetrate and de-layer so as to find that core that once so freely cascaded words characterized by Shakespearean ardor. Where did that “man” go? Did he ever exist at all? For all the words that you thought once comprised him and his feelings toward you have vanished. No longer correlating in any way, shape or form with his actions, which, as usual, always speak more loudly than any heavy-handed proclamations. The ones that falsely assured you of your place in the heart that he doesn’t actually have.
While the art of leering is at its most finely tuned in Southern Italy, there are still plenty of masterful leerers in the town of North Brooklyn. Though, these days, it’s more South BK, as all sexuality has been stamped out of most of the thin, pale, computer worker types that can afford to live in the former locale. Despite some arguing that leering can’t be helped, is merely an inescapable part of that natural and uncontrollable thing called the male pituitary gland, there is always the option for self-control. Lest one prefers to risk having his eyes plucked out (in the manner of Beatrix Kiddo to Elle Driver) for gawking a little too obviously at the wrong woman. Crazier things have happened, after all. Just look at the U.S.’ current “president.”
One can perhaps understand a quick glance as a show of appreciation for the superiority and magnificence of the female form, sure–maybe. One supposes that’s fine. He can’t help it that he still has a healthy imagination regarding how to mentally undress a woman in spite of having enough stock footage of porn in his head to cause even the most robust in bandwidth of databases to short circuit. But after a certain number of seconds, it gets really fucking creepy. More to the point, rapey. Like, how hard is it to remember your mother’s presumable cautioning about how it’s impolite to stare? For she, too, was probably a victim of the eerie and disgusting practice of being ogled by a “man” in her day. Little did she know she was also going to create one, add another perv to an already googly eye-filled planet. The problem of leering is so rampant, in fact, that “men” had to come up with an actual religion that forces women to cover themselves with burkas as a chief tenet of its practice. The real reason, of course? To keep from leering so intently that it leads to losing all control and simply whipping out one’s “penis” and attacking. Because no good can from a “man” who is allowed to leer for too long, which is why women must practically run past a group of them as she walks down the street, be it in East Harlem or Napoli. Just like staring at the sun too long, a woman who allows herself to be looked at for too lengthy a period will get burned in some way or another. This, again, just makes Beatrix Kiddo’s eye-plucking method seem all the more viable.