Timing.
For such a simple word, it sure can fuck things up, and with serious flair. I had a taste of just how horrible the power of timing is this very summer, when I had a brief but intense affair with a man who was and is not single. And yeah, that was a bitter fucking pill to swallow, knowing how different things could have been had we met 5 months sooner. But goddamn, nothing could have prepared me for what happened to me 3 weekends ago, when I casually hung out with the love of my life.
It probably surprises some, if not most, people to know that I have a love of my life. Because yeah, it's true, I’m a sexual fucking beast, a serial non-monogamist, a wild child; so believe me, I understand the incredulousness towards such a strong statement. However, it's true: when I was 22, I met “Dean”. I haven't written about him before, nor our incredible relationship, though I have verbally summed up the then-affair for close friends. But even in those oral recounts, the details of the intense love and connection that I shared with Dean isn’t usually what people remember about the story. It’s the fact I was simultaneously carrying on a relationship with another man. That all three of us knew each other due to work-related connections. That I had to kind of keep both of them a secret from the other. Oh, and the other man was kind of Dean's boss. And they were both kind of older than I was. say, 19 years for Dean and 30 years for the other man. So it was all sort of, oh, what’s the word, kind of fucking ridiculous.
By the time summer was over (this all started in very early spring of that year), it all came to a head when both of them wanted me to move in with them, marry them, and in Dean’s case, bear him a child.
GUYS, I WAS FUCKING 22.
I was not super lost in life, per se, but I knew I was definitely not ready to embark down that path. I mean; if you’ve read my stories, you know I had a hell of a lot of oats to sow. So, I did what I knew and instinctually felt that I had to do.
It was easy enough to break things off with the Other Man. Yes, I did share a lovely connection with him as well, but I did not love him. Plus, he was painfully older than I was, which was starting to feel more and more awkward when we were out and people would stare. Ultimately, Other Man was really more of a - how do I put this delicately - “novelty experience” for me (read: serious sugar daddy.) By mid-July, the pseudo-romance had run its course, and I ended our relationship.
Dean, on the other hand, was a revelation. I don’t know how important the details are of how we got together. All I know is that my life, nor I, have ever been the same since. Within a week of first talking, as just friends of course, he KNEW me. I had never met a man who was able to get me, dissect me, understand me, to such a capacity and with such astuteness. I was a bit blown away, but I wasn’t scared. In truth, it was probably so easy for him because he and I were astoundingly similar people. Even then, I remember thinking, damn, he and I are the SAME PERSON - he just happens to be an older man. We went on to share an absolutely magical few months together - like I said, he wanted marriage, babies, me for life - but I wasn’t ready. I told him that if I did commit to all those things, I already knew that 10 years down the road I would grow to resent him. I told him that I had too much life I wanted to live on my own, things I wanted to do. I still needed to truly discover and understand who I was as a person. So, I broke things off with him, too.
It was fairly devastating, and within months, I was reaching back out to him.
We met for dinner one late autumn evening, at our restaurant. I confessed though I wasn’t ready for certain things, I missed him too much. I told him I loved him and wanted to try to make it work. He sighed and said that I had been right though, that ending things was the best and smartest decision for both of our long-term happiness. I left the dinner in a daze, not sure how to feel. How could I love someone so much yet not be able to give him what he wanted and needed? But I knew, deep down, that my initial instinct and decision was the right one, as much as it sucked. So, I accepted, eventually and 30 pounds of weight gain later, that this was it.
Within two years, he was married to someone else, and they had had a child together.
I guess I should have felt rebuffed, like maybe it wasn’t me he wanted, but simply marriage and kids in general. But even if that had been true, for years, he continued to remain all too presently in my heart. I dubbed him the “one that got away”, and my thoughts were constantly consumed by him, by the loss of us.
Over time, it got covered up and buried by layers of new loves, new men, new experiences. But I never forgot him. It was impossible to. Even something as small as those rare moments he would reach out to me on Facebook, even if just to wish me a happy birthday, my heart would race and my breath would momentarily halt. I didn’t want to read in between the few and sparse lines in his messages, but I couldn’t help but secretly hope that that meant he missed me, too. That maybe he still loved me and I was for him, what he was for me, all these years. But it never became anything. He would simply not respond to my responses.
Then, about a month ago now, he invited me out to a bar crawl. I had work late, and a baby shower early, with a few hours to kill in between. So I accepted the invitation.
It had been 8 years since we had seen each other, let alone had a full on conversation. Enough time had passed, and enough dicks had been sucked, that all my subconscious / conscious hopes that maybe this meant SOMETHING had been dulled-down, and finally and fully put aside. I had long since accepted his marriage and come to terms that we were not ever going to be together. So I got to the bar he said they were at, fully expecting to, a) meet his wife, and b) 40-50 people to be there.
Ummm, it was him and one other guy, a best friend/neighbor of his who I had known while Dean and I dated.
