Tag Archives: manhood

“Life Is a Beach — I’m Just Playin’ in the Sand”

Ah, kittens.  I have been watching you, playing in twos, every time I get myself out to the beach.

There is something very honest about humanity out here.  It’s dialed down, calm.  Quiet.  Everyone is hushed down by the magnificent tongue of the Ocean; and you better be painfully exhibitionist — uncomfortable, in skin and silence — to be louder than the waves.  (But I had seen those types before as well:  They make me move my towel, as if switching subway cars to avoid the destructively insane and the painfully lonely.)

I have been running away, out here, to fall asleep on the sand until the magnificent tongues of the Ocean lick my feet with the aftertastes of the opposite shore where, several decades ago, I was born.  Out here, I have been running to get a better glimpse of humanity, a more complimentary view of it.  Out here, I have been running away from the dusty hills and the heated asphalt of my neighborhood, just so I can sit on my ass and pick the shrapnel out of my last battle wounds.

But it’s fine!  It’s fine where I’m living.  It’s perfectly fine.

Here, between the mountains on one side and the downtown skyline on the other — and the apocalyptic clouds of smog all around, as pink as cotton-candy-flavored ice — I cannot see the bloody horizon.  And that’s fine too:  because it keeps me bolted down to my chair, in the midst of work, to which there is no end in sight — to which there is no horizon.  But it’s fine!  It’s perfectly fine, where I’m living.  For now.

But when it chokes, when it moves in and looms above — this lack of knowing as to what it’s all for; when I cannot defeat the despair with mere discipline, I run away.  I cannot run far, for there is indeed a limit to this city — an actual edge.  And I cannot run away from the work, to which there is no end in sight:  no bloody horizon.  But just for a day, I can run away and I can watch them kittens play in twos, in the sand; and I can let the giant dog of the Ocean tickle my feet with its magnificent tongue.

Yesterday, he was brown and very manly; athletic but in that stocky wrestler sort of way.  Even when he stood above the body of his lovely, he seemed to be hanging close to the ground, hovering.  And she:  She stretched and purred underneath him — a caramel-colored kitten, in a two-piece bathing suit of mismatching colors.  Her head was wrapped with a scarf, and its edges coming undone tangled up in the loose hair at the top of her neck.

The two of them had pitched their burgundy cotton sheet just a few meters south of my ass, and like me, they immediately got quiet.  He stretched out on his stomach, she — on her back; and although they spoke little — hushed down by the magnificent tongue of the Ocean — their every gesture was filled with tenderness and certain intimacy that only lovers well-acquainted with each other’s bodies can have.  Without looking over for her target, she would throw her perfectly carved leg over him; and he would reach and caress it with the tips of his fingernails.  (Sometimes, poetry is written on the inside of a woman’s thigh.)

At one point, in between my nap sessions, I pitched myself up on my elbows and saw that she had climbed on top of him, her stomach perfectly contouring his lower back; and there seemed to be no grander bliss that he could be subjected to.  And when she unleashed her wet curls from underneath the head scarf and covered his head, absentmindedly, habitually, he reached up and buried his giant hand in them:  He knew her, so well.  And oh, how well, he loved her!

This juxtaposition of their physique, the intimate tangling of their bodies filled me with something so serene, I nearly forgot that I had ran away out here, to pick the shrapnel out of my last battle wounds.

A few more meters down from our congregation, there rested an older couple.  She belonged to the type of a handsome woman that had managed to defeat her age with sport and boyish haircuts.  When she strutted toward the hissing, foaming, teasing waves, her back astonished me with its tautness and form.  He was watching her as well.  Between the two of them, he seemed to have done all the aging on their behalf.  Balding and under the influence of gravity, he sat on their towel and he worshiped her.  Every time she granted him an over-the-shoulder glance — he waved at her, boyishly.  And although, like me, and like the two brown people south of my ass, the two older lovers were quiet:  Oh, how he loved her, he seemed to say, with silence.  It spoke volumes:  How he loved her!

