In Defense of All Ye Vikings

    Remember that post from last time? The one in which I responded to a post from the blog of Eleanor Gwyn-Jones? Well, she’s at it again, man-hating all over the internet like it’s the Prejudice Country Buffet. Such a brute, that woman is. But fear not, men, for I have arrived, sword drawn, ready to battle using calm, rational excuses for all of our selfish, idiotic behaviors!

    No, no. I kid. Eleanor is awesome, and our discussions are far from being “battles.” Although I wouldn’t be surprised if this exchange resulted in a rap battle. Hmm…

    I really do hope I don’t wind up a sex columnist.

———-

    Dammit, Eleanor.

    Seeing that the title of your latest post included the word, Manopoly, I thought to myself, “Ah, a sequel!” I was all primed and ready for another placating yet justified retort in hopes of putting your womanly woes at ease.

    But this is a tough one.

    What can I say? “Don’t hate the player, hate the game?” It works wonders in response to your Monopoly reference, but I don’t think it’s necessarily true.

    Once upon a time, I was a young lad addicted to collecting women as if they were trading cards. To be honest I don’t remember most of it. I’m certainly not proud of it. In fact, that analogy came directly from one of these collectibles. She was standing in a room with three other women I had slept with (amongst other guests, of course), and pulled me aside to inform me that she did not enjoy feeling like “one of Michael Coene’s fucking trading cards.”

    Ouch. I think I slept with her again that night, but still… ouch.

    But here’s the thing—and please keep in mind I do know my defense here is flimsy—I had always meant well. Seriously, I did. I never thought about women as trading cards until one of them explained it to me that way. From my perspective, sexual encounters had always been pretty straightforward. If I felt attraction, I acted on it. I’m not at all shy, so the initial approach part was never difficult for me. If she responded well, then great! Everybody involved gets laid! If, as a result, she now expects things from me that I never promised, well… is that really my fault? It’s not like I proposed to her first; I was always pretty clear about what I intended.

    Now, it is not fair when a woman is manipulated into sex, and it certainly isn’t fair when she’s told the morning after that you aren’t interesting in anything “serious,” even though you had drunkenly suggested the night before that she come with you to Maui next week. I wholeheartedly agree with that, please don’t get me wrong. But ladies, you need to understand how men work. Especially the younger men (when I say younger, I refer to their mentality, not the rings of their proverbial tree).

    You see, we can’t control the whims of our sexuality. One second we’ll want a woman so bad, so overwhelmingly bad, that we really believe we would do anything to be with her. In, like, three seconds we manage to convince ourselves that we could sleep with this one woman and no other, every day, for the rest of our lives. If we’ve really got it bad for her, the feeling will persist even after we’ve masturbated about her a couple of times. We’ll get all worked up, in a god dammed tizzy. It’s horrible. We go crazy. Oog want lady! Oog want lady now!

    The catch is, were we to approach this woman and tell her how we felt, she would call the police, or at the very least, be concerned enough by this forward behavior to deny us that crucial first date wherein we can prove that we’re really not so bad despite all the staring.

    So, how do we resolve this? Simple. We fold our erections up behind our belts, take a deep breath, and we play the fucking game. We don’t want to play it, but we have no choice. Please understand: in that moment, we have to have her.

    Let’s use some characters, to make things easier. Let’s call the man “Armando” and the woman “Daisy.” Armando and Daisy. All in a day’s work, Coene.

    Okay. Armando has it bad for Daisy. He’s past the point of hysteria we just discussed. His boner is sufficiently strapped in. Armando plays all his cards exactly right. He does that whole thing where he understands exactly what she’s thinking and why she’s thinking it. He convinces Daisy that he’s not a threat. Eventually, he gets her. And then, as the condom misses the wastebasket and hits the side with a splat, a most unfortunate miracle occurs.

    A feeling washes over Armando, as strong as the lust he had felt so recently, but with opposing consequences. He tries to shake this feeling, but he can’t. He’d worked so hard to get her! Why should he feel this way now that Daisy is finally his? Why?!

    Sadly, now that Daisy has been captured, her magnificence has lessened dramatically. Armando’s brain (see: penis) has inexplicably begun to pick out all the other magnificent women, whether he wants it to or not. And here’s the thing: every woman on Earth suddenly seems magnificent, except for Daisy. Even women he’s not especially attracted to look magnificent. But not poor Daisy.

    Over time some of us grow up. Some of us realize that one-nighters or temporary “gray areas” have no impact, mean absolutely nothing, and are far more trouble than they’re worth. Some of us even figure out that if you work through this initial panic, and stick with the same woman for long enough, the sex actually improves, rather than diminishes. Who knew? I certainly hadn’t.

    Gee, I hope she doesn’t leave me after reading this… ahem, but let’s not get into that part.

