While we are all aware that the “democratization” of fame has been a blessing for some (e.g. Tao Lin), for most of the rest of us, it has come with the curse of being able to instantly pinpoint the ego of the type of “man” who would be unable to resist turning on a Google alert for whenever his name comes up in an article from a semi on the radar website (blogs, of course, obviously don’t count).
The desire to know he’s being talked about is more of a source of ejaculation potential than analog banging ever could be (because how can a “man’s” ego possibly be fortified by his fucking skills these days?). “I didn’t see that article come up in my Google notifications,” he’ll admit unabashedly when someone mentions they saw something about him on the internet recently. It’s the kind of exchange that tends only to occur in New York, where everyone keeps track of everyone for the sake of knowing where their place is on the insignificant totem pole called “talentless microcosm.”
The “man” who needs to be notified of being “eloquently discussed” by some middling “publication” (non-ink laden with typos and grammatical errors, as it were) is clearly clinging to whatever bread crumbs of relevancy he can in order to stave off the unshakeable thought that he is just as irrelevant and meaningless as he knows himself to be deep down. But with the “frequency” of Google alerts, he can help perpetuate the fallacy of self-importance that his Asian girlfriend can only do so much to support as one person. It is the foremost tool of modern “fame” that has been perhaps one of the greatest contributors to the deterioration in quality of art. Because if you’re only in it to see how many times your name crops up in some crevice of the internet, how can you possibly create something enduring? What’s more, high-level fame (the Madonna tier) does not require one to be notified of their “many” achievements if there are enough to lose track of.
“Men” have almost too many bizarre behaviors to fully track and monitor in an epoch that has only recently gone truly hog wild on mocking them for their weirdness, but among one of the more overt peculiarities is his unabashedness in watching a girl’s Instagram story every day for the rest of her life despite having flagrantly fucked her over.
How he might have slighted her could have occurred in any number of ways, from arbitrarily deciding to ghost her to giving her an STD (since, apparently, that’s happening a lot more frequently these days). Whatever the case may have been, it was surely cause for any normal human being not pretending to have a penis to feel at least some modicum of shame. Not so for a “man,” a gender evidently born without the mechanism required to imbue him with any sense of guilt or humiliation when blatantly destroying another’s ability to ever trust, and by default, love again. No matter to him. He’ll still watch your Instagram story. Not for any reason that could possibly be clear to anyone but himself. And even that might be a stretch, for the only actions a “man” seems to be cognizant of is shoveling his face full of slop and ejaculating (from any number of holes when taking into account the former activity). Both of which he can (and likely will) do while watching your Instagram story.
One understands that, more than ever in this day and age, whenever a “man” miraculously consents to be pinned down via the binding ties of marriage, he’s probably especially prone to castration and other “light” methods of the gradual chopping off of his entire remaining wang. Even so, it is still difficult to fathom his ability to surrender all control over his dignity by consenting to partake of shameful photos that are really just intended to make the “unattached” women in his fiancée’s life feel bad about themselves.
Sure, maybe a standard-issue couple photo featuring the two against some tritely idyllic backdrop could pass for the “man” at least having some say in the matter. But when it reaches the level of intricacy that only a female could be responsible for (e.g. posing as an infinity circle on the floor together dressed in flesh-colored bodysuits for some reason or, worse yet, in the shape of a heart in red bodysuits), you have to wonder if there’s something particularly brilliant she must be doing to his nub behind closed doors to get him to relinquish all forms of self-respect in public. But alas, no probably not–for “men” get aroused by nothing more in this life, it would seem, than the type of basique who posts shit about tiles while in Lisbon. It is for love of this type of melba that he will let all sense of former honor for the self fly out the window of his bachelor pad and into the carefully decorated (but still somehow banal) mortgage payment-heavy home he must now share with his new wife. And it is a transition, a death of the soul (if a “man” can ever be deemed so generously as even having one to begin with), that the clearly non-discerning “male” feels (or perhaps doesn’t feel at all) inclined to immortalize in humiliating photo form. Because behind the words “I do” also, apparently, lingers the fine print, “I do…agree to spend an exorbitant sum of money to make my fiancée feel like she can at least pretend there’s anything straight about me even though she’s wielding me like a Barbie doll for her own sadistic dress up purposes and scenario creation pleasure.”
