Tag Archives: gender equality

“Catch Me if You Can — But You Ain’t Man Enough”

Gentlemen!

Hold on to your balls!  This broad — is coming out swingin’, and it’s gonna hurt a lil’.

Because I’ve gotten a bloody earful of grievances from my girls (and none of them are the dainty types, waiting to be rescued by the way); and because, although my gender has a shit load of its own faults, when with a guy, women aren’t typically the ones to own-up to the following question:  Just how laid back — and just for how bloody long! — do you think you can remain about commitment, without eventually coming off as a playboy or a boy-child?

Now, look!  If acting either like George Clooney or Peter Pan is your shtick, that’s cool.  No, really:  IT IS!  Just be honest about it — with yourself, but most importantly, with the women you’re shagging.  If you are, I swear you’re gonna save yourself a lot of headache; because when clearly aware of your own intentions (which you then just as clearly communicate with your sex partner), you’ll get paired up with the most suitable girl (or girls) for your needs.

“Oh, but you women will never go for that!” some of you might say.

Uhm, hello?  I’ve been known to go for that.  And so have some of my girls.  Because you see, our dear creatures of the opposite sex, this is the time in the history of humanity when women are just as ambitious and independent as you — and they have an equal amount of opportunities to which to apply that ambition.  Even those of us who are interested in an eventual marriage tend to spend most of our 20s in pursuit of additional dreams that aren’t directly related to the best possible pairing-up with a penis owner.  (Sorry to break that to you!)  And while we chase those dreams, some of us do look for sexual gratifications with a moderately nice guy.  I repeat:  I and most of the women I know either have been or currently are in a pursuit of that type of a relationship.  We want sex.  Just like you do.  Yourr velkom!

Now, of course, you still have to work for it (that is the only catch!) — even if just for the mere symbolism of it.  But what are a couple of nice dinners and extracurricular activities in exchange for a beautiful woman to satisfy you and then — get this! — leave because she is just too damn busy to stay and cuddle with your ass?

What sparked this cunty-ranty blog of mine?  Well, one of my Amazons, with a body of a warrior queen and a career on a rise, has been confiding in me on her dating life as a single woman.  Having recently dragged herself out of a relationship with an official asshole by her own luscious hair, she’s been taking it slow, while recuperating and playing the field a little.  But not in any manipulative or gold-digging way, mind you; because, you see, this kitten — has dreams of her own and those dreams take time.  So, in between her producing, and screenwriting, and acting, and traveling, and yoga-certification ambitions, she just wanted to have a little fun with a few nice guys, while remaining completely honest about with them about her priorities.

All was hunky-dory, until one of her players started to take the lead.  And when he did, he, albeit timidly, requested for a monogamous upgrade of their relationship.

“Fine,” said my girl, because she was starting to like the guy as well (and because she is not a female douche).  Besides, regardless what you may think, dear gents:  You too can be quite high maintenance, and a girl has just so much energy to spend on building you up — or stroking your ego, or nurturing, or feeding, or mothering you — let alone on performing these, may I say, partner-like duties for several guys.

So, our couple made a step closer to their official coupling.  Now:  No one started dropping hints about marital commitments, I swear.  Neither has anyone rushed off to update their Facebook status yet.  They were taking it slow — still — and my girl was perfectly fine with that.  And you gotta be when you are being flown all over the world to shoot commercials and films; and when you start getting calls from major agents in this town to suggest their talent for the independent film you’re about to produce; and when you spend an hour a day negotiating SAG contracts for the actors you’re about to hire for your web-series, right?!

But after about two months of this laid back routine, the player seems to have laid so far back, he leaned right out of the relationship.  Any relationship!  Yep, I’m talking even sex!  So busy and blase this man has been acting — even when scheduling shag dates with my girl — you would think he was indeed the very George fucking Clooney!

Time for newsflashes, boys:

One:  The majority of you, dear gents — are not George Clooney!  Nor will you ever be! Because if my girl ever complained about her Clooney’s lack of commitment-worthy behavior, I would be the first to tell her to stop being a dumb bitch and summon her gratitude.  But since she is shagging a regular guy — a struggling actor type with little cash to spare for their extracurricular activities, let alone on any ambition to save the world — his act of a man with a line-up of panting bitches at his leg is quickly becoming ridiculous and offensive.  Mismatch!

Two:  Just how many good women do you think you gonna come by in your life? Seriously.  From your own dating experience, you must know that this town of LA-LA is filled to the rim with money- and opportunity-grabbing bitches.  So, when you meet a chick cool enough to be your go-to pussy — without displaying any needy or greedy behavior — you better start counting your blessings.  And when that chick turns out to be Girlfriend Material, you would be the biggest idiot to let her slip away.

