Another Loser's Lament
(This post was conceived while in a completely selfish mindset. I understand that the sentiments expressed below are in extremely poor taste and borderline on being “assholish”. However, that’s how the male mind works from time to time – or at least mine does anyway. To come to terms with the situation, I have attempted to confront and work through these negative feelings in this fashion to better understand the situation as a whole. Worse comes to worse – I’m just being the dick I was born to be, or in this case, the dick I should have been all along.)
Once, back in University, I started spending a lot of time with this girl named Sandra. We did practically everything together – apart from the usual “fun” stuff that most good amoral boy/girl friendships normally engage in.
That is to say, I wasn't gettin’ any.
I lacked that ability to lead the relationship into the next level. Of course, I mean the fabled “first base” that men so lovingly like to refer to it as. I was Darryl Strawberry stalled at first base waiting for the chance to take off for second. But, shit, I never even left home plate!
Apart from being beautiful, Sandra was extremely self-reliant and very assured of herself. She didn’t even so much as like to have a door held open for her. So, for a schmoopy ass old fashioned barf-o-matic such as myself, this meant that initiating those “tender” moments (such as kissing, petting, stroking, and hot anal action in back alleyways *) was never an easy thing to accomplish. I decided back then that I would have to figure out a way of kick-starting this whole process. So I set in motion a cunning plan to drive her into my arms.
I decided then to take her to a viewing of the just released ‘Schindler’s List’. It was perfect! She’d get all emotional and weepy-eyed, like chicks are apt to do, over the ensuing plight of the Jews that she would soon be seeking comfort in my strong masculine shoulders.
But to no avail - Sandra just sat there for three hours completely stonefaced. In fact, looking back at it now, I think she may actually have been cheering for the Nazi’s. I seem to remember seeing the faintest glimpse of a curled Grinch-like sneer, work its way across her face. The plan was beginning to spiral out of control.
To make matters worse, it was I who turned into the blubbering bag of mush as tears streamed from my eyes. I viewed most of the movie through a blurry veil of tears while Sandra sat there motionless planning her next strike on Whoville. Obviously my plan was failing me. Not only did we not hook up that evening, but I also had to over up with some weak line about having popcorn salt in my eye.
After that, Sandra and I didn’t see so much of one another. I lost myself in the usual male ritual of drug-induced inebriation while Sandra went off and joined a militant White Supremacist group.
Advance thirteen years to present day.
Now, I have been spending similar time with another female companion. As with Sandra, we have a, so far, clearly established plutonic relationship. Although, like every other blind optimist, I have always maintained in the back of my head that we would still make a great couple should we ever choose to go down that avenue.
As with Sandra, this situation has never come about.
But not through any misgivings on my behalf mind you. After thirteen years of romancing bottles of Cocoa butter, I’d happily date a syphilitic donkey. She, however, has always had a reason or two on why our relationship works best on a stringent “friends only” basis. Either I wasn’t “geeky” enough, or handsome enough, or responsible enough, or fun enough, or that I smoke too much pot. Whatever – there was always something about me that just didn’t register as potential boyfriend material with her. Fair enough.
Apparently, though, I just wasn’t Lesbian enough.
How’s that for a blow to my fragile male ego? Not exactly the encouragement I need to give up my precious marijuana now is it? Christ, I need it now more than ever!
Perhaps I should first explain things a bit further.
This current female friend of mine, during our time together, has become very important to me. For all intensive purposes we’ve been living out the boyfriend-girlfriend camaraderie thing for over a year now, only without the obvious fleshy benefits. Bosom buddies as it were. Pretty much par for the course where I’m concerned. Apart from the cleaning lady at work, she’s the only dose of femininity that I experience on a day-to-day basis.
As such, I often use her as the benchmark with which to base all my other prospective dates against **. I know she didn’t ask for that responsibility, but I think that that old adage that a “man looks for somebody resembling his mother” is just fucking creepy. Lets get one thing straight here – I have never, now or ever, wanted to bang my mother. And anyone who suggests that I do, regardless of what the Ph.D. diploma on his or her wall may suggest, can just bite me.
Likewise, I don’t want to bone my cleaning lady either.
So here is a girl for whom, despite being a good friend, is someone who in the back of my mind would be a great potential life partner. That’s not such a terrible notion is it? So why then isn’t she capable of feeling the same way about me?
Yesterday, I noticed a hickey on her neck. Oh fuck.
She proceeded to explain to me that the hickey on her neck had in fact been left by another woman during some hot lesbo weekend tryst. Oh fuckity fuck.
My precious machismo imploded in on itself like a ceramic vase at 200 fathoms. All my ugly insecurities rushed to the surface like an erupting volcano. What am I doing so wrong that even my close female confidants don’t even view me as a viable mate?
Am I that big a risk? I seem to literally repel women like opposite poles of a magnet.
What do I have to do exactly to convince girls that I am, in fact, all man? I do all the regular manly stuff. I scratch all the appropriate places, watch the mandatory amount of sporting broadcasts, I can fart on cue, I can grill a steak during a Category Five hurricane, and the center of my universe revolves around my Charlie Brown’s. What am I doing so wrong?
Likewise, I also have that oh-so-important touch of quiet feminine sensitivity that women seem to crave. After thirteen-fucking-years I have become a regular Martha-fucking-Stewart! Shit, I can cook, clean, knit, sew, and have been known to cry during sad movies – so put that in your Crockpot and smoke it! If I were in any more touch with my feminine side I would have grown ovaries by now.
By all standards - at least those that I’