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Archive for the ‘Men’ Category

Bits on Men

I like men. In fact, I love men, collectively as a gender and individually. A father, three brothers and two sons were born male, and great, and many of my best friends are men. I have up-close-and-personal loved some amazing men. Men contribute to the world in ways appropriate to half the human population, and the art, lit, music, science, discovery and more that have issued from men over the centuries form the basis of what we like to think of as civilization. (For some thoughts on why there’s an imbalance of input from women, take a read through A Room of One’s Own, or any bit of history of our species.)

I adore men’s bodies, can be enraptured by their minds, find conversation with members of that opposite sex entertaining, compelling and often instructive. The smell of them is seductive, the sight can be alluring and their touch can bring sparkle to a day and spark a fire in a dark night that sets me to glowing.

Yes, men are wonderful …

but … and here’s the caveat we all knew was coming …

… there appears to be a marked tendency to jettison wonderful when women aren’t looking … or when women have no power to slap them upside the head on a regular basis.

Whether it be a mother, wife, an Empress or a best friend, having a woman’s perspective perched on one shoulder seems to greatly temper temptations touted by that other-shoulder-devil, the male … what? … ego? imperative?

Although an extreme example, a common practice in Afghanistan makes a point:

It’s after midnight. I’m at a wedding party in a remote village in northern Afghanistan.

There is no sign of the bride or groom, or any women, only men. Some of them are armed, some of them are taking drugs.

Almost everyone’s attention is focused on a 15-year-old boy. He’s dancing for the crowd in a long and shiny woman’s dress, his face covered by a red scarf.

He is wearing fake breasts and bells around his ankles. Someone offers him some US dollars and he grabs them with his teeth.

This is an ancient tradition. People call it bachabaze which literally means “playing with boys”.

The most disturbing thing is what happens after the parties. Often the boys are taken to hotels and sexually abused.

The men behind the practice are often wealthy and powerful. Some of them keep several bachas (boys) and use them as status symbols – a display of their riches. The boys, who can be as young as 12, are usually orphans or from very poor families.

It’s no question that women in Afghanistan have no power. Men in that country don’t have the worry of a wife or mother or female casual observer pointing out that they’re jerks. No, they can debauch with gay abandon. And they do.

“Bachabaze” is slavery, prostitution, evil … and, apparently, an acceptable hobby.

“Some people like dog fighting, some practice cockfighting. Everyone has their hobby, for me, it’s bachabaze,” …

EveryONE, of course, meaning every man.

Yep, all fun and games.

Will even the gentlest male go feral without the taming influence of woman? Does removing women from an equation assure a downward spiral toward decadence?

It would seem so when one considers the consequences of war and the proclivities of male-dominated institutions … the catholic church comes to mind. (See this report on mass rape now happening in the DRC and just about any old news source for info on sex abuse in the church.)

Historically speaking, some might cite Sparta as an example of male rule pulling off something special, but contrary modern perceptions it wasn’t a lack of female power that allowed the rise of that society.

“During the times of the ancient Greeks, women were generally considered inferior to men and afforded very few rights and privileges. In these male dominated societies, a woman’s only function was to bear children and attend to the needs of her husband. However, the Spartans thought very highly of their women and granted them more freedoms than anywhere else in Greece. This is because unlike the women in other cities, Spartan women played an active role in the life of the polis. The role of Spartan women was not merely to produce male warriors, but to uphold Spartan ideals and ensure that the men maintained the standards which Spartan society was built upon.”

While the Greeks were doing the Greek thing and letting Arisotle set the patriarchal tone, down in Egypt things were far different, which may be why anal sex is not referred to as “the Egyptian thing” …

Egypt left no philosophical record, but Herodotus left a record of his shock at the contrast between the roles of Egyptian women and the women of Athens. He observed that they attended market and were employed in trade. In ancient Egypt a middle-class woman might sit on a local tribunal, engage in real estate transactions, and inherit or bequeath property. Women also secured loans, and witnessed legal documents.

