So many “men” can’t help but possess a congenital and unshakeable Peter Pan Syndrome–one that they tend only to cling to all the more as they get older. For the further away they get from youth, the further away they get from having a viable excuse to be such a fuck-up. An “average” if you will. In this fashion, anytime the discovery of a “vintage” photo (vintage, meaning, in this case of “male,” 1990s) comes along–usually by the subject’s over fawning mother, largely responsible for this hollow excuse of a being–a “boy” seizes upon it as an opportunity to show his fake friends throughout various channels demanding a profile picture that, yes, he was once a pure spirit. Not the diabolical knave you see before you today–or rather “see before you” on the internet.
In general, the sort of “man” that gives us a childhood profile photo will keep it there for quite some time (unless, of course, a novelty photo materializes from Vegas to up the appearance of his so-called game–for some reason, every “man” seems to actually want to look like a fuck”boy”). So that we may always understand the exact proportions of his dick–for it has never expanded its dimensions beyond preadolescence. But isn’t he just so fucking cute and forgivable in zygote form?
There’s a lot of “freaks” out there. It was the basis of an entire Sex and the City episode, for fuck’s sake (season two, episode three–“The Freak Show”–you should watch it, even though it’s really hard to be reminded of New York when it wasn’t so flaccid). But most of them are freaks not because they would have served well as extras in Tod Browning’s film of the same name, but because they actually have the gumption to sell themselves in this manner, parading themselves as “open,” “progressive” and hippy dippy or what have you when, in actuality, at the end of the day all they want is a muhfukkin basique. A non-Katie (a.k.a. complicato), like all the rest.
Yet possibly due to a typically youthful desire to seem rebellious and/or original (unfortunately youth extends interminably in most “men’s” “minds” these days), the faux freak “male” likes to feign that he’s as kooky and creepy as any sideshow attraction. This often translates into making a lot of random sounds, pretending to take an interest in off-brand bedroom behavior (when really, missionary is always his go-to in between the usual lackadaisical request for up the ass) and, for a time, seeking to pair with a girl who is as equitably 1950s queer as he is. However, every faux freak of a “man” grows tired of the charade with the girl who is genuinely a weirdo, ultimately taking his circus tent to a new metaphorical town (read: vagina) to perform another private show (as Britney Spears would call it), one that will enrapture a more basique element in the end, for that is what he truly wants–to be the so-called “special” one of the relationship.
As the “feminist” “movement” increasingly becomes the sort of fad that prompts Urban Outfitters to sell t-shirts with the three syllable word on it, “men’s” commonly held notions about what one should look like (chiefly a short-coiffed, homely, ill-dressed, long armpit-haired being) ought to evolve quickly if they don’t want to further incriminate themselves to the world about just what narrow-minded pieces of shit they are.
This false perception “men” have of only “ugly” women being capable of rage and contempt for the centuries-long acceptance of female oppression probably wasn’t helped by our Lord and Savior, Valerie Solanas. Then again, most “straight” “men” have nary a clue who that is unless they happened to catch a certain episode of American Horror Story: Cult. What’s more, when the type of dickless “men” I’m referring to think “ugly,” it is in the manner that has so often prompted the Hollywood trope of a woman getting a makeover by the simple removal of her glasses and the addition of a form-fitting dress to her wardrobe.
And yet, it’s actually easier for “men” to position a feminist to themselves in this manner–the manner that assumes she wouldn’t be a feminist if she was pretty enough to finagle herself a “man.” Comforts them in the belief that it’s merely a “trend” that will pass more attractive women by after enough time has lapsed and some more liberal celebrity takes the presidential office.
John Michael McDonagh’s 2016 film, War on Everyone, oft memed, rarely watched, paints this issue most succinctly when Alexander Skarsgård in the role of Terry Monroe daftly asks, “Can you be a feminist and still wear hot pants?” The guilelessness of this question gives a genuine insight into how most “men” think, persisting in truly believing that to be hideous is to be a feminist–in their minds, still a synonym for harpy. That is, if such an age-old insult is even in their Newspeak vernacular. So to break down the answer to that query very simply: you can be a feminist and wear whatever the fuck you want. Even the polar opposite wardrobe piece, a burka–which packs even more power because it hides the only thing “men” care about in a woman: her body.