I was confused, thinking I missed the crawl. When I inquired, Dean replied it was just them the whole time. I responded with, “Do you know what a bar crawl is?” And then he said something that I thought was surely a joke at first, “Don’t you know this was all just an excuse to see you?” I was flabbergasted. And you KNOW I really was fucking flabbergasted, because I NEVER USE THAT WORD. “Wait, what?” I said, half-laughing, half-choking on my breath and trying not pass out. “Yeah,” he said, totally matter-of-fact and unabashedly, “You know you're a part of me, right? You’re a piece of me. Right here, always.” and pointed to his heart. I was, I’m sure, gaping like a fish, with my half-raised glass of Jameson frozen mid-air in my halted hand. He continued, “I was completely enamored with you. You were my whole life for a time, my whole existence. I didn’t know how to get over you. You’re the one that got away.” Well, right then and there, you could've knocked me over with a feather. I know it took, what, 5 seconds, tops, for my ears to hear and register this declaration, but it felt like a decade once the words got in there because my mind and heart were completely overwhelmed. It was like time stopped in our immediate vicinity, yet continued to move at normal speed beyond our two-person globe. Those words, those words that echoed every sentiment that had rang in my own heart and soul for him for a near-decade, the words I had for 8 years longed to hear but didn’t deign to hope for, were just uttered by his lips. Here they were. Here he was, saying he felt the same I felt for him, that he missed me too, that I was for him what he was for me. And it was the strangest thing.
We all have our friends tell us not to read into texts, calls, whatevers, from ex’s. That it’s all fantasy, an ideal, and not the reality. And for years, I told myself not to do that with him, with his abbreviated and blunt Facebook messages and random, rare comments on my statuses. And yet, every hope I had buried and convinced myself would be silly to believe in, was now here, being professed to me. I honestly did not know how to handle it.
But really, it didnt even matter. The next few hours were pure electricity. We may not have seen each other for 8 years, but it was as if it had only been since yesterday. We’re two peas in a pod, Dean and I; always were, always will be. He, Neighbor Guy, and I shortly thereafter left that bar and hit the town. It was a hilarious night, filled with crazy bartenders named Guido grabbing my butt, bar hopping, getting stoned off our asses from some ridiculously good weed in a cab ride, stumbling into some weird West Village haunt for burgers and fries, and me having to dash off in an Uber to get to work on time. It was a lifetime in those 2 hours, and a beautifully sad and wonderful realization of how powerful we are together, and how that was probably the one last, little window of joy we will share.
Afterwards, I was in euphoria; it lasted nearly a week. But, it wasn’t quite euphoria. I couldn’t, and still cannot, place the feeling. It was closure, in the sense that I learned my feelings were requited. It was rejoicing, in reconnecting with a soul mate. It was sadness, in knowing that though I am ready now for what I was not ready for at 22, that is no longer something Dean and I can have. Though we are, were, and will always be incredible together, us as a couple is a future that simply does not exist in reality. It was happiness, in knowing that someone out there loved and continues to love me in that star-crossed, storybook, Frank-Sinatra-and-Ava-Garnder way that I always dreamed of. But I couldn’t think of a simple, single word to capture that rush of emotions into one. I don’t know if one exists.
What I did know, even that night, was that I didn't have to convince myself that Dean and I will never be together. I know he adores, and is devoted to, his wife and child. But I did have to try to understand why this night happened; why we reconnected and why he was brought back into my life, even if for a few absolutely perfect hours.
The only explanation I could come up with (other than me accepting his “bar crawl” invite, duh) was that I must have been in need of some perspective on my love life. I don’t want to say that after seeing Dean that night, that I looked back on the past 8 years of my romantic involvements and realized it was all a fucking joke. But yeah, I kinda looked back on the past 8 years of my romantic involvements and realized it was all a fucking joke. Here’s the thing: when I was 22, Dean made an indelible mark on my life and soul. He was the first man, even the first person, that made me realize what I am looking for in a life partner: someone who accepts and appreciates the entirety of my being, the good and the terrible, no matter what. No one had ever given me that before. He was also the first man that made me even realize that I am looking for things in a man, outside of sex, that there are other things that I need and want in a relationship.
After we ended, I certainly did not forget that, but I think over time, definitely in recent years, I sort of forgot what that real magic feels like, and I was willing to overlook what’s important to me for the merest semblance of that feeling. Being with Dean that night slapped me in the face that way. It sharpened my clouded, blurred vision and put me back on track: THAT is what I am looking for, that connection and chemistry, and not just with anyone, but with the right one, someone who is actually a good person. THAT is how I want to be treated; like a lady, with care, with love and adoration til it’s coming out of both our ears, and not to make concessions or sacrifices. THAT is what I want to share- that banter, that wit, no holds barred and no fear, understanding each other and appreciating every second that we have together, because we both appreciate and accept who the other person is.