Yes, I love men, but I do worry about them. Left to their own devices, they seem to lack sense, and stick them in an environment where no women have any say over anything that goes on and things can deteriorate rapidly.

The thing is, it seems that men are actually happier when not left to those devices. They live longer, are more productive and off themselves half as often.

So, although men may rail at the thought of a world … or a house … in which women have equal power, it’s a partnership of the sexes that can make life on this planet livable.

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I’ve been pondering lately what it means to be a woman. Some might think I’d have a grip on this, given how long I’ve been one, but there are times when the convolutions of gender are illusive.

On one hand, reflections of my womanhood are simple and typical; I love my kids, only feel comfortable with body hair from my eyes up, enjoy chilled white wine and am okay with crying my eyes out when prompted to do so.

On the other hand .. well, I’m confused, because on the other hand is the OTHER gender and the spanner interaction with that half of the population throws into my works leaves me at a loss … of a whole bunch of stuff. As some have gathered, yet another relationship has ended, this one after almost two years, and I’m trying very hard to figure out what portion of this painful termination I could ever have hoped to control … after all, life is supposed to be a learning experience … and how much woman-ness vs man-ness influences processes.

So … do I just know how to pick ’em, or were men put on this earth to disappoint? Is it the woman in me that forces me to demand sweet things bring joy with the calories and not be fatal? Does the other sex have as little control over a compulsion to put the “man” in manifest destiny?

There’s no shortage of information on the biological imperative, that overripe old plum (and here I can’t help but envision a scrotum … sorry ’bout that) insisting men are driven to conquer, and conquer often. If I had a nickel for every time I’ve been told I should understand “a fuck is just a fuck, but love is love”, well, I’d be able to fill a sack that could leave a nasty bruise upside a head.

A quick search leaves no doubt that I’m far from the only person pondering, as questions like “Can you love someone and cheat on them?” are asked, and answered, often … and not just in the depths of a soul.

Does it make sense for guys to go along with the idea that they will never have sex with anyone else ever again, when the biological imperative of the male is to mate with as wide a variety of partners as possible.

At the same time, the biological imperative of the female is to find a man who will stay with her and provide for her children, and a man who is mating with other women may be tempted to instead provide for the children he has with one of those other women.

So what is love? Love is the insane state of the male to agree to violate his biological imperative to meet her biological imperative. So by this definition, if you’re willing to have sex with another woman, you can’t be in love, but OTOH, if you’re willing to give up the opportunity to have sex with other women, you’re insane.

Citing the Coolidge Effect, it could seem we … women, that is … are doomed to disappointment.

Human males experience a post-ejaculatory refractory period after sex. They are incapable of engaging in sex with the same female after ejaculation and require time to recover full sexual function. In popular reference, the Coolidge effect is the well-documented phenomenon that the post-ejaculatory refractory period is reduced or eliminated if a separate female becomes available. This effect is cited by evolutionary biologists as a reason why males are more likely to desire sex with a greater number and variety of partners than females.

Considering that a great deal of the research establishing this “well-documented phenomenon” was based on studies of rats … well … you get my point.

In case you don’t, it’s this …

Humans have … theoretically … evolved beyond the base drives of rats and dogs and pigs. Men have managed to learn not to pull down their pants and shit every time they feel the need (although peeing can still be a bit of an issue), and most can walk down a street without threatening every male passing through “their” territory. Men can create beautiful music, art, literature, spiritually project themselves into dimensions of peaceful contemplation of the wonders of the universe, plumb the depths of grief and comprehend and incorporate the emotions of those around them.

So, is it simply a blood flow problem? Does even the most insignificant penis require the full essence of a man to stand at attention? And must that attention preclude every other important detail in a life? (When it comes to human bodies rather than celestial, “waxing” has such different connotations for men and women.)

In the words of the immortal Dorothy Parker:

Woman wants monogamy
Man delights in novelty.
Love is a woman’s moon and sun;
Man has other forms of fun.
Woman lives but in her lord;
Count to ten and man is bored.
With this the gist and sum of it,
What earthly good can come of it?