I would check out again, drifting into dreamless sleep that would leave me thirsty and teary-eyed.  And when I jolted myself awake, I heard the hollow heartbeat of a ping-pong ball:  Above my head, a couple of young lovers were sending each other running — across the sand and across distances that seemed to be unaffected by mutual fear (for, surely, neither has been hit with shrapnel yet).

Besides her occasional giggles, they would remain completely quiet.  Every time, she couldn’t strike back on time, she would run toward the ball, giggling; and he would play with the strings of his swimming trunks — and he would watch her, in silence.  There were beginnings of manhood in that gaze:  the self-esteem of someone with a beautiful physique and a gentle heart, who would never have to work hard for a girl’s love.  And there would be other girls — certainly! — for any life is treasured more once hit with shrapnel.  But in that moment, in that particular silence, he seemed to speak volumes of his love — for her.

Oh, how he liked her!  And how he loved!

“I Wanna Li-Li-Li-Lick You, From Your Head to Your Toes”

“Mmm, LOVE ice-cream,” you said with an audible European accent that you weren’t even trying to hide.

Quite the opposite:  I bet it has worked to your advantage so far, because you don’t throw yourself against your need to control, to plan, to over think, to predict every moment before it happens — over, and over, and over again.  In our company of two, there is already one person who has done that idiotically throughout her youth; and frankly, it’s one person too many.

No, sir!  You are one to live in the moment.  Honestly. 

And you do it with such swagger — never for the sake of exhibitionism or selfish gratification; never for the sake of better opinions or for the sake of having to impress.  You dwell in consequences of your easy charm.  You watch your life happen and unfold, delivering its opportunities to the the tips of your impeccably polished shoes, like the wet tongue of a tidal wave.

Because where you come from, time moves differently:  It never matters more than one’s sensibility, and it definitely does not dare to contradict one’s pursuit of pleasures.  And so tonight, you took your time:  warming up my curiosity with your easy, manly smiles and just a couple of caresses along my arms with the flat surfaces of your nails.  The entire night, your gender training revealed itself in my open doors, extended hands, offered-up shoulders; and your gentle guidance of my high-heeled footstep over ditches and uneven pavements.  It is your second nature — to be a gentleman.  To be a man — is your first.

“We have a saying about a true — how you say it? — ‘gentleman’,” you told me earlier in the night.  “Don’t say much — and enjoy!  Yes?”

Yes.

Naturally, you would walk me down to my car after midnight; and with you, I wouldn’t even argue.  I wouldn’t feel an urge to defend my independence or flaunt my financial capabilities:  It’s not in your — how you say it? — “gentle” nature to undermine my life choices anyway.  So, I didn’t have to test or forewarn, with you.  That evening, you were my man alright, and it was somehow (finally!) also perfectly alright for me — to be your woman.

So, why — when you began to devour your chocolate ice-cream sandwich, after calling my elevator — did you suddenly resemble a young boy on a summer day spent on a river bank with other sunburnt rascals?  As I watched you, a thought flashed:

“ADORE.”

It was more of a memory, really.  A memory of a young man — utterly adored — who could wrestle my body or mind into submission with his weight or a single flex of his arm muscles; but when the battle was over, I would walk out of his bedroom to find him armed with a fork and a focus, dissecting a sweet I had made for him a few hours prior:

“Mmm, V.  So good!” he would always say with his mouth full and a blue-eyed gaze of someone caught in the midst of his defiant joy.  “Have some!”

I never would.  Instead:  I would adore.  

Yes.

Or the sound of another, who could kindly cradle me to sleep; then slip out into the kitchen and lick spoonfuls of honey and peanut butter, chugging them down with cold milk.  If I heard his commotions in my sleep, I would smile, always — I would adore! — then, toss myself headfirst into heavier dreams.  In the morning, he would be back in his manhood, older than me; and I would wonder if I had dreamt it all up, about someone like our son.

And yet another — tougher, stronger, always in control:  If he ever rested in my bed at an hour when the August heat finally gave it a rest, I would bring him platters of chilled watermelon and frozen berries; and while he lapped-up, and feasted, and moaned — the same way he had done with my body — I would rub his heavy head on my lap.  And, while he slowly landed:  Oh, how I would adore!