This is something I’ve known for some time now, but my night with Dean sort of reaffirmed it: just because they are the love of your life, does not mean you physically spend your lives together. I know that is the unfortunate case for Dean and myself; I’ve tried to cry about it since then, and find that I cannot bring myself to tears. Because that knowledge doesn’t have to be sad, tragic, or something to mourn; experiencing something that incredible and special is something to be treasured and something to fill your heart, not break it. Some people are lucky; they get the timing right and spend their lives in every way with that person. But if you happen to be one of the unlucky bastards who doesn’t, let the experience fill you and build you. It’s a pretty wonderful thing knowing that you and another person will always be a part of each other, in a beautiful and indelible way.
Wednesday, December 2, 2015
Tuesday, August 18, 2015
What's Slut Got To Do With It?
Time and time again, people (men mostly) have had some choice words to say about/to me regarding my sex life, or at least my openness about it. So frequently have I been called the very original term of "slut", the slightly more cruel-sounding "whore", and have even had past hookups and boyfriends openly tell me they get tested after being with me, that it has become, very sadly, routine. Some of you might say that I shouldn't be surprised, considering what I choose to write about. And maybe you're right, maybe I should expect that these judgements come with the territory of sleeping with many men and penning the experiences. But it sucks, because I write what I write:
a) to entertain, and
b) to give people a real, true, and brutally honest in-depth look as to what a woman really thinks, what women really do, and how they genuinely feel when it comes to sex and dating.
Many women may not tell you this, but I can fucking promise you, I am not in the minority when it comes to having a casual-sex sex life.
What I've come to realize though, is the minority I AM part of is that of women who have a casual sex life - because they actually enjoy sex. However, even that seems to still boggle peoples brains to an extent that makes me squint my eyes to try and understand their small-mindedness. But, this piece is not about the people are who stupid and annoy me. This piece is about defining what a "slut" ACTUALLY is. Because as much as I may fuck around, and as much as I'm open about it all, "slut" has absolutely nothing, NOTHING, to do with it.
THE BEGINNING OF THE JOURNEY
A couple of years ago, when my work started to become more popular and, in effect, I started dealing with more negative reactions, was really when I started to want to define this word people kept calling me, this "slut" nonsense. According to the reactions to me and my blog, any woman who has sex at all, is a slut. Hahahahahahahaha. Sorry, but that was and is still hilarious to me that people are so insane when it comes to a woman being sexually liberated. I went through many phases over the course of the years, reacting differently to these reactions that I and my writing were inciting in others. I would get angry, or I would cry, or I would joke about it and laugh it about it all. Mostly, I would always get angry again. But ultimately, I remained puzzled. I began to try to piece together: what, in fact, IS a slut? Am I really one?
In the early stages of this journey, I thought, oh, a clever piece or Top Ten about "Things Sluts Say" might be funny. I was bored at work one night, and started to write it out. A couple of coworkers even joined in, and we all had a good laugh at the expense of slutty sayings. Because damn, the ludicrous things sluts say are really fucking funny:
1) Oh my god, I never do this
2) I am only doing this because I'm drunk
3) I never sleep with guys on the first date
4) I'm not that kind of girl
5) I only hang out with guys
And so on. (There were a bunch of others, but I couldn't find the original written copy and, after tearing my room apart for 20 minutes, I gave up. These five examples were the gist of it though.)
Well, as hilarious (and accurate) as that list may be, it didn't really help me define the term "slut" itself. That list may be the stupid, false words that come out of a slut's mouth before a dick goes in it, sure. But as to what a slut actually IS, that list...not so much. So, if even I didn't know how to define it, was everyone else in on something that I clearly out of the loop of? How were so many people calling me this word, this word that I was pretty damn sure they couldn't define properly if I had asked them? Was it really that simple? Is a slut just a person who has casual sex, sex maybe without emotions, certainly without love? A person who can fuck on a first date, and has done so, often? A person that has more than 30...40...50 partners in their lifetime? A person who maybe doesn't remember last names of past partners, sometimes not even first names? That seems so...unfair, and come on...be real, that's pretty much almost all of you.