What earthly good? Indeed …

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“Two years on a tightrope”

Tensile strength’s a wondrous thing
when strung ‘tween heav’n and hell
and balancing upon a string
has often served me well

I’ve found a step in some directions
moves me toward a goal
(though a predilection for erections
leaves me less than whole … )

Scampering back a step or two
toward heaven? or toward hell?
and I’m remembering what I knew …
All lessons learned too well.

On one end, there’s my future
the other holds my past
but either end can injure
and both could be my last

I’ve walked the rope almost two years
between his needs and mine
broken promises and tears
unraveling the twine

Possible? It never was,
with this I learned to cope,
withstanding lies and all because
our world was hung on hope

The tensile strength is ebbing
the tightrope’s come undone
it’s loosed the complex webbing
keeping he and me as one

It’s snapped, that rope, and left me
hanging inches from the earth
My safety net has saved me;
still in tact and know my worth

There’ll someday be another
with the strands all forged anew
Yes, there will be other lovers
and, yes, someone will be true

“Faded Blues”

The color has all drained away
no blues, no blacks, no shades of red
The world is now a dreary gray
because I have to heed my head

The music’s gone, I’ve lost the tune
There’ll be no dancing neath the moon
And why? Because the colors lie …
they hide the truth behind their dye …
because the music, by and by,
would leave me dancing all alone
and for such times I would atone.

I’ll find some color somewhere, true,
some music once again will flow
and when it does I’ll say I knew …
back at a time the world was gold
and full of so much wondrous stuff …
a magic man who was my world
loved me, but just not quite enough.

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Me younger

After having some 20-something-Eastern-European-wannabe-porn-queen-facebook-crawler point out to me that I’m older than Ernesto, apparently thinking attempts to reveal her skanky bits on webcam will win his heart … good luck with that, Bitch … I cast my mind back to a time when I was really bloody cute — pretty much most of the years between 13 and sometime last week — remembering the effect youthful beauty can have. (Not that she’s a beauty, but she is young and has a decent enough body she exhibits indiscriminately, although with the chest of a 12-year-old boy and destined to be terminally hag-like before she’s 45 … but that’s her problem. And it’s amazing, and pitiful, how many of these sleazy bags are insistently chatty with their cyber heros).

I have no problem being who, what and how old I am; conversely, I’m rather proud of all that stuff. I am not young, and although the world is full of girls who still are, their days are numbered. I’m not saying there’s any great advantage in age, simply that it happens, as does life in the process.

As Yoda said: Luminous beings are we; not this crude matter.

Crude matter that begins to decay immediately, is subject to stresses and toxins and gravity, the effects of which have more to do with our genes than we yet understand. (“Crude” being also otherwise definable, however, we can be happy enough with our matter a lot of the time. I’m a big fan of crude between consenting adults.)

It’s true, however, that the Sandra I am now doesn’t look as much like the Sandra I once was as I might like.

Recently a story popped up that reminded me again of what it’s like to be young and beautiful … as opposed to not-so-young and beautiful.

The setting is Disney land, and the story is about a 27-year-old woman not one bit happy after Donald Duck grabbed her boob.

“Who are the strange people in the furry costumes at Disney World, and are they pervs?

I’m not clear on how boob grabbing happens with the sort of mitts a Donald impersonator must wear to pull off the look, and I’m pretty sure it takes a certain je ne sais quack to opt for walking around in a duck suit for a living. I’m also not getting why this chick is being so fowl about the whole thing, unless the fact that he never wears pants has her freaked.

But this isn’t about the Romanian tramp, the Disneyland babe, or even about ducks … it’s about me and Goofy, some guys in stripes … and a monster.

It was a while back, for sure, as my gorgeous nephew, Colin, was about 4 at the time, and I was in L.A. doing the fam viz thing. Keeping to the tradition of the day, we headed to the Happiest Place on Earth, home to Mickey and Minnie, for a day of getting nauseous in teacups and going to hell with Mr. Toad.