Even though it’s a commonly held belief that women are nothing but mere receptacles for the pleasure release of “men,” it does not mean that they should be subjected to the shameless and free-flowing “requests” (a euphemism for demands) of the “male,” and all the strange predilections his psyche can muster. Of which there are many, especially when taking into account the fact that “men” so often suppress their true fancies from an early age, made to feel by both their overbearing mothers and society itself that even something as vanilla as wanting a finger up the ass now and again is pure taboo.
With such forms of stifled yearning ingrained within the “average” “man,” can it be any wonder, then, that the second he loses inhibitions (the way one only can when his clothes are off and his alcohol intake met) long enough, he suddenly feels all too comfortable to make such very specific demands as, “Can you hold my balls while we fuck?” Uh, yeah, sure. Whatever works, you fucking weirdo. The fact that a “man” is so relaxed in expressing his strange brand of needs for orgasming so readily at the outset is not only telling of how often women are viewed as merely a means to an end, but also of how he’s clearly been champing at the bit to see how one woman reacts over another to whatever his bizarre whim is.
While it’s all perfectly on the level to engage in the quid pro quo acrobatic antics it can sometimes take to get off, it’s generally more appealing when these barking insistences are made to someone that a “man” is actually in a relationship with. Then again, thanks to the alive and well Madonna/whore complex, it is too frequently the case that a “man” feels he could never entreat a girl that he would be with monogamously to do such “freaky” things as the butter churner position (which, by the way, is a position best loved by the “male” who particularly enjoys manifesting the female as a human trash can).
Like many “concepts” favoring the championing of the non-real and intangible, air guitar seems to find enthusiasm among those who aren’t really capable of doing anything that actually creates something. Other than a breeze if you happen to be walking by their hands whilst they’re “playing” whatever little song they imagine in their head (what else could it be other than something from the Pete Wentz classification of “rock”?). For some reason, this practice seems to be most especially relished by “men” (though let us not forget Nanami “Seven Seas” Nagura claiming the title of Air Guitar World Champion in 2014). Maybe it has something to do with the symbolic fact that they don’t actually want to hold or touch anything–least of all a woman–lest it means they remain saddled with it (gasp! potentially for the rest of their lives).
What’s more, how can someone actually stand there, so shamelessly in front of a public, making masturbatory movements with their hands and call it anything other than comfortableness with delusion? Which, yes, “men” are far more comfortable with than women, made evident by their ability to act as though everything is fine without displaying any signs of going off the rails as a female would (e.g. the classic go-to of head-shaving)–other than, say, playing air guitar and acting like it’s completely normal to stand on a stage and be judged in such categories as “mimesmanship.” To that point, “men” are quite good at miming, exhibiting the capability to go through motions with such conviction as to almost make you believe there’s any sense of emotion behind that sweaty and unkempt chaff they call their body. But there’s not. And no amount of air guitar “playing” can make it otherwise. So please keep the practice where it belongs: in the privacy of the room in your parents’ house they were kind enough to give back to you or in the decade of the 1980s.
There still somehow exist many “men” that would like the ghost of Reagan to possess–even fuck–them (Jack Donaghy being the most overt example). When considering that we do not, unfortunately, live in the 1980s, and the stock market/Wall Street isn’t some enviable institution to be a part of signifying the promise of wealth and class ascension as it once used to, it really is quite an anomaly. And not the good kind. Like karaoke in Italy or whirling dervishes outside of Turkey.