    I guess the point I’m trying to make is that, at the time, what we’re doing doesn’t seem wrong. We are genuinely crazy about her, in that moment. We believe that every chunk of flowery romantic bullshit that comes oozing out of our mouths is true. Seriously. We do.

    Even those times when we have no intention of anything more than a quickie in the bathroom, we still don’t feel like villains. We think we’re being spontaneous! We’re being sexy, just like in the movies! We’re seducing her and giving her one night of wild, reckless passion. We think she’ll prefer it this way, consider it our little inside-joke and move on, because that’s how we’d like for her to feel. And sometimes she does feel that way, but let’s not get into that part.

    As for all the douche-baggery that follows—the high-fives and novels detailing our mighty conquests—this is merely how we cope. We cope with the hearts we’ve broken, the bodies we’ve used, and the dissatisfaction that won’t leave our guts no matter how many ladies we boink, by bragging. We cope with sin through declaration of having done it, just like the Catholics do with confessional. The only reason it sounds like bragging as opposed to confession is because of relentless social programming (You’ve only fucked how many? What are you, some kinda faggot?)

    But let’s not get into that part.

    So there you have it, I guess. I’m not sure I’ve made much of an argument in favor of the fellas. Honestly, I don’t think I’m trying to. A good man is a man who can disregard his biological tendencies and rise above his vanity. So I guess my point is that being a good man is a learned skill, meaning we have to muck it up a whole bunch before we figure out how to do it.

    But, ladies, look at it this way: would you rather have the alternative? Would you really, really rather we skip the whole game and cut to the chase? Do you really want us running up to you in droves, surrounding you like a gaggle of news reporters crying, “Oh my god! Those legs! That ass! Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me! BUT DON’T FUCK ANYONE ELSE, OKAY?! That ass! Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me! GOD DAMMIT YOUR FRIEND IS HOT! Oh my god! Those tits! Not yours, hers. Hey! Hey you! Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me…”

    Ladies, if this is what you want, then please let us know. We would be more than happy to oblige. Chivalry isn’t dead, you know.

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    To check out the original post from the blog of Eleanor Gwyn-Jones, From a Corner of a Foreign Field, click here.

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Published in: on August 21, 2011 at 12:58 am  Comments (4)  
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Girls Will Run The World

    A fellow blogger, whom I respect dearly, recently posted about the new Steve Carrell film: Crazy Stupid Love. She opened by noting that men no longer make grand gestures for the women they love, especially those they are about to lose, or have not won yet.

    I agree that these gestures are vital to successful partnerships of any kind. I also agree that they’re probably missing, these days. I posted a comment, which I have copied below, regarding my personal theory as to why. No it’s not, “Chivalry is dead and women killed it.” Nor is it, “You wanted equality—now you got it.” Those theories are ridiculous and only partially true.

———-

    Oh come now.

    The hopeless romantic isn’t dead, he’s terrified. Female empowerment has finally taken a firm hold on his balls. There’s still more squeezing to come, I think, before women have a strong enough sense of identity to lessen the grip. It’s understandable—recovery from being treated as second class citizens does not come easy.

    The new woman scares him. This modern woman; Beyonce and all that. Man has always been terrified of women. Why else would he have oppressed them? Once he sees they’re not a threat, he can begin to reasses his own identity, and the cycle of gender evolution continues.

    Man is actually a sucker for romance, for grand gestures. Man is vain. Most gifts are vanity in disguise. Man loves to be loved. But that vanity, that need to be loved, is much more fragile in man than it is in woman. Man doesn’t watch romantic movies because man will simply crumble before the screen. Besides, man has his own media-enforced programming to cope with. Man’s social confusion is often overlooked, which is understandable because it is definitely not their turn.

    If I don’t stop here this’ll end up a book, so I’m stopping. Just be patient. Have a little faith. Man isn’t romantically retarded; man is retarded.

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    To check out the original post from the blog of Eleanor Gwyn-Jones, From a Corner of a Foreign Field, click here.

Published in: on August 12, 2011 at 12:58 am  Comments (3)  
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Second Coming

    My stomach muscles unclenched today as I climbed out of the shower. I can really feel my blood now. I feel as if my balls have dropped further.

    I’m 26 years’ old—I think. Today I became a man. Muscles relax and my feet plant firmly. Remember to breathe, Coene.

    Armed with such passive masculinity I could write a mountain. No cutesy shit. Just a big fucking mountain. I don’t need any tools, I’ll write with my blood. I can really feel my blood today.

    My girlfriend is a madwoman because she stays with me and I am an asshole. My dog is licking my hand; it’s disgusting and endearing. Outside some children are screaming at a sprinkler. They’re screaming at it but they are joyous. This is nonsense but they haven’t figured that out yet. I consider ordering a pizza. I probably will because I never consider pizza and then consider other things after it.

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