It was far from the realm of my personal Fantasy Land, but somewhere near the border where Frontier Land meets New Orleans Square I was accosted by Goofy. He took me in his somewhat floppy arms, shoved his gigantic plastic nose toward my chest and started mumbling something that sounded … well … goofy.

My nephew was not pleased, thinking that he should be the one with such a photo op, so we soon moved along toward the frozen banana stand. A few minutes later, Goofy joined us on the bench, moved, maybe, by the sight of me eating a chocolate-covered banana on a stick. We eventually gave him the shake at Autopia where Colin outraced me, hands down.

Eventually, it was time for our day of the Diz to end, so we headed down Main Street where my brother did nothing to defend my honor when I was grabbed by the strolling Barbershop Quartet, plopped on the knee of the tenor and had “Baby Face” belted out around me… in four part harmony … as a crowd gathered, my brother snickered and I blushed.

And you know what? I wasn’t angry. I didn’t contemplate a lawsuit. In fact, I considered the day excellent in every way.

Two days later, it was Universal Studios for us all, and there things got a bit scarier … for my nephew. Every time we got off a tram or exited from an attraction, Frankenstein was there … pawing at me … growling in his mask. For a four-year-old, this wasn’t funny, and the sight of his auntie being monster-mashed had him in enough of a panic to send us scurrying for lunch.

I’d not thought of those adventures in a while, but even though over the years there have been plenty of men who’ve pursued me … some successfully … there’s something special knowing I’ve been desired by sweaty guys in costume.

So …

My thoughts on getting groped by a Disney character? Be happy Daisy didn’t slap the shit out of you.

My advice to slimy bitches slithering around the web, thinking that youth wins out? I don’t have any. Instead, I have my memories …

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Cry babies: men and tears

Andy, Gay and I were on the veranda recently, talking, as we do, on the familiar topic of the differences between men and women when the issue of tears came up.

Gay’s sister had phoned from California bawling her eyes out, an immediate cause for concern right up until the time Gay realized she was crying for joy at a bit of good news; an emotional response to which Gay and I well relate, but put Andy at a bit of a loss. Having no recollection of ever shedding tears at happy moments, a revelation that had us pondering the possibility that going all weepy when all goes really right just might be a girl thing, he found the whole reaction familiar as an observer, but still odd.

Remembering moments from my daughter’s wedding, a joyful occasion, I know I was leaking like a garden hose, while her dad … having supplied me with a brand new hanky, correctly predicting precipitation … smiled broadly through the ceremony, managing to walk back down the isle sans the red nose I snuffled on my way out.

I cried more than my babies when first presented with each one, dripped my way through their graduations, dissolved when greeting people at the airport, blubbered when given wonderful gifts and dehydrated myself on many of the happier occasions life has kindly offered up. Even a story of someone else’s happiness can get me going glassy-eyed.

The thing is, I love those tears that spring from joy, and found myself feeling more than a little sorry for guys if, indeed, they miss out on this version of waterworks.

Coincidentally, a couple of things have crossed my radar this morning that give some hope … or not … that guys do go all squishy from time to time without having lost a World Cup match.

Although it seems to be sad stuff that jerks the tears when it comes to movies, at least some guys do drop immunity when sufficiently manipulated:

~Bob~
I’m a 48-year-old man, ex-rugby player and motorcycle racer and I admit that Babe did it for me. Right at the end when the farmer says “That’ll do Pig”, I start welling up at the thought of it.

There's always the butch smart ass, of course:

~David, Glasgow~
The bit in The Italian Job where the Mafia smash Michael Caine’s Aston Martin and the two E-Types had me crying like a baby.

For real proof of joy, however, a video making the rounds lets us listen in while one mountain man … well, a man in mountains, anyway … overflows.

