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.
It could very well be that because “men” view women as walking receptacles for their semen and bullshit that they tend to lack the apparent care it takes to ensure that a condom, or condodo (let us honor the dodo bird by referencing that one needs to wear a condom to prevent the breeding of stupid people) is removed after insertion. And sure, the female in question should probably make certain that this has happened as well, but then, look at what happened to Abbi on Broad City, pissing out a condom at an upscale restaurant because, “Like a lady, I keep my eyes closed when I make love!” And it’s true, you’d be surprised at how little women actually know about what’s going on with their bodies during a bang. Especially if alcohol is in the mix.
Thus, the “man” responsible enough to put a condodo on should also be just as responsible for ensuring its extraction not just from his panisse but also from the orifice from which he’s just exited. Because really, there’s no point, anti pregnancy-wise, in even wearing one if you’re just going to allow it to stew and ferment in her vag for a day or so. Oh but wait, it doesn’t affect you, you’re just trying to protect your fragile little “dick” from the presumed STD you’ll get from this “drunk bitch” you found at a bar. What concern is it of yours? Other than the fact that women are highly trained in both stalking and vengeance.
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.
Like hashtags, abbreviated words (“nvm,” “txt,” “l8tr,” etc.) and Donald Trump’s presidential campaign, the color box status update on Facebook is something that seemingly came out of nowhere, an entity with origins too unclear to trace. But what’s even more unclear than this is why “men” so especially favor using this means to express themselves on social media, to update us all of their general “amazingness” a.k.a. complete and utter dicklessness.
The most banal of statements, like “Wrote an email to my landlord,” cannot be masked or made more interesting by the presence of bold, vibrant colors. And isn’t this the probable intent of the color boxes on Facebook? To make others believe you’re living out loud via the distraction of bombastic chroma. But no hue from the color wheel can conceal the truth about you, “man”: you’re an irrevocable asshole with nothing going on in your life other than the not so unique ability to regurgitate quotes or give a cut and dried account of all the meaninglessness in your life.
While it’s all very noble or something to attempt to commingle the sexes in a platonic manner for this generation’s sick need to disprove the thesis statement of When Harry Met Sally, it gets to a point of parody when “men” have so many female friends that it starts to look vaguely like a harem of vestal hens just hoping to pounce on the rooster at the center of it all when his guard is down. But it’s not their fault for feeling this way. It’s only natural to start to catch feelings for someone you share an emotional and intellectual connection with.
Ergo, the “man” who, for whatever psychologically fucked up reason, decides to frame his universe solely with women as though to make one giant cluster of a super female to probably sub in for his mother or some such cliche, is really only doing them all a disservice in serving himself. Maybe he thinks he can learn something about how to treat his eventual girlfriend if he spends enough time among the vages. Or maybe, he, too, thinks that most “men” are missing a dick and simply can’t be around them. It’s too much faux alpha “male” energy. But if that’s the case, he really ought to just get a sex change. It’s not like his penis is doing any woman any good by not sticking it in one of them. Nobody likes a pussy tease, for fuck’s sake.
In these “modern times,” one supposes it’s only natural for a girlfriend and a boyfriend to separate more regularly. It’s only… what’s that word?–healthy. That two people should live independently of one another, not risk becoming so enmeshed; you know, in preparation for the inevitable breakup. Maybe that’s why so many couples are comfortable with taking solo trips these days in spite of being “together.” It helps keep their material fresh, their heart grow fonder in absence. That is, unless the “man” a woman is with encourages her to engage in sex dealios with others while she’s on her journey and perhaps feeling particularly lonely. After all, any woman who wants to fuck more than once a week is a nympho during this anti-libidinous epoch.
So of course she should be feeling lonely, a bit needful on her separate journey from her so-called boyfriend. Thus, because polyamory is just another indication of how lazy and non-committal millennials are, he will think he’s being oh so evolved and generous in suggesting that she ought to find her sexual release with another. And maybe even he will do the same, should he feel so inclined and if he can manage to tear himself away from quietly masturbating in his hostel bed. Sadly, when the girl decides to take him up on his offer in the hope that he’ll actually care, she’ll find that not only does he not, but he also decided to extend his trip indefinitely. And so go “relationships” of the “mature” variety in the twenty-first century.