For the most part, “men” don’t really like to like to include themselves in the “vapidity” of female conversation, least of all when it addresses something icky like periods or rape. But now that they’re all under an extreme line of fire after Alyssa Milano’s friend (who, by the way, should have been credited by name for launching tens of thousands of responses–but that’s one for Missing A Clit) suggested, “If all the women who have been sexually harassed or assaulted wrote ‘Me too’ as a status, we might give people a sense of the magnitude of the problem.” Please note the deliberate use of the phrase “all the women.” This isn’t to say that “men” aren’t and can’t be sexually abused (usually by other “men,” priests or otherwise, because, quite simply, women aren’t predatory fuckfaces). But it is to say that the #MeToo movement isn’t about their “experiences.” And yeah, I’m sure there are a lot of “well-meaning” “guys” who just want women to know that they can empathize, or at least are trying to. Sometimes, however, standing in the wings of the stage called collective confession is best.
We are living in a time of extreme dismantlement of the old guard. A time when the “smooth” lothario type à la Don Draper simply won’t be stood for anymore, whose “it’s all in good fun” behavior won’t be swept under the rug. The list of unmasked predators over the past several months alone–from Harvey Weinstein to ex-Real Estate guitarist Matt Mondanile–is only a small indication of how long this comportment has been permitted to thrive amid the fear of women who have been frightened for one reason or another to come forward. Whether out of being afraid to lose their jobs or of being discredited and made to feel “crazy” for “imagining” such things, it takes a few women’s admissions of being victims for a landslide to gain momentum. That they’ve been able to on the heels of this barrage of “revelations” about “men” in positions of power only adds to the catharsis. So please “men,” for once in your motherfucking lives, don’t make this about you.
“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.
Women are just so vocal these days, it can be more of a nuisance than ever to attempt to engage with them. That’s why necrophilia is an increasingly viable option for “men,” even the ones who didn’t grow up with “Mary Jane’s Last Dance” being played in heavy rotation on MTV. But the “men” who resort to necrophilia, in truth, are the most misogynistic of them all.
Honestly, what kind of person, regardless of appendage attached or not attached to their body, gets off on the so-called delight of being able to verbally and physically abuse a body that can’t fight back? Sure, it’s easy–uncomplicated–to tool around with a corpse you can do whatever you want with (or to), but doesn’t it get boring, being “right” all the time? Having no one to verbally spar with or challenge your views, thoughts and feelings? The “man” content to spend his days with an inanimate shell is, well, probably a serial killer (yes, talking to you, Dahmer) and/or a “man” who simply can’t get any woman to be interested in him due to his bland personality and likely corresponding looks. Is that any reason to punish the dead for the living’s ability to engage in one of the only universal luxuries that money can’t affect: free will? Well, just ask Frankenstein, emblem of homoerotic necromancy and according manipulation.
It’s long been established that the go-to form of terrorism in America is the mass shooting. The Columbine massacre that happened on April 20, 1999 (the perpetrators wanted to pay homage to Hitler’s birthday) is what first brought to major public attention these occurrences with more bombast than ever. Though mass shootings were (and are) nothing new in the United States, the Columbine shooting had the precedent of being executed by high school students that established a very distinct template for subsequent school shootings. Massacres of this variety, however, have been ongoing since at least 1929, when the infamous Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre took place in Chicago. What separates modern shootings from those of the past is motive. In the 1920s through 1950s, these types of events were often centered around outlaw behavior, whereas, now, the intent is to express discontent with a particular group–to upset the political machine with the so-called “revolutionary” act of killing.
Fourteen months ago, the shooting at Pulse nightclub in Orlando had been marked as the record for worst in U.S. history. Now, October 1, 2017 has set an alarming precedent for what it takes to break records for gun-related brutality in America. That the incident occurred at the Harvest Music Festival continues the go-to trend of late of striking at concerts, where the high concentration of people fits the “like shooting fish in a barrel” phrase quite nicely. The shooter in this case, Stephen Paddock, persists in offering another addition to the consistent pattern of what these mass shootings have in common: they are all committed by “men” who somehow see fit to take “justice” or “retribution” into their own hands. They want to threaten and fuck with anyone whose way of life they believe is counterintuitive to their own views, which generally manifest in consisting of the type of shit Reverend Dimmesdale or Albert Fish would inflict upon themselves–that is to say, these “men” are all latently self-hating. And when self-hate has no choice but to be redirected at others, the result is almost always volcanic. But see, in America, the second amendment offers license to the eruption of “men” seeking to punish others for their mental and wang insecurities.
