Men With Skeevy Date Agendas Designed Solely To Fuck You & Leave You.

Picasso, Gaugin, Matisse. “Men” are so good at painting. False portraits. One of their favorites on the list of greatest hits called Duping a Woman is creating the illusion of a magical first (and maybe even second and third) outing together that is pretty much a replica of Javier Bardem’s sauverie in Vicky Cristina Barcelona. Depictions of eating decadent food (though not so much so as to be too full to fuck), drinking “expensive” wine (though what he views as expensive might not align with your perspective) and talking about “life and love”–whatever the fuck that means–will take the average woman for a ride. Even if she’s already been through the wringer of being made a fool of once or countless times before, she can’t help herself. Believing “men’s” lies is, in part, how women survive, persist in helping the patriarchy perpetuate the false notion that there is such a thing as happily ever after.

So she wavers, lets the falsely painted portrait appeal to her apparently dull senses. For, in truth, there is no imagination to the skeevy date agendas of “men,” the last of the “straight” ones of which will only get creative in how they can make a splash with their “penis” for the purposes of spending as little time and money on the endeavor as possible–ergo the thickness with which they will slather on the ephemeral charm. But, even Vicky (Rebecca Hall)–fortress-like pragmatist that she is–can fall victim to the full-on Monet (oops, mixing movie analogies here) that is a “man’s” presentation of how things will be, with the asterisk’d caveat that it can only be so for a maximum of no more than three to five fucks’ worth of “romance sessions.”

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Men Who Smugly Say, “Yeah? How’s That Working Out For You?”

More than any other gender, clear-cut or somewhere in between the spectrum, “men” seem to be the ones most fond–most likely to experience ejaculation–from being “right” via proving that a woman’s method and approach to something did not end up “working out” for her. Of course, what he means by it not working out is that she has not managed to achieve what she set out to do as quickly as she might have had she, say, sucked some literal or metaphorical cock.

But, as all women with their eye on the prize will ultimately come to find, they generally, without fail, always accomplish that which they set their sights on (primarily sweet death). It’s just a matter of our own process of getting there. If we don’t want to plaster a fucking “sweet” smile on our faces while we do it, or if we want to go about a certain task in a, shall we say, more roundabout, time-consuming fashion, that’s our fucking business. What should it matter to a loomingly observing “male” who apparently has nothing better to do than wait for a “woman” (even his own girlfriend most of the time) to err? Is it that satisfying for him to feel vindicated in knowing that his dick is still intact somewhere within the recesses of his groin?

This deep-seated need to see women unable to “perform” on their own terms stems from decades upon decades of conditioning. Like Lucy Ricardo’s many attempts at doing things her own way, only to have them very literally shoved back in her face as glaring mistakes, her constant fear of Ricky finding out is a testament to the inherent nature of most women: combative and defiant beneath that surface of perceived obsequiousness. We’ll fucking show you all when we’ve turned “men”–especially those softboys feigning emotionalism–completely into decorative pieces too afraid to say anything that could be viewed as offensive, let alone open their gaping maws any further at all beyond breathing. How’s that working out for you?

Men Who Awaken A Woman’s Love With No Intention of Loving Her.

Even more than soccer, the sport that all “men” engage in that requires zero effort on their part is arousing within a woman passions that she would otherwise like to suppress for the sake of self-preservation. Nothing is as big of a detriment to dignity than becoming emotionally vulnerable. However, as Dawson’s Creek taught us, whenever a “man” displays enough interest and determination, a woman is invariably prone to fall victim (not, in this case, a product of self-victimizing) to his “charms.” This usually means a lot of drunk texts, messages and, now and again, just “happening” to be at the same local haunt as the object of his ephemeral affection. Yet, as is always the case unless the “man” is being financially motivated to stay with his “love” “object,” he will grow restless and weary once the “having” of a woman is achieved. It’s the “having” that is the majority of the thrill. And then, once she’s fully succumbed, let down her guard in every way (even ceding to taking her makeup off at night in a manner that goes against the Mrs. Maisel regimen), he will recoil, proving that his intent to love was never really there, so much as an irrepressible “curiosity” that needed to be explored on his part. The signs of his withdrawal won’t be evident to the woman, in all her naïveté, and so the abandonment will seem like a botched excision as opposed to a gentle, anesthetized one.

It is, of all people, Bob Marley who said, “The biggest coward is a man who awakens a woman’s love with no intention of loving her.” This ganja-smoking, free love-touting (“Rasta men are permitted to have multiple female sex partners, while women are expected to reserve their sexual activity for their one male partner”) emblem of chillness managed to stay married to the same woman, Alpharita Constantia “Rita” Marley, for his entire life–love the same woman his entire life. And she, in turn, popped out eleven children, not all of them Marley’s, but all were essentially treated as his. While sure, it actually sounds like a waking nightmare to be saddled with that as a fate–not to mention impossible to find child care for the evening–at least Marley was a practitioner of his own aphorism. Even if all it took was regular engagement in extramarital affairs–on her part as well. Still, it seems somehow more palatable than a “man” simply up and leaving the woman whose love he’s awakened, never to be heard from again–never to offer an explanation of exactly why and when his alleged former ardor went cold. Of how the intent to love became so easily dispensed with. Like piano lessons taken up in the ambition of youth, only to be allowed to fall by the wayside in favor of something less time-consuming and involved.