Rather than being evocative of a “go-getter” or a hard-working “provider,” the “man” who regularly checks his stock app is not only a complete freak (and not even in a way that translates into decent sex antics) but also a cold, soulless being that will stare right through you like one of the graphs or charts indicating financial gain or lack thereof. You might initially get taken in by this type of “male” because you are transfixed by the notion of a person with a conventional job who does not spin you that yarn about relying on the gig economy as a millennial. But this is before you see him actually looking at the stock app. More than once a day. Not only is it a classic case of phubbing, but also a strong indication that if his attention is this focused solely on dollars now, it’s not going to change, and you’re probably not even going to reap the rewards of his fortune anyway when considering he will likely make you sign a prenup. Because yes, white “men” of this “caliber” do still get married, it’s part of the yuppie legacy instilled within them by their progenitors, Reagan, perhaps being one of them.
Of course, you could try to pry the phone from his clammy, dead hands to delete the app, but you might have better luck petitioning to get Reagan’s face on a piece of U.S. currency.
Just as it is with film, so it is with books that “men” of an often pretentious nature have a very specific arsenal of go-to recommendations tailored toward impressing women that they think are intellectually inferior anyway. From Raymond Chandler to Gunter Grass, the “man” with the book recommendations is calculated in his choices, wanting to be just esoteric enough, but not so obscure that the girl he’s trying to impress is made to feel totally stupid. Because heaven forbid she could actually know anything beyond what was suggested to her based on titles she’s viewed or purchased on Amazon. Or even be cognizant of what “true literature” (code for: written by a blowhard) really is.
And while the novice sort of female, the kind who is usually too young and not well-read enough to know better (this is, in point of fact, just one of two reasons why “men” have a predilection for zygotes), might be impressed by the “sweet nothings” not so much whispered as touted in the form of his literary knowledge, those who have been through it all before at this point will know that the best approach to “listening” is simply nodding along as best as you can without eye-rolling. Letting him have the orgasmic satisfaction of believing that you believe that he hasn’t recommended these same exact novels to every other pussy that has had the misfortune of entering his con artist life. That this is “custom content,” if you will–reading advice given purely from a place of wanting to suggest something tailored to your personality and interests, when, in reality, it’s about his own self-validation. You’re so smart, [insert white guy name here]. You’re so worldly, [insert white guy name here]. And before you know it, he’s cum all over the books he’s peddling toward you.
While everyone knows that Tinder can be quite depressing and lead to nothing more than a burning sensation as opposed to a burning desire, it doesn’t mean that a “man” should take the often desperate measure of turning to his female roommate for penile solace. Because it’s so “evolved” and “mature” for “men” and women to live together as sexless beings in the present (this would never have happened in the world depicted by Mona Lisa Smile). But this notion of “sexlessness” remains a ruse, a lie we tell ourselves to help corroborate George Orwell’s 1984 prophecies. And unlike Winston claiming, “It was always the women” who are responsible for “men’s” troubles, who initiate sex, in most instances of roommate dalliances, it is always the “bloke” who manages to capitalize on a drunken evening.
Not thinking that perhaps this is going to offer some awkward and unwieldy consequences in the morning and in subsequent days, the “male” roommate simply lives in the moment of ephemeral pleasure as his mother helped condition him to. The roommate with the misfortune of having a vagina, try as she might, cannot help but feel a weird possessiveness in the future when the “boy” who banged her out of a combination boredom and necessity does manages to find someone outside of the apartment to bring back and fuck. It can really make for an emotional rollercoaster in one’s already unpleasant living space (for all living spaces are unpleasant when you live in Brooklyn on a paltry 60K-70K a year–yes, it’s disgusting that that much money amounts to a penny in NYC). But the “male” roommate cares not about destroying what is meant to be the only safe space in a city that thrives on mental warfare. He cares only for convenience. And what could be more so than a vag right next to him on the bed bug-ridden couch scooped up from the street or bought for too much at a “vintage” store?