A DIFFERENT JOURNEY THAT TIES IN TO THE FIRST JOURNEY AND SOLVES EVERYTHING
The answer didn't arrive until a couple of years later, during the course of a separate project. As many of you know, that was when I went through the now-infamous "100 Days Without Wang". During that experiment, if you haven't read it, I took a deeper plunge into myself than I ever thought possible. (I will dispense with the potential masturbation and/or dick jokes, because that project made me grow and evolve, DAMN IT.) It helped me to understand my patterns, and relationship, with and to both men and sex. I had to face a lot of harsh truths about my younger self, and my self back during the project. Those realizations helped me to move forward to be able to be ready to fully love and open up towards a man- beyond the shallow surface of sex, jokes, and "honeymoon phase" fun. The kicker was, even with all the things I learned about myself, it was never, ever that I used sex for validation, or because I thought it was what men want, or because I needed acceptance and I thought sex would provide that. Despite all my personal issues, I always had sex because holy shit, I love sex, I love men, and I love combining the two. I could talk for DAYS about it; I mean, clearly. After the project ended and I jumped back on the wagon (fell off the wagon? Eh, jumped on works better, euphemism-wise), it was some time before I felt the need to go back to addressing this "slut" dilemma. I had come to a conclusion over the course of that 100 Days project, but hadn't felt a need to write about it or be vocal about it anymore. Why? Because no one was calling me negative...anythings, anymore. I think, I hope, that through my writing about that sex-free journey, people finally, finally understood "it". I hope that was why they understood me, why they understood what I am attempting to do through my writing. I hope it was now why they better understood women, why they finally fucking get it that it's okay for women to feel and think about sex, to desire it, and to talk about it if they want to. It wasn't until recently, tonight actually, that I thought, shit, this...again? People calling me a whore...again? Granted, it was commentary on a Facebook status, so who knows, maybe it was meant in jest. But still, it filled me with a instant need to put this to rest, once and for all.
AND...THE ANSWER
What I concluded was, a slut yes, fucks around, yada yada yada, all those things you'd think. But, the difference between a sexually liberated woman and a slut is: self-awareness.
If you look back to that list from earlier, there's a pattern there. Every single one of them is an excuse, a justification, a lie, a crutch, something for them to hide their behavior behind. A sexually liberated woman doesn't hide behind SHIT. She doesn't excuse her actions, she doesn't apologize for them, and fuck you if you think she should. Actually, no, she would never fuck you if you're that much of an idiot that you think a slut is a woman who simply sleeps around and should be ashamed.
But, then there's a slut.
A slut is someone who sleeps around a lot, too, but they do it for all the wrong reasons. They have zero understanding of who they REALLY are. They sleep around and I bet, they don't even know why. They almost NEED to say those things on that list because they themselves don't even know their own truth. They have sex for validation, for acceptance, because it's how they think they will get men to like them and even stick around. They have sex because they think its what they should be doing, and that its what makes them sexy. I can almost guarantee you, most of them don't even enjoy sex. They may seem like it, in the moment, because its probably the one place in their life where they feel (as false as it may be) wanted and appreciated. But after its over, they feel empty and, well, like shit. Or maybe they don't, if its so bad that they are at the point where they can't even recognize or know that they feel that way. Because let's be real: one of the hardest things about the human experience is facing who we really are, and how we really feel. To lower the blinders, lift the veil, and to face our selves and our truth is one of the most painful, yet rewarding, things we can do. A sexually liberated woman has done that. They know themselves and their truth. They are having sex because they choose to, and because they love sex, too. Know the difference, and don't be bitter because someone is getting laid more than you.
a) to entertain, and
b) to give people a real, true, and brutally honest in-depth look as to what a woman really thinks, what women really do, and how they genuinely feel when it comes to sex and dating.
Many women may not tell you this, but I can fucking promise you, I am not in the minority when it comes to having a casual-sex sex life.
What I've come to realize though, is the minority I AM part of is that of women who have a casual sex life - because they actually enjoy sex. However, even that seems to still boggle peoples brains to an extent that makes me squint my eyes to try and understand their small-mindedness. But, this piece is not about the people are who stupid and annoy me. This piece is about defining what a "slut" ACTUALLY is. Because as much as I may fuck around, and as much as I'm open about it all, "slut" has absolutely nothing, NOTHING, to do with it.
THE BEGINNING OF THE JOURNEY
A couple of years ago, when my work started to become more popular and, in effect, I started dealing with more negative reactions, was really when I started to want to define this word people kept calling me, this "slut" nonsense. According to the reactions to me and my blog, any woman who has sex at all, is a slut. Hahahahahahahaha. Sorry, but that was and is still hilarious to me that people are so insane when it comes to a woman being sexually liberated. I went through many phases over the course of the years, reacting differently to these reactions that I and my writing were inciting in others. I would get angry, or I would cry, or I would joke about it and laugh it about it all. Mostly, I would always get angry again. But ultimately, I remained puzzled. I began to try to piece together: what, in fact, IS a slut? Am I really one?
In the early stages of this journey, I thought, oh, a clever piece or Top Ten about "Things Sluts Say" might be funny. I was bored at work one night, and started to write it out. A couple of coworkers even joined in, and we all had a good laugh at the expense of slutty sayings. Because damn, the ludicrous things sluts say are really fucking funny:
1) Oh my god, I never do this
2) I am only doing this because I'm drunk
3) I never sleep with guys on the first date
4) I'm not that kind of girl
5) I only hang out with guys
And so on. (There were a bunch of others, but I couldn't find the original written copy and, after tearing my room apart for 20 minutes, I gave up. These five examples were the gist of it though.)