Men Who Monitor.

No matter how increasingly aware women become of how little they actually need a “man,” there’s always going to be that sect that persists in carrying on with the so-called tradition of monogamy and the associated trajectory of marriage, an institution that, like the presidency, is frivolous, but still sort of cute (or would be if the person embodying its post at the moment didn’t induce vomiting on sight).

With the territory of marriage often comes a sense of possession and entitlement, usually on the “man’s” part if his wife is blatantly more attractive than he is. That being said, an inexorable tendency toward monitoring even the smallest, most insignificant of activities can start to become par for the domesticity course. Whether she’s washing the dishes (no doubt, ineffectually, by his standards), folding the laundry (after starching the appropriate garments, no less) or giving the requisite “at least twice a week” blow job, her “man” is sure to be watching closely, waiting to take issue with some ridiculous nuance she didn’t “perform” quite right. And the more he monitors, the more uneasy and unsettled a girl can become, questioning her every move, spiraling further and further into an Ingrid Bergman in Gaslight mentality.

Fearing the constant hovering presence of a “man” over her shoulder, the confidence with which she approaches her day-to-day former enjoyments can suddenly feel like a perpetual dry anal rape. There’s nothing worse than constantly self-questioning in the non-Socratic way, after all. It can really mess with a woman’s pretty little head. Accordingly, why don’t you try to strike the perfect balance between attentiveness and not totally ignoring? It would signal far more care on your part than hyper-vigilance, which so often stems from a place of selfishness rather than love. If that increasingly mythical concept can even exist between a “straight” “man” and woman.

Men Who Think Any Woman Who’s “Crazy” Has Daddy Issues.

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 Who Think Their Erection Is Your Issue.

“I’m gonna punch you in the fucking face,” I say as, once again, this “man” tries to insert himself in me even though I’ve already given him the requisite orgasm for the night. That might turn some “men” on as images of most of the plotline for Californication are conjured, but in this case I mean it in the strictly threatening and non-sexually evocative way. The polite protocol, as far as initial sexual encounters go, is to allow the “female” you’ve penetrated to roll over and repose for as long as she sees fit. If she’s generous enough to anoint your dick into her vag in the morning, you may count your lucky stars that she hasn’t simply up and slinked out wordlessly.

What “men” must learn to understand is that they are owed nothing when a woman goes home with them. They must also learn to masturbate in a bathroom–instead of Kevin Spacey in American Beauty style–in the presence of a dormant lady. And sure, a “man” might think that because a female has consented–in her loosened state–to accompany him back to his shared abode that her body is somehow a free-for-all regardless of what level of interest she exhibits after a few unsatisfying thrusts. For yes, she might have found you desirable–endearing even–at the bar, but sentiments and opinions change once the environment does. And to be sure, a girl can tend to feel far more tired once she’s dragged her husk up the multiple flights of stairs leading to your shanty. So please, just because you have an erection and there happens to be a body next to you, don’t assume that said body owes you the alleviation of your boner. Unless you want it bopped on the head like a field mouse. Because nobody–but nobody–fucks with a woman’s circadian rhythm unless it’s the tooth fairy putting some much needed cash under the pillow (not to be confused with on the dresser, where hooker dough is left).

Men Who Milk You of the Best Years of Your Twenties & Discard You Just in Time for Them to End.

“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.

Men Who Enjoy Documentary Now! & Have Never Seen Any of the Documentaries Referenced.

For some reason, Documentary Now! has a tendency to creep into the arsenal filed under the Netflix and chill category. It’s humorous enough to loosen a girl up and non-committal enough to stop watching when things get sexual. And, of course, no “man” can resist Fred Armisen (Bill Hader, for whatever reason, seems to have less cachet to the straight white “male”). While the “man” who puts on Documentary Now! means well enough–has no idea that his lack of knowledge about documentary film is highly offensive–his decision to do so is indicative of a larger point: he’s a fucking dilettante.

And while, yeah, there are a lot of those in North Brooklyn, there’s no reason to be that way in terms of documentary connoisseurship. There are so few major and important ones, after all–and each of them have been covered by Documentary Now! at this point (even though it’s been renewed for a third season). The worst offense of all on a “man’s” part is having no clue what the first episode, “Sandy Passage,” is supposed to be parodying. While some might argue that no straight “man” can be expected to have ever watched Grey Gardens, it is a behemoth of not just the genre, but film itself. As one of Albert and David Maysles’ masterpieces (ranked also with Gimme Shelter and Salesman), there can be no adequate excuse for any “man,” cinephile or otherwise, having evaded this film, or being unaware of it until Armisen and Hader came along.

Watching it after seeing Documentary Now! cannot remedy the shortcoming and, in fact, cheapens the film as the “man” in question is only watching it because he’s learned about it from the show. But he’s probably already very familiar with “DRONEZ: The Hunt for El Chingon” as a result of watching VICE News “documentaries” on a regular basis. Oh how the genre has deteriorated to such a point as to enable “men” to believe that simply watching Documentary Now! is a sufficient source for their enrichment in the understanding of the medium.

Men Who Make You Feel Invisible When Someone More Attractive Is in His Proximity.

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.