Though “men,” for the most part, do all they can to shy away from the paternal (always demanding a DNA test on former trash TV staples like Maury and Jerry Springer), there is something biological that occasionally possesses them to, for no apparent reason, clutch to a woman’s stomach. It can be someone they know intimately or merely an acquaintance in passing. There is no rule for degrees of familiarity that will prevent a “man” from the impromptu stomach clutch.
Whether this is due to a woman’s so-called “ripeness” for pregnancy or because the “man” in question sees something in her that makes him want to father her child is indiscernible. All that’s known for certain is that any sensible woman would do well to keep her midriff area angled strategically from any and all “men” approaching, lest it be grabbed at random and for an indeterminate amount of time. I mean, what if she really was pregnant or something and didn’t want to call attention to it? It’s really enough to make a girl feel absolutely rotund from having to suck it in out of nervousness. Jesus, it used to be all you had to worry about was an ass or tit grab, but now we have to add the paunch to the mix, too? Oh, yeah, and apparently pussy thanks to Trump. Is no body part on the female sacred? Well, the answer to that was already made clear when God or whoever told us all that Eve was crafted from Adam’s rib. If she’s an extension of his body, then why shouldn’t he be able to paw at her as he pleases?
“If I’m a white ‘male,’ that means I’m the oppressor, right? That’s why I identify as gender fluid.” So another nail in the coffin of “heterosexuality” is hammered. That a “man” of the Caucasian persuasion could express this form of deflective logic to avert the bubbling condemnation that women and minorities of all varieties (black, trans, Hispanic–the gamut) that aren’t, statistically speaking, really minorities as they lash out against the Trump juggernaut is telling of the overall callow nature of a person purported to have a dick.
That the white “man” is already a minority in Census Bureau numbers (“population growth is fastest among minorities as a whole, and according to the Census Bureau’s estimation for 2012, 50.4% of American children under the age of 1 belonged to minority groups”) is likely what makes him want so badly to feel apart of something he never can be. For, in truth, there is no one gender and ethnicity like the white “man” in terms of the fact that he feels most guilty of all for being a congenital piece of shit. This is so often the underlying reason for why he puts his assholery on blast in the vein of Hitler. It’s like Taylor Swift surrendering and essentially saying with “Look What You Made Me Do,” “Fine, you want me to be the villain? Then I’m gonna fuckin’ do it to the nth degree since everyone despises me anyway.”
Then again, the other side to the coin is being a spineless little turd that lays claim to “gender fluidity” so as not to offend anyone, cowering in the corner like the dickless worm he is. On the plus side, the type of “man” usually making this declaration isn’t very attractive to begin with and is therefore no real loss to the last of the straight women still taking faint stabs at monogamy.
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.
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.
There are some people who simply can’t be happy unless others are miserable. This is just such the case with “men” who have nine to five jobs–or worse, the type of job that forces them to rise even earlier than that. And though you might have given him an orgasm just hours before, he seems to suddenly have forgotten the service you’ve done him, in turn doing you the disservice of shuffling you out of his boudoir and therefore apartment so that, God knows what, he can prevent you from riffling through random boxes that might reveal what Carrie Bradshaw would call his “freakdom.” But then, considering that everything of incriminating or sentimental value is intangible nowadays, this speculative paranoia really makes no sense.
What’s the harm in letting the one you banged remain a little longer in your sandpapery sheets? Doesn’t she deserve the luxury of sleeping in, of collecting herself so that she might take stock of just how damaged she’s becoming from all the strange “dicks” she allows inside of herself? Or is it that a sick part of the natural sadist within the “man” wants to envision her walking down the street looking mangy, like a rode hard and put away wet (though vaginally dry) animal? Whatever his motives might be, none of them could possibly warrant ejecting the woman he boned out like some common prostitute. Because at least prostitutes get paid for their shame and disposability.