Well, as hilarious (and accurate) as that list may be, it didn't really help me define the term "slut" itself. That list may be the stupid, false words that come out of a slut's mouth before a dick goes in it, sure. But as to what a slut actually IS, that list...not so much. So, if even I didn't know how to define it, was everyone else in on something that I clearly out of the loop of? How were so many people calling me this word, this word that I was pretty damn sure they couldn't define properly if I had asked them? Was it really that simple? Is a slut just a person who has casual sex, sex maybe without emotions, certainly without love? A person who can fuck on a first date, and has done so, often? A person that has more than 30...40...50 partners in their lifetime? A person who maybe doesn't remember last names of past partners, sometimes not even first names? That seems so...unfair, and come on...be real, that's pretty much almost all of you.
A DIFFERENT JOURNEY THAT TIES IN TO THE FIRST JOURNEY AND SOLVES EVERYTHING
The answer didn't arrive until a couple of years later, during the course of a separate project. As many of you know, that was when I went through the now-infamous "100 Days Without Wang". During that experiment, if you haven't read it, I took a deeper plunge into myself than I ever thought possible. (I will dispense with the potential masturbation and/or dick jokes, because that project made me grow and evolve, DAMN IT.) It helped me to understand my patterns, and relationship, with and to both men and sex. I had to face a lot of harsh truths about my younger self, and my self back during the project. Those realizations helped me to move forward to be able to be ready to fully love and open up towards a man- beyond the shallow surface of sex, jokes, and "honeymoon phase" fun. The kicker was, even with all the things I learned about myself, it was never, ever that I used sex for validation, or because I thought it was what men want, or because I needed acceptance and I thought sex would provide that. Despite all my personal issues, I always had sex because holy shit, I love sex, I love men, and I love combining the two. I could talk for DAYS about it; I mean, clearly. After the project ended and I jumped back on the wagon (fell off the wagon? Eh, jumped on works better, euphemism-wise), it was some time before I felt the need to go back to addressing this "slut" dilemma. I had come to a conclusion over the course of that 100 Days project, but hadn't felt a need to write about it or be vocal about it anymore. Why? Because no one was calling me negative...anythings, anymore. I think, I hope, that through my writing about that sex-free journey, people finally, finally understood "it". I hope that was why they understood me, why they understood what I am attempting to do through my writing. I hope it was now why they better understood women, why they finally fucking get it that it's okay for women to feel and think about sex, to desire it, and to talk about it if they want to. It wasn't until recently, tonight actually, that I thought, shit, this...again? People calling me a whore...again? Granted, it was commentary on a Facebook status, so who knows, maybe it was meant in jest. But still, it filled me with a instant need to put this to rest, once and for all.
AND...THE ANSWER
What I concluded was, a slut yes, fucks around, yada yada yada, all those things you'd think. But, the difference between a sexually liberated woman and a slut is: self-awareness.
If you look back to that list from earlier, there's a pattern there. Every single one of them is an excuse, a justification, a lie, a crutch, something for them to hide their behavior behind. A sexually liberated woman doesn't hide behind SHIT. She doesn't excuse her actions, she doesn't apologize for them, and fuck you if you think she should. Actually, no, she would never fuck you if you're that much of an idiot that you think a slut is a woman who simply sleeps around and should be ashamed.
But, then there's a slut.
A slut is someone who sleeps around a lot, too, but they do it for all the wrong reasons. They have zero understanding of who they REALLY are. They sleep around and I bet, they don't even know why. They almost NEED to say those things on that list because they themselves don't even know their own truth. They have sex for validation, for acceptance, because it's how they think they will get men to like them and even stick around. They have sex because they think its what they should be doing, and that its what makes them sexy. I can almost guarantee you, most of them don't even enjoy sex. They may seem like it, in the moment, because its probably the one place in their life where they feel (as false as it may be) wanted and appreciated. But after its over, they feel empty and, well, like shit. Or maybe they don't, if its so bad that they are at the point where they can't even recognize or know that they feel that way. Because let's be real: one of the hardest things about the human experience is facing who we really are, and how we really feel. To lower the blinders, lift the veil, and to face our selves and our truth is one of the most painful, yet rewarding, things we can do. A sexually liberated woman has done that. They know themselves and their truth. They are having sex because they choose to, and because they love sex, too. Know the difference, and don't be bitter because someone is getting laid more than you.