And fluid takes a human form in “men” who wear belly chains. Currently trending in the world of “men’s” jewelry and fashion is this emblem of being a 90s woman or early 00s era Christina Aguilera. No one knows how or why “men” suddenly decided they wanted to graft sartorial inspiration from women, especially considering how much they seem to despise them in every other regard, but one can trace its most blatant recent origins to 2017, with “men” all in a frenzy (I will not make the pun “gaga” to reference the perpetual infantile state of “man”–especially since Lady Gaga further ruined the use of that word) over “male” rompers a.k.a. romphim. From there, it was only going to be a quick ride into the territory of belly chains.
The appropriation–yes, use of the term is warranted–of belly chains ultimately by Western white women from Indian history does not need to be appropriated by white “men” as well. In Trump’s America, there’s only room for one gender of the Caucasian persuasion to steal blatantly from another culture and it damn sure shouldn’t be anyone sporting what amounts to little better than a protruding clitoris. Of course, no “man” can adhere to rules either written or unspoken, so here we are with the belly chains of “men’s” pale blanco stomachs shoved up in our faces as our heads are forced down to where life does not begin so much as ends in tears (of sperm) and all at once you just want to gag yourself with the chain at the same time as the cum runs down your throat. All the while, he’s looking for an award for his accessorizing brilliance and you’re just over here like:
As confusion as to which century we’re in continues to mount, DJ Khaled’s recent comments on a radio interview about not feeling obliged to give the mother of his child head because he pays the bills harkens back to The Sopranos. Because everything always does. With DJ Khaled blissfully oblivious to the fact that he’s about to overtake Kanye West’s “slavery was a choice” headlines, he comments without even the slightest impression of a second thought, “I believe a woman should praise the man, you know. The king. If you holdin’ it down for your woman, I feel like the woman should praise…and the man should praise the queen–but you know, my way of praising…hahaha…it’s called ‘How was dinner? You like the house you livin’ in? You like all the clothes you gettin’? I’m takin’ care of your family, takin’ care of my family–you know, puttin’ in the work.” One of the hosts of The Breakfast Club on NYC’s Power 105 then summed up, “So you’re sayin’ you don’t go down.” DJ Khaled flatly returns, “Naaaaa. Never.”
For those of you who have still somehow never seen The Sopranos (go start watching it now because it remains forever relevant), this mentality is directly helmed from mafia dons and members in general and Tony Soprano in particular. As the capo of the DiMeo crime family, Tony still technically cedes the best title to his uncle, Corrado Soprano, a man who actually calls very few of the shots. The lack of respect Tony feels for him is further augmented when he hears rumors about Corrado’s current girlfriend, who has talked up his generous oral sex abilities in the bedroom to other women. And, of course, when Corrado finds out that people are talking, he scolds his girlfriend for telling others, explaining to her that it’s a sign of weakness for a man to give a woman pleasure in this way. DJ Khaled, who also apparently sees himself as a mafia don despite the fact that the only way in which he resembles one is in girth (not of the penis kind, mind you), adds to his grave-digging interview, “You gotta understand I’m the don, I’m the king… It’s different rules for men. You gotta understand you know, like, we the king. There’s some things that y’all might not wanna do–it gotta get done. I just can’t do what you want me to do.” Shit, even Tony gave Carmela head once a year for her birthday (an occasion Angela Yee also brings up to Khaled as an important time to make a concession about one’s usual misogyny). And even Ricky Ricardo probably had more evolved views about how to treat his wife (especially considering Lucy held the key to his secured American citizenship. No one was gonna give him a work visa for “Babalu.”). In any case, one supposes Khaled’s “queen,” Nicole Tuck, might be getting some terrible head pretty soon as a result of this backlash. Meanwhile, Rihanna male alliances continue to prove fatal. Because diamonds are nothin’ when you’re not getting head from the person bestowing them upon you.