“Yes, please tell me more about how you went to bartending school,” the bar manager will internally muse to himself as “men” convinced that attending a one to two week course at [insert name of any scam artist “school” here] will make them shoo-ins for a position at the establishment of their choosing. Because, yes, “learning” to daintily mix together an old fashioned, negroni or some other cocktail that no one at the shithole bar you end up working at will order is really going to bolster your candidacy.
And yet, in the mind of the flaccid (usually blanc and hoping for the most effortless way to dip his toe into the working world) “man” faintly aspiring to make a fast buck in NYC–specifically Brooklyn–when he’s not trolling for pussy that’s just as effortless, the motto is: the less toil, the better. This also tends to be their philosophy in the boudoir as well (much to de Sade’s dismay). If only they could mix up their material in between the sheets the way they do in between the cracks of martini glasses as they sloppily pour in their ingredients to fill a row of them up (no cum pun intended). So yes, maybe a “degree” (a.k.a. certificate) in bartending can get your foot in the door, but it’s going to get a foot to kick your ass right out of it even faster than you got hired, too. ‘Cause ain’t no preparation for the fuckery of an NY bar other than to start out as a dishwasher (or alcoholic). But what would a “man” who can afford to go to bartending school do that for when he can just flounce in bandying his little certificate? Which is probably still much larger than his little dick.
“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.
What woman among us hasn’t been subjected to watching Rick & Morty at some juncture during “consistently” banging a “man” of the unavoidably puerile variety living in North Brooklyn? At some point or another, the show is bound to come up–either in conversation or in the morning. They’ll tell you that you’ve simply got to watch it, that you’ll instantly fall in love with the unlovable Rick, alcoholic mad scientist and grandfather to impressionable adolescent Morty. So basically, that you’ll have a better time watching this show than you did having sex with this person.
In your weakened hangover haze, you will oblige because, honestly, it’s way too early to go back out into the MTA-run world and when you see Rick and Morty–or sometimes Rick and Beth–hop through dimensions of the multiverse, you’ll try to tell yourself, “Yeah, yeah. This is way existential. Like Cher thought Ren & Stimpy was.” But it’s, at its core, an abrasive cartoon for the “boys” of Neverland who still somehow condescend to women in spite of sitting at home in the middle of the day smoking weed and watching this lauded show.
Then again, as Rick has said, “Nobody exists on purpose, nobody belongs anywhere, everybody’s gonna die. Come watch TV.” So you do. Because you’ve got to put in the effort if you’re going to get a few subsequent “dick” appointments.
Almost worse than “men” who drink straight up frosé is the “man” who tries to bill his pillaging of a woman’s sole right toward the dainty and femme as brosé. But beyond it being merely a word used to rebrand something distinctly feminine into something slightly more masculine (though, in truth, it might actually sound more effeminate), brosé is also its own form of beer. That’s right, in your very own grocery aisle, you can find an extra special in its douchery form of this beverage.
Those who have capitalized on a trend that has been sanctioned by the oh so appropriate unofficial spokesperson of sucking it down, Justin Bieber, are banking on the mass dicklessness of “men” not just throughout Brooklyn, but all of America. Fully aware of the laxity that has befallen the definition of machismo in the past ten years (even ancient Greeks having homoerotic encounters appear butcher in comparison to the dainty ass motherfuckers currently pervading the scene called “male”dom), beverage companies with the power to turn dicklessness into cash aren’t wasting time. As commented on by The Drinks Business, “An increasing number of male drinkers are embracing rosé in what has been dubbed the ‘brosé’ phenomenon, as rosé shakes off its female-only image and the top examples are taken more seriously as fine wines.” Now if only “men” could shake off their “pussy-only” image while drinking such fare.
In these “modern” times, it’s a challenge to find anyone–“male” or female–that dresses on your level. More often than not, you’re lucky if you stumble upon someone who wears anything other than a snuggie-similar garment upon exiting the apartment. But for those who still actually put clothes on that have buttons and zippers, being seen in public with the garden variety schlub that tends to abound in this town can be a constant source of embarrassment. I mean, didn’t New York used to be the only U.S. hub of high fashion?
Further, when taking into account just how fey and feminine “men” have become ever since the term “metrosexual” was coined in 1994 and became a household word as a result of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy and David Beckham, one would think that they would at least feel inclined to take greater pride in their appearance. But no, it’s just as Cher Horowitz said: “I don’t get how guys dress today. I mean, come on, it looks like they just fell out of bed and put on some baggy pants, and take their greasy hair—ew!—and cover it up with a backwards cap and, like, we’re expected to swoon? I don’t think so!” This is, however, apparently exactly what “men” expect, making you look as though you’re constantly dressed in a ball gown in comparison to their perpetual frumpery. So until you find your Jareth the Goblin King, you might prefer to walk the streets alone to spare yourself the trauma of being seen with someone sartorially unworthy.
It might have been romantic–even “edgy”–to get a “Love Will Tear Us Apart” tattoo when the song first came out in 1980 and held a meaning that wasn’t overly commodified by the abstract noun “hipster.” But in 2017, seeing a “man” sporting this Ian Curtis aphorism (especially if it’s situated right above his heart) is nothing if not an indication of just how little he cares for anyone but himself. The tattoo is not an expression of his sadness over a love lost or his genuine belief that l’amour causes nothing but heartache. It is a method of luring in naive pussy.
Because yes, a certain type of girl will find it charming that a “man” has emblazoned this mantra on his skin–a sign of tenderness and passion. But the only thing the lyric signifies in tattoo form is a tender dick and passionless mind. He is a phony baloney with no concept of just how fucking much it pains to experience attachment of any kind. He can let go in a way Ian Curtis never could–which is, in part, why he had to commit suicide, being unable to choose between two women and all. The “man” with the immortal quote on his body, however, is likely to live a very long life sustained on his egoism and falseness alone.
Maybe it’s because my tits are lacking in every way that I somehow always end up with a tit-sucker–a “man” whose mouth consistently seems to find its way onto what Shakira would call your mountains. Or for some, like myself, your chode-like hills. I don’t know if maybe things would be different if this wasn’t the part of my body I’m not most self-conscious about, if maybe 1) I would enjoy a tit-sucker or 2) because of a lack of inhibition regarding them, the “man” in question might be less interested in them.
Whatever the case, there is obviously one thing that can be said for your average tit-sucker: he has a mother obsession. Or is at least trying to re-create the best part of his life: infancy. Even though very little has changed for him since then, in that he still has his parents taking care of him, or a woman as a placeholder to do so until he invariably moves back home to “regroup.” When you come across these tit-suckers in your boudoir–or portable bed a.k.a gurney–more regularly than most, you might have to ask yourself: am I putting out a maternal or matronly vibe? As for me, that’s definitely not the case, and anything that might emanate from my nipple is the barrel of a machine gun that so many other fembots have. Because it isn’t just that looking down and seeing a fully grown “man,” for all intents and purposes, masticating your breast is rather disorienting, it’s that you know he’s reverting to the most intimate moment he’s ever had with his mother. And if I wanted things to get Greek in my sex den, I would just order from Seamless.
“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.