Thursday, May 28, 2015
The Rapid Diminishment of The "Man's Man"
So, those of you who know me, either from real life, Facebook, or last week's Elite Daily publication of my article, know that an article of mine was published... and COMPLETE FUCKING MADNESS ensued. People lost their shit over what I wrote, on a level that was hard for me to bear. In truth, this was only upsetting to me because, aside from the insanely brutal personal attacks from the readers, it wasn't even the article I submitted. My piece had undergone massive edits, all without my approval, and I was pretty fucking pissed at the complete butchery of my words. It was the first time I put my work in someone else's hands, and I had always believed that an editor does their best to make what they edit refined, clean, and the best version of what it can be. Sadly, that was not the case with this article. I understand that publications like Elite cater to a certain audience, and choose subject matter and titles that will make them *click* to read. But I never imagined, when they accept an article and publish it, that they would remove the writer's voice, and instead mold whatever the piece was to fit what they think will get more readers. Incredibly naive of me, I know, but I like to think my writing voice is appealing enough that it doesn't need dumbing down or editing in a way to make it attract more readers. So aside from changing the title, they also successfully extracted what my writing narrative voice is, and that in turn made the article seem like an attack, a mindless raving lunatic rant, rather than a conversation. And that sucked, because it should have opened the doors to having a discussion that should be had, and kinda needs to be had. But you know what? At the end of the day, as much as people fucking hated it, partially because it was an opinion piece and everyone hates people who have the ability to put their (often menial and stupid) opinions online, EVERYONE had something to say about this topic. And that (even though the bulk of it was pretty much skewering me) is ultimately what I dream of accomplishing with my writing. Yes, my first attempt was, well, a complete disaster in this regard. I hope now, that in my future work, it will lead to positive and constructive conversation about provocative topics, instead of everyone just losing their fucking minds in comment sections. At the request of many, and the necessity for my sanity (and to keep my name in the right light), here is what I ACTUALLY wrote, with the ACTUAL title.
Without further ado, I present to you the real "The Rapid Diminishment of the Man's Man":
As I look around, I seem to find myself drowning in a sea jam-packed with, oh, how do I say this - I believe Katt Williams describes them as "bitch n*ggas" - aimlessly swimming at every turn. It's an endless and very bad breakfast buffet of skinny jeans, excellent shoes, beards, man buns, and delicate leather satchels. Nothing wrong with being well-dressed, or even passably-groomed, but that aside, it's 2015, and as my friend Matt eloquently puts it, "the year of the emotional male". (He phrased it much more nicely than I did when I first began fiddling around with the idea of this article, so I'll leave my crass descriptions aside. For now.) But yes, nowadays, I've noticed this disturbing trend of weakness and being lost amongst the bulk of men. I don't even like to call them men. They aren't men. They are oblivious, whiny, and emotionally incapable boys. Maybe this is nothing new, maybe I've just gotten older and wiser and am only now realizing what women before me have known for centuries. But lately, I feel like it's more prevalent than it has ever been: men having an extraordinary need for coddling and ego stroking, all while wanting women to submit, submit, submit- and I don't get it. So why the steady decline of real men, that is to say, men who can handle an appreciate a strong woman? Where, true to 90's music form, have all the cowboys gone? Did they even ever truly exist?
Some might argue that I am biased. Perhaps, yes. My dad is pretty freaking awesome, and as far as manly men go, he's definitely on the manlier end of the spectrum. He's astoundingly capable for not being a blue collar dude; he hand made 80% of the furniture in our house. He plays sports, he can cook like a mofo, and he looks like Bruce Willis. But, really, so what? Yes, he was the first man in my life, and I'm sure that influences my views somewhat. But seriously, even if I had been raised by not him, I'd still look around today and be like, "Okay, umm for real though...what is going on?!" Why would I be asking this? Because I exist, and because I attempt to interact with guys. Granted, I am a very sexual person, so its hard to find a man secure enough to handle my writing (often about it), and my openness. But, even so, I've been patient about giving guys the benefit of the doubt. Partially because up until a few years ago, I was still acting like a kid myself. I was sort of an asshole to guys I dated, and was legit happy acting and thinking "like a guy". I saw myself and guys on the same page, mentally, sexually, dating-ly, relationship-ly speaking. But I'm gonna be 30 in a month. That number may not matter so much, if at all, but latter part of my 20's gave way to many things that changed me and forced me to grow as a person. Given these experiences, I've realized I am now miles ahead of the men, at least the ones I've interacted with, self-awareness wise. And in truth, aside from being able to compartmentalize, I've come to admit that me and them... really aren't alike at all (sad face.) I now find myself choking on the fumes of boys, who have stubbornly staunched hold in men's bodies, these sheep in wolves clothing, and I can't breathe. I need an explanation, and for the love of god, for someone to please crack open a fucking window.
So clearly something is awry here, and, pray tell, what is it? Let us take a brief look at the history of humans; maybe that will provide some onsight of the role men used to have, and how it has shifted to where it wound up today. We can probably skip to, say, the 20th century. So, up until then, as we know, men had their roles- they were the providers, held the top positions of power, plowed the earth, plowed the women. Not to say men were at the top just because they were naturally better than everyone else; though, in a primal sense, maybe they were. But overall, they ruled the roost because they kinda... deemed it so. And there they stayed. They had it goin' on for real, and for a decent stretch too. Even through the first half of the 1900's, this remained the case. Aside from ladies winning the right to vote in '20 (and starting to wear pants) not much else changed, gender-wise. The rest of the 20's and 30's still didn't see much of a shift in terms of why men wound up the hopeless mess they are today, either. But then the 1940's happened, and aside from Carole Lombard and her epic leopard print wardrobe, there was that thing called World War II. What happened there? Dudes in uniform, killing nazis and dropping bombs and shit. Okay, sounds like manliness was still prevalent. And when they came home? Unending sex in the city. Not Carrie Bradshaw, dear ones, just the zygotes of a million future baby boomers being made while listening to Glen Miller Band. Women went back to the kitchen, men went back to the workplace. Our still-powerful gender got busy drinking martinis, being classy, and smacking secretaries asses. So, still no answer.