Because a “man” cannot get away with the expression of such blatant disapproval–least of all for women–these days, he must be more undercutting in the ways he chooses to connote derision or malcontentment. Thank god or whoever, then, that he has sometime ago now been bequeathed with the option to use the “gentle” term “Smh” as a means to let a girl know that she’s nothing more than a little dodo bird. To make her aware of, frankly, how much condescension she deserves while also maintaining the illusion of not being totally undermining in his utterance of criticism.
Yet the most upsetting part about the use of “Smh” isn’t that a “man” can’t just be straightforward with his ire, but that he also can’t even be bothered to show the woman he’s “s-ing his h” at the amount of care it would take to actually move his head from side to side. Like the girl he disapproves of isn’t even worth that much physical exhaustion. So not only has “Smh” allowed “men” to maintain their thinly veiled contempt for most and all things pertaining to female behavior, it’s also afforded them the luxury of being even lazier pieces of shit.
What could be wrong with a celebration of love?–regardless of whether that government-sanctioned day is, as Liz Lemon noted, “a sham created by card companies to reinforce and exploit gender stereotypes.” Nothing, one supposes–at least on the surface. The surface of which is made those who retch at the sight of couples in restaurants that have been overcrowded on February 14th to feel like they’re overreacting for such retching. But are they, when it’s one of the most blatant visual manifestations of phony baloneyness?
Why can’t “men” feel inclined to express this level of a bathetic display every day of the week, if he’s so goddamned in love, huh? Why is the effusiveness treated as obligatory rather than of his own bona fide volition (as opposed to engaging in the V-Day charade solely for the benefit of cajoling his significant other into doing something “different” in bed, because straight people need an excuse to do such things). In short, Valentine’s Day speaks to all the ways in which passion can never be sustained in the way we’re taught to believe it can by essentially every piece of pop culture (and, for some of us, even our parents have managed to outfox the goading average statistic of divorce).
This is precisely why a “man” walking down the street with flowers in hand on Valentine’s Day or taking “his girl” out to a restaurant is the very symbol of the perpetuated lie we’ve all bought into for so long. The myth of the happy couple that, more often than not, can feel just as miserable as someone “doomed to wander the planet alone like the Incredible Hulk.” Because they’ve told themselves that to believe in the lie is to avoid the shame of being seen alone in public on occasions like Valentine’s Day, Christmas Day and essentially every other day of the year that is tailored for single-shaming. So if you’re a couple who, like many an “unattached” person that chooses to stay sequestered on February 14th, maybe there is a shred more genuineness to your relationship than those parading it around like self-righteous little assholes.
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?
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.
It’s never been a combination that can compute for “men”: a woman that’s intelligent and attractive. The dichotomy, to them, is stronger than a dog that can walk on its hind legs. A woman with tits and brains means that one of those characteristics will always be downgraded in a “man’s” eyes–and that characteristic is, more often than not, her “sharp cookie” persona. She can know a few things that might impress a “man,” sure (like the appropriate lines from Ulysses), but it will never be enough, as far as he’s concerned, to be an equitable match for his own so-called intellect. She is, at her core, only suitable for arm candy, and must be “educated” on a near constant basis about those things that she knows nothing of (“Tell me the part about Kenny G again,” comes to mind).
While a little bit of Eliza Doolittle/Professor Higgins role playing can be kinky now and again, the problem with this dynamic is that, in the end, he fundamentally only wants her to be visually pleasing over mentally stimulating, and will therefore come to resent her in the long run as she continues to flourish–or rather, resent her in the short run, when you gauge just how quickly a “man’s” opinion of the one he “loves” can devolve. Soon, he begins to bear a grudge toward her for being too deft of a caramel inside that smooth, eye-catching chocolate shell. This, to him, makes her an incongruity. She is someone to be embarrassed of, undercuttingly mocked and, eventually, used for some form of artistic fodder. Yes, it’s exactly what happened to Marilyn Monroe with Arthur Miller. And, like Marilyn Monroe, all you’ll end up for your trouble of attempting to impress a “genius” of a “man” with your never-adequate-enough intelligence is an intensified addiction to drugs as a replacement for the lack of love you’re getting return. Thus, he has technically succeeded in making you dumber than he (is that grammatically correct enough for you?) for choosing to stick around and letting your mind be whittled away by the abuse of his ridicule.
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.
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.