Yes…

When the elevator arrived, quicker than it would throughout the day when delayed by other mortals, naturally, you held its door open with one arm, while the other continued to maneuver the quickly melting sandwich around your mouth.  You would bite and nibble, lick the corners of your lips.  I leaned against the cold rail and chuckled, finding myself in the midst of my easily accessible, habitual adoration.  The gaze you shot me was somewhat of a warning:

“Don’t say much — and enjoy!  Yes?”  

By the time there was nothing left in your hand but a wrapper, we had arrived at my destination.  I peeled my behind off the rail and made my way to the doors, anticipating, as always, their opening.

“Where are you going?” you said, with a tease and an effortless control.

Quickly you examined the wrapper in your hand for any last bits, crumpled it up, tossed it into the corner; and before I could manufacture a scold or an excuse, you pressed me back into the rail with the now free hand — while pushing every button on the control panel with the other.  I laughed.  You smiled that easy, manly smile again, moved in on me, looked-up for cameras — and began to maneuver my lips around your mouth.

At first, I kept my eyes open, looking out for an accidental mortal every time the doors slid quietly in their grooves.  But you didn’t bother:  You bit and nibbled, licked the corners of your lips — and of mine.  You dwelled in consequences of your easy charm, now backing them up with skills.  With your eyes on me, you’d push more buttons; and I would laugh — again! — into the collar seams of your impeccably white t-shirt.

And by the third time we arrived to the eighteenth floor, I closed my eyes and pushed your back against the control panel…

You tasted like chocolate.

Boys Will Be Boys. Thank Goodness!

Boys, boys, boys.  Men and gentlemen.  Players.  Soldiers.  There are so many of you in the world — and thank goodness for that!

You beautiful creatures that are born as our sons, then grow into our men; but then again, despite of our occasional complaints, so many of you remain our children — even as our husbands and lovers — and so many of us would NOT have it any other way!  Because when you stumble out of our beds early in the morning, scratching your bodies — youthfully supple or gracefully aging — when you clumsily rummage through our cupboards, then reach for your favorite cereal (which we’ve memorized long before learning your Social Security Number, or your mother’s birthday); when you pout, whist still barely awake and unaware of your age — you make us, women, wonder about the little boys you used to be; and in that moment, you are indeed — our sons.

And there is no higher praise to your manhood — and all the abilities, endowments, talents and skills that come with it — than when a woman chooses you to father her own child.  Because somewhere along loving you, we begin to daydream about watching that same sleepy face reappear in the cribs of our firstborns (and that pout!  oh, that pout!).  And when it is time for our children to start stumbling out of their beds, we will weep at their resemblance — to you.  It’s ALL dedicated to you! 

Because we too wonder about your teaching our sons how to throw a ball or a punch; how to shave (or whatever else you, boys, do behind those closed bathroom doors:  we love you, but we don’t really want to know); and how to choose the right socks or the right girl.  And we too desire for our daughters to worship you more than they seemingly do us; to adore you enough to look for you in their choices of men who, of course, will never be up to your standards.  (Because it’s always different with daughters:  They turn our men into pussycats.)  

You stubbly creatures of the opposite sex:  How you can break a woman’s heart with a mere aloofness or a deficit of attention; but then to build her back up with a single curious gaze that so many of you still don’t know how to execute without being unnoticed.  Please don’t ever stop giving us compliments, even if — and especially if — they won’t get you anywhere!  Don’t censor your praise of our hair, or eyes, or earrings — compliments that make you sound like an admirer of beauty, even if you haven’t figured out its source.  You often have no idea why a certain woman makes you turn your head (while hundreds of others can pass you by unnoticed).  And even if your compliment doesn’t earn you our time or phone number, please know:  It is never taken for granted.