But then, the 60's and 70's. You know what happened then? A ton of shit, yes, but also: The Pill. There's something to be said about gaining control over one's body in such a powerful way. And it was, I believe, the catalyst of something huge. Women, who had gained a taste of working only half a decade before, back while the men were fighting overseas, emerged from behind their suburban curtains, a la Hamlet, and wanted back in the offices and out of their Stepford fate. Odd, but somehow, they seemed to like not being chained to the kitchen oven, baking cookies while wearing pearls. The hippie movement gave more of an even ground, gender-wise, to that generation, what with communes and free love. And of course, the Civil Rights movement and Vietnam left people, ya know, slightly preoccupied. Then the 80's brought women even more to the workplace forefront, complete with shoulder pads and power suits. And...today. So, what's the answer? Is there an answer?
Well, the answer, at least in part, is surprisingly simple. If we look back to life post-WWII, at every advancement that took place afterwards, gender-role-wise, they all revolved around women. Nothing fun or interesting changed with guys, at least not in terms of defining their role. I feel that men today are insecure and cannot handle strong women because WOMEN, and women's role, have changed, yet men and theirs have not. Part of me thinks its because they are resistant to change. Part of me believes that maybe being manly isn't an inborn, natural thing, that they are raised with ideas of what being a man is, but never define it for themselves. And part of me is starting to think, man, do we even NEED gender roles to define us, and how we act, anymore? Perhaps no matter what, on a primal level, these definitions of our roles will always exist. But maybe, if all of us get in touch with our reality and who we truly are on an individual level, that's the way to break down these boundaries, and things like double standards.
But at the end of the day, I want to believe these men's men were always there, are still out there, that if anything, they're just on the endangered list. I mean shit, I hope they exist. Yes, ruggedness is great, sure, but more so, I want men to have a secure mindset and understand themselves. I want to believe that there are men out there who can match a strong woman and balance her, not try and talk her down and abuse her to submission. A man sure enough in himself and who he is as a person that a woman's past and strengths don't melt his ego. Men who don't blame feminists for not knowing what it means to be a man anymore, or how to act as a man. But for now, the only people not giving fucks about bothering to fit antiquated gender role molds these days are the ladies. And I say: go get it. Don't let pussy men stop you, hold you back, or make you afraid to be yourself for fear of being judged. Eventually, hopefully sooner rather than later, men will accept that roles in society are indeed shifting, quickly, and permanently. They will have to start to define who they are, apart from women. And until these guys come to terms with reality and who they are, well, try and learn to like hipsters.
Without further ado, I present to you the real "The Rapid Diminishment of the Man's Man":
As I look around, I seem to find myself drowning in a sea jam-packed with, oh, how do I say this - I believe Katt Williams describes them as "bitch n*ggas" - aimlessly swimming at every turn. It's an endless and very bad breakfast buffet of skinny jeans, excellent shoes, beards, man buns, and delicate leather satchels. Nothing wrong with being well-dressed, or even passably-groomed, but that aside, it's 2015, and as my friend Matt eloquently puts it, "the year of the emotional male". (He phrased it much more nicely than I did when I first began fiddling around with the idea of this article, so I'll leave my crass descriptions aside. For now.) But yes, nowadays, I've noticed this disturbing trend of weakness and being lost amongst the bulk of men. I don't even like to call them men. They aren't men. They are oblivious, whiny, and emotionally incapable boys. Maybe this is nothing new, maybe I've just gotten older and wiser and am only now realizing what women before me have known for centuries. But lately, I feel like it's more prevalent than it has ever been: men having an extraordinary need for coddling and ego stroking, all while wanting women to submit, submit, submit- and I don't get it. So why the steady decline of real men, that is to say, men who can handle an appreciate a strong woman? Where, true to 90's music form, have all the cowboys gone? Did they even ever truly exist?