I have some suspicion that there may have been an illegal substance or two involved in his reaction, and, given the duration of his outburst, a bit of slammin’ the salmon going on … but maybe that’s just me being hardhearted.

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Like night-dwelling lepidoptera to manufactured light sources, speculation on male fascination with and use of today’s version of porn … social networking sites … sparks often these days in camps both male and female.

Many shelves could fill the space from Mars to Venus and back again with tomes expounding on the vast distance between male and female perspective on the territorial imperative, base animal urges, the socialization processes that sees years of development drop faster than boxer shorts, but no matter how much reading goes into the study, we women just don’t get it.

The penis-bearing population tends to rhyme monogamy with monotony, with an added stanza involving mahogany … wood carrying the obvious gravitas.

Women, on the other hand, are more likely to bring numbers into play, as in “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways … “, considering the forest rather than focusing on that single bit of timber:

If two stand shoulder to shoulder against the gods,
Happy together, the gods themselves are helpless
Against them while they stand so.

Truth be told, though, men don’t get it either. Ask a man why in the world he would chance hurting the woman he loves, jeopardize a relationship he treasures, and perhaps a big chunk of worldly wealth, as well, over hours of bullshit conversation that just, perhaps, might lead to a video call gaze at the privates of a woman hundreds if not thousands of miles away who is pitiful … or bored … enough to comply with a request for a viewing and his answer is more than likely to sound something like: When you put it that way, it does sound pretty stupid.

Much like boys on the verge of manhood run home after school with the hope of spanking the monkey in every room of the house before Mom finishes work, grown men who should be well beyond amazement at their own erections are caging time alone to facebook themselves stiff.

One dear friend consults often with me, looking for clues to his own perfidy. Married for a decade to a woman he adores, he has, so far, been physically incapable of consummating … in the real world … any of the many trysts he perpetually pursues through the pathetic porthole of everyone’s favorite social network, but that hasn’t stopped him from trawling daily for new fodder for fictitious fucks. His wife, of course, twigged to prolonged chat sessions that sometimes resulted in sticky tissues littering the lounge, and was, not surprisingly, insulted.

He is as confused as his wife is concerned over what even he admits is an unreasonable compulsion for virtual versions of conquest, but insisting, when not pressed to justify honestly, that it’s innocent fun. The theory that it amounts to nothing less that a virtual version of cheating doesn’t sit well.

Many of the women discussing their mate’s online activities do so with an amusement often reserved for naughty boys.

“As long as he doesn’t cum all over my keyboard, I don’t care what he does,” says one sensible woman. “It’s cheaper than golf and not as embarrassing as him trying to look cool at the local disco.”

When asked about the idea that time spent with other women online shows little respect for the real life relationship, opinions differ. Some wives wax philosophical, suggesting that the women who make themselves available for such shallow interactions are no more than animated porn that can answer back … an interactive video game … and since men come complete with joystick, the temptation to play is just too strong for their little minds.

Others rail against their men spending time and energy on women not them, appalled by the subterfuge involved, disturbed about the apparent desperation for ego-boosting, perhaps resenting the sex they’re not getting from men sated by Rosie Palm and her five sisters.

Online retaliation is one tactic employed when enough proves to be enough. Lord knows how easy it is to reel in gullible fish, and women with a high threshold for tedium may take to the Net in their spare time, as well. Post a few photos and … voila! … sad gits the world over will pant over your chat status, beg you to add them to your Skype contacts and pour out carefully chosen tidbits of their life story in anguished longing for … well … for what is often sitting in the next room, but just a bit TOO real.

Perhaps because men are a bit slow and all this “social interaction” seems so new, so exciting, so challenging (in such an unchallenging way), self control that may eventually develop has yet to gain a foot hold.

Or …

Maybe providing the chance to cheat from a distance, pretend to be whoever and whatever the imagination can create and proclaim innocence since no physical interaction can yet happen virtually is a gift from the gods.

Is this why humans evolved big brains, opposable thumbs and pendulous penises? Probably.

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