The rougher men who have suffered through difficult lives and mean jobs:  You still have the ability to inspire a woman’s fantasy about being lifted with those capable arms of yours.  Some of us fall in love with women:  their grace and softness, and the way they manage to always smell so sweetly.  But for those of us who still adore the other gender:  It’s your physical ability — your capability to always be stronger than us, to stand taller, to be more ready — that makes us worship you until heartbreaks.  And when you do those things we needn’t know how to do (change a tire, fix a sink; negotiate with a mechanic or a cabbie; catch a fish or play the stock market), you make us feel safer.  And for that rare, fleeting sensation in life — we are forever grateful.  (A little secret though, boys:  Some of us have learned how to do those things, but we’d rather watch you take over.  Thanks.)

Those smooth players who choose to move through their lives as gentlemen:  How ever do you know where to buy a suit and when to tailor a jacket?  Who’s taught you how to be decisive about our first date’s destination and time; and how to settle the tab without making a fuss?  When do you make up your mind on whether or not you will ever wear cologne or the style of your underwear?

Your stubborn choice of your own higher standards — your substance — will continue to turn us on until the end of civilization.  Don’t ever stop getting our doors and chairs; lifting us over puddles or carrying us out of fires.  Continue to show up on time, to come through with your word (a man’s word!); to tolerate our emotions and to guard your own.  Insist on asking for our opinion on those pastel-colored Banana Republic shirts, but remain authentic to your taste (and always devoted to your collar stays!).  Know the best dry cleaners in town but don’t mind us if your dress shirt — is the only thing we want to wear while fixing you a sandwich.  Do send us flowers and hand-written notes.  Do make the first call, but allow us to keep the illusion that we — have the last word.  And the sooner you let us have the remote control, the sooner you can take us to bed.  (But you may also proceed on the couch.  Or the floor.)

And when you do undress us, fumbling with our buttons, or bra hooks, or garter belts — all too dainty for your rough, manly hands — continue to study us as if we were a work of art (perhaps, while unawarely pouting).  Or your dream car.  Or your dream girl. 

Oh, to the modest smile of Paul Newman and the intelligent squint of Robert Redford; to the swagger of George Clooney and the slight indifference of Clark Gable; to the promising ability of Steve McQueen and the effortless power of Bill Clinton; to the mastery of Obama’s self-deprecation and the reserved grace of Eastwood; to Denzel’s esteem and Jay-Z’s universal rule:  To you — we sing our odes and griefs!  To you — we give our youth and dedicate our sex.  Because no matter how many times you break our hearts, it is YOUR love that we continue to seek; and it is ONLY that love — that makes us better women.  And thank goodness for that!

(But don’t you worry:  We will always return that last favor, no matter how late in life:)

And Here’s to Me — Mrs. Robinson

Boys, boys, boys:  Mmm-hmm.

This early morn’, I took a drive through LA-LA.  Did you know it can be a pretty mofo — if you go against its traffic?  Oh, yes, it can, my kittens!

And this kitten — yours truly — somehow ended up in someone else’s cot last night.  It wasn’t planned, I swear; because in my feline fashion, no matter where my paws wander off during sunlight, they always lead me back home at the end of each day.  But when I saw the one from last night — in a tight T, which was barely holding onto its seams at his Apollonian pecs and drenched in sweat from a late night jog — I think I suffered a temporary amnesia.

Now, don’t be “yelous”, papis!  ‘Cause no matter where I rest my paws, I always report back to you, via this here rant blog.

“Last night didn’t mean anything, I swear!  You — are the only ones I truly love!”

So, here I am:  Scratching at your door.  Hellow.

I did leave him sleeping in his bed looking very pretty though, slightly disheveled and tired.  (What?!  We just played a coupla rounds of patty cake, that’s all — and I won!)  But before I left, I got sidetracked by his sleepy face:  He was frowning a little.  He must’ve been slaying dragons in his dreams.  From where I stood, his ripped back looked like that of a man.  But underneath the stubbly morning whiskers, I somehow managed to notice a little boy.