Some might argue that I am biased. Perhaps, yes. My dad is pretty freaking awesome, and as far as manly men go, he's definitely on the manlier end of the spectrum. He's astoundingly capable for not being a blue collar dude; he hand made 80% of the furniture in our house. He plays sports, he can cook like a mofo, and he looks like Bruce Willis. But, really, so what? Yes, he was the first man in my life, and I'm sure that influences my views somewhat. But seriously, even if I had been raised by not him, I'd still look around today and be like, "Okay, umm for real though...what is going on?!" Why would I be asking this? Because I exist, and because I attempt to interact with guys. Granted, I am a very sexual person, so its hard to find a man secure enough to handle my writing (often about it), and my openness. But, even so, I've been patient about giving guys the benefit of the doubt. Partially because up until a few years ago, I was still acting like a kid myself. I was sort of an asshole to guys I dated, and was legit happy acting and thinking "like a guy". I saw myself and guys on the same page, mentally, sexually, dating-ly, relationship-ly speaking. But I'm gonna be 30 in a month. That number may not matter so much, if at all, but latter part of my 20's gave way to many things that changed me and forced me to grow as a person. Given these experiences, I've realized I am now miles ahead of the men, at least the ones I've interacted with, self-awareness wise. And in truth, aside from being able to compartmentalize, I've come to admit that me and them... really aren't alike at all (sad face.) I now find myself choking on the fumes of boys, who have stubbornly staunched hold in men's bodies, these sheep in wolves clothing, and I can't breathe. I need an explanation, and for the love of god, for someone to please crack open a fucking window.
So clearly something is awry here, and, pray tell, what is it? Let us take a brief look at the history of humans; maybe that will provide some onsight of the role men used to have, and how it has shifted to where it wound up today. We can probably skip to, say, the 20th century. So, up until then, as we know, men had their roles- they were the providers, held the top positions of power, plowed the earth, plowed the women. Not to say men were at the top just because they were naturally better than everyone else; though, in a primal sense, maybe they were. But overall, they ruled the roost because they kinda... deemed it so. And there they stayed. They had it goin' on for real, and for a decent stretch too. Even through the first half of the 1900's, this remained the case. Aside from ladies winning the right to vote in '20 (and starting to wear pants) not much else changed, gender-wise. The rest of the 20's and 30's still didn't see much of a shift in terms of why men wound up the hopeless mess they are today, either. But then the 1940's happened, and aside from Carole Lombard and her epic leopard print wardrobe, there was that thing called World War II. What happened there? Dudes in uniform, killing nazis and dropping bombs and shit. Okay, sounds like manliness was still prevalent. And when they came home? Unending sex in the city. Not Carrie Bradshaw, dear ones, just the zygotes of a million future baby boomers being made while listening to Glen Miller Band. Women went back to the kitchen, men went back to the workplace. Our still-powerful gender got busy drinking martinis, being classy, and smacking secretaries asses. So, still no answer.
But then, the 60's and 70's. You know what happened then? A ton of shit, yes, but also: The Pill. There's something to be said about gaining control over one's body in such a powerful way. And it was, I believe, the catalyst of something huge. Women, who had gained a taste of working only half a decade before, back while the men were fighting overseas, emerged from behind their suburban curtains, a la Hamlet, and wanted back in the offices and out of their Stepford fate. Odd, but somehow, they seemed to like not being chained to the kitchen oven, baking cookies while wearing pearls. The hippie movement gave more of an even ground, gender-wise, to that generation, what with communes and free love. And of course, the Civil Rights movement and Vietnam left people, ya know, slightly preoccupied. Then the 80's brought women even more to the workplace forefront, complete with shoulder pads and power suits. And...today. So, what's the answer? Is there an answer?
Well, the answer, at least in part, is surprisingly simple. If we look back to life post-WWII, at every advancement that took place afterwards, gender-role-wise, they all revolved around women. Nothing fun or interesting changed with guys, at least not in terms of defining their role. I feel that men today are insecure and cannot handle strong women because WOMEN, and women's role, have changed, yet men and theirs have not. Part of me thinks its because they are resistant to change. Part of me believes that maybe being manly isn't an inborn, natural thing, that they are raised with ideas of what being a man is, but never define it for themselves. And part of me is starting to think, man, do we even NEED gender roles to define us, and how we act, anymore? Perhaps no matter what, on a primal level, these definitions of our roles will always exist. But maybe, if all of us get in touch with our reality and who we truly are on an individual level, that's the way to break down these boundaries, and things like double standards.
But at the end of the day, I want to believe these men's men were always there, are still out there, that if anything, they're just on the endangered list. I mean shit, I hope they exist. Yes, ruggedness is great, sure, but more so, I want men to have a secure mindset and understand themselves. I want to believe that there are men out there who can match a strong woman and balance her, not try and talk her down and abuse her to submission. A man sure enough in himself and who he is as a person that a woman's past and strengths don't melt his ego. Men who don't blame feminists for not knowing what it means to be a man anymore, or how to act as a man. But for now, the only people not giving fucks about bothering to fit antiquated gender role molds these days are the ladies. And I say: go get it. Don't let pussy men stop you, hold you back, or make you afraid to be yourself for fear of being judged. Eventually, hopefully sooner rather than later, men will accept that roles in society are indeed shifting, quickly, and permanently. They will have to start to define who they are, apart from women. And until these guys come to terms with reality and who they are, well, try and learn to like hipsters.
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