“Oh, but I’m not in ‘that stage in my life’,” you might say.

Fine.  Excellent.  Do take your time.  But then, don’t get all insecure and possessive when your girl continues to see other men.  If you have the balls to demand monogamy from your pussy-on-call, be man enough to keep up with the necessary progression of things that permits you to keep having the first dibs on it.

Yep, it will take courage and a leap of faith for you to grow.  And oh, it will be petrifying when you start falling for your girl.  But (and this is just my observation):  As the world’s masterpieces of literature, and films, and songs, and fine art tell me, this whole love experience might be if not utterly magnificent, then life-changing for you.  Because loving a woman will introduce you to your own humanity. It will teach your about your heart, and about your past (and how to forgive it), and it just might graduate you into your manhood.  Congratulations.

The Sensitive Type

Having had one cunt of a year in 2010, I have established my newest pet peeve:  men who act like broads with troubled ovaries.  Actually, it’s more than a pet peeve.  It’s a No-No, a Never-Again, a Please-Go-Away-and-Die type of a thing.  I understand that in this day and age of crying, pouting, indecisive males all over reality TV, my nostalgia for Clint Eastwood as the leading prototype for our men and sons is painfully unrealistic.  Yet still, I can live the rest of my life without seeing a man throw a fit that puts the girls of Pretty Wild to shame.

What brought this on?  I’m out on a girl date the other day, having a perfectly delightful and stimulating lunch, when the booth in the dangerous proximity to mine gets invaded by a couple with a newborn.  Right off the bat, it’s a fucking production:  While the formerly attractive woman timidly trots at the tail of the procession, the young father is pointing out the most suitable seating arrangement to the hostess—with his pinky!  (I whip out my notebook to jot down my thoughts on this lightweight while my girls get quiet.  We are in for a treat!)  When the clan is finally situated, our waitress’s every attempt to speak to the mother is rebuffed by this male specimen who has by now untangled his firstborn out of the stroller and slid out of the booth.  Without having looked at the menu, he creates the family’s customized lunch order on everyone’s behalf, throws it over his shoulder and walks away from the table, leaving the mother whipped, defeated and most likely suicidal.

From here on, he proceeds to parade through every isle of the joint in order to soothe his non-crying child, so that it would go back to sleep—after it was awoken by being taken out of the stroller in the first place.  (Right?!)  My head begins to hurt from restraining my eyeballs from popping out of their orbits; but here is where it gets better!  After a few rounds, the young father begins to side-step behind the bar stools of other males occupied with a football game on the bar’s flat screens.  He literally glides, zigzagging, Apolo-Ohno style (on ice, not Dancing with the Stars) while perking up his lips and holding a terrifyingly prolonged sound of:

“Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.  Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.  Shush-shush.  Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.”

At first, he manages to attract some endeared reactions from a few baby-crazed females on the floor but ends up rebuffing all of their approaches in the same fashion as he’s practiced on our waitress.  He ignores all inquiries about the age or the gender of the child (interestingly, the baby is wrapped in all white) and continues to glide ‘n’ shush.  So:  He is really after the male contingent here, I think.  I’m fascinated.

(Where was the mother, you might wonder?  She was highly unimpressed, stuffing her face from a trough of sweet potato fries, while all alone at the booth so particularly chosen by her partner.  I predict she would be oppressed by loathing her poor choice of a male with whom to procreate if she weren’t so well-medicated for her postpartum depression.)

While I begin to wonder about the nauseated feeling in my gut, my girls attack our waitress:

“What’s the deal with him?”

“I bet he beats the shit out of her!” the waitress scoffs a bit too loudly because the man bitch (who has under-tipped her, by the way!) is now putting on his last act:  loading the stroller, barking at the mother and taking the longest exit route, via the bar.

Aha, I think:  the Chris Brown Syndrome.  Have women finally caught up in their pursuit of equality to breathe down the necks of insecure, incompetent, talentless males who, due to their impotence to compete with other men, reaffirm their strength on their wives and girlfriends?  The bitchy, estrogen-pumped specimen of my afternoon adventure had to be lucky enough to land himself a partner more intelligent and attractive than his girly ass; and instead of counting his blessings and praying to her image, he fabricates the ways in which she may need him—often in the name of love and marriage—then makes sure she is somewhat dependent and keeps her under his heel.  When in public, then, he has no choice but to overcompensate, because he relies on the sympathy vote to justify the atrocities of his domestic behavior; and when it comes to other men, he flexes via the appearance of his woman or child.  Case closed.