Damn my ovaries!  I swear:  Every single time I’ve fallen for a boy, they are at fault They forget, you see, the boundaries between my lovers and sons; and as if to make-up for the fact that I’ve never put ‘em to work for the sake of my own procreation, they confuse the hell outta me — and I adopt the men I love.  (Just last night, when rubbing his head on my naked breasts, I didn’t even think to remember that man’s function in my life:  He was it all, in that moment, across every category.  My son.  My baby.  My little boy — and man.  My love and my lovely.)

This maternal overcompensation must be the very reason for my recent basking in the attention of significantly younger men.  No matter where their phone numbers are collected — at some artificially manufactured playground of LA-LA or a late night dance floor packed with plenty of other specimen — when they reveal their age (24 to 26!), I have to summon the best nonchalant face I can, to not scare them off right away with my skeptical chuckle.  And considering they are always a lil’ bit defensive about those numbers, I suspect they are aware of the possible age difference.  Yet, still, they proceed.

(I am actually quite fascinated by this generation of younger American men:  They aren’t easily intimidated by older women.  

“A woman — is not a girl,” one them was trying to break it down for me the other day while nearly drooling.  (No shit, kitten!)  “She knows what she wants and how to get it.”  (Hmm.  Papi, may I?)

More over, these youngsters seem at ease when it comes to gender roles.  All of the ones to enter my own speed dial this last month make no fuss about picking up the tab or opening my doors; but are still quite comfortable when a woman turns out to be more sexually aggressive.  They all kinda smile a lil’, boyishly, while quietly answering my questions; until the tables are turned — and it’s their time to step up and be the men they so painfully desire to be.  Hmm.  A coinkydink?  Perhaps.)

This morn’, somewhere in West LA-LA, I passed a young couple hugging at a car.  I couldn’t see the boy’s face, just the back of his UCLA-gold hoody.  But I did see his girl’s face:  quite pretty and seemingly still asleep, she had her eyes closed as she rested her cheekbone against his ear.  Her strawberry blonde hair swooped down, until the boy reached over to gather it into a messy ponytail by which he gently but knowingly guided her face to his lips.  Got skills, mister?  Mmm.  Mazel tov!

And then there was the pretty creature jogging sleepily through the cozy streets of the Melrose District.  The way his joints moved was the exact reason I never mind a packed beach:  For there is something so calculated, strong and graceful in the way a man can throw a ball, or carry a surfboard (or a girl) over his shoulder.  Despite the slightly baggy clothes on the young athlete, I could see the fit body underneath.  But it was really his face — the face that reminded me of the sleeping son I left behind — that nearly brought me to tears:  There was determination in it.  Determination and clarity that hasn’t overcrowded his innocence yet.  I could tell he still knew how to dream, and his world was oh so full of possibilities.  This boy was not running from or to yet:  He was still taking his life, a sleepy leap at a time.

Somewhere closer to home, in Hollyweird’s zip code, a young hippie caught my attention.  His dirty blond hair was unbrushed, spilling out from a small ponytail in the back of his head.  Looking very Johnny Depp in Chocolat (or pre-Jolie Brad Pitt), with no bag to burden his strut, he walked along a perpetually depressing, long white wall of a local studio set.  I bet he worked in production, in a clan of gypsies — stagehands and craftsmen — who are always ever so cooler than any celebrity actor on set.  I bet my hippie had a few stories to tell:  about his personal Milky Way that led him to this Weird Land of Holly; and about the way life fell into its place, as it does in this town — but only for those with courage and discipline enough to chase it.

With his and my own reflections in my rearview mirror, I thought:  What am I to do with this new collection of young dreamers?  with all my sons?

Then, I realized there was nothing to do — but to be kind:  To cause them the least amount of disappointment and heartache.  Some would eventually act their age, get scared and return to the sandboxes better suitable for their courage.  Others would continue to demand my company as they grew into their manhood.  But I should never be the source of their suffering; because their lives — and other women, other mothers — would have enough of that in store. 

Instead, I should remain a fan of their yet unmarred beauty and youth; let them rest and leave them dreaming their morning dreams of slain dragons and new Milky Ways.  And the ones that would insist on following — well, then:  We should play another round:

“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.