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.
When you find within your PTSD-ridden self the courage to open up to a “man” and, once again, endure the potential shame of sharing not just your body, but your mind too (it’s become a less secondary thing ever since that manic pixie dream girl archetype), all you want is for it to not backfire–yet again. You lay all your cards on the table like a little fool, a novice poker player naively trusting her mentor to show her the way without taking advantage.
And this seems to happen every time you walk in to the gaming room that is l’amour (or the ruins of what it used to mean from the eighteenth to twentieth centuries). You suppress all that your instincts are telling you–that he will bolt when he knows too much of you–and try, once again to ignore what you can already foresee is going to happen. Mother will tell you these “negative” thoughts are a self-fulfilling prophecy. But the prophecy isn’t fulfilled by the self so much as the egregious overall character of “men,” who, when bored with your so-called bullshit, will chuck you into the trash like so much bad lettuce. So you shared your body and your mind again. That’s all over now. Because you pretty much have neither entity left to give, no wherewithal to regurgitate the same flirtations or attempts at allurement.
Usually, when a “man” is a cop or TSA worker, he has this tendency to relish searches of the non-spiritual kind, which is almost worse than that ilk that goes to an ashram in the Far East specifically to find something. In any case, this is to say, he likes to explore orifices of other people’s bodies instead of the ones in his own mind. Because why explore the self if it’s far too grotesque to examine on a level beyond the surface that a bullet can nick?
The greatest pleasure of cavity searching is how much it allows the “man” doing it to humiliate the person he so chooses to randomly target. It’s as though to say, “I am god, and you are but a ‘man,’ or worse, a ‘helpless’ woman.” And I will stick my finger up your asshole as far as I goddamn well please. Because cavity searching isn’t just for dentists anymore. And maybe it never really was (at least, historically looking back on some of the ancient Greek and Roman behaviors that focused far more on ass play than teeth concerns).
Morrissey once claimed, “The more you ignore me, the closer I get.” Maybe he had never dealt with a “heterosexual” “man” (but who am I kidding, that’s all he’s dealt with in his lust at its most unfulfilled). The more a “man” ignores a woman these days, the more she wants to establish herself into his emotional ether, only spurring his reflexive desire to run in the other direction from any girl who comes across as too earnest, interested and otherwise into it.
She can attempt to transcend all of his boundaries and barriers, doing things she never thought herself capable of (like feigning an interest in nature or something), but it won’t mean anything to the “man” she seeks to pin down. As a matter of point, he’ll only respect her less in the process of continuing to cut the cord she’s so insistent binds them together. But he just looks so desirable over there on the other side, creating the space between them that demarcates unattainability.
There is a term helmed by screenwriter Dylan Haggerty, the mastermind behind writing Gregg Araki’s 2007 stoner opus, Smiley Face. That term, ladies and gentle”men” is skull fucker. What type of monster creepazoid would fuck a skull, you ask? The kind that obsesses over Bach. That’s right, people who listen to classical music all the time are the types of weirdos who fuck skulls. The kind that actually refers to Bach as Johann Sebastian Bach and can cite the name of the cantata he’s hearing without hesitation. Nay, uses the goddamn word “cantata” in casual conversation.
It’s nice when “men” are learned, sure, but there is more than a tinge of faux learnedness to the “man” overly enthralled by the musical genius of Bach. And yeah, there’s no argument that the “man” was a genius–yet still he was presumably as pompous and self-aggrandizing as the “male” fans he’s accrued over the centuries.
Thus, if you’re in a setting that’s not showing Beauty Shop (in which there’s a scene of a boy who thinks the girl he’s interested is talking about 2pac instead of Bach), in a music conservatory or at a stodgy dinner party on the Upper East Side or the part of Brooklyn where kids’ schools cost more than the average community college, run for cover if you hear any “man” bring up Bach like the magniloquent motherfucker he probably is.
It’s rare to find a “man” to spoon with befitting your tailored body molding specifications and the desired amount of time spent engaging in a lack of activity (“men” seem to need to be constantly buzzing about, as it were). So when you do, you can’t help but believe that it must feel so magical because he, too, is experiencing the same internal explosions of l’amour–or at least intense like.
It shouldn’t be so easy, after all, for a “man” to give himself in that way. And yet, you may soon come to unearth the awful truth for yourself: “men” have no trouble feigning intimacy for a few sessions before throwing in the cum-stained towel–just long enough to make you believe the emotion radiating from this unique physical expression was real.
But, darling, it was not. And almost worse than getting a taste of good dick is getting a taste of that sweet spoon, only to have it ripped away. It really makes the loneliness of being “one with yourself” in a bed that much more drastic. With this in mind, it’s best to treat spooning with more caution and careful consideration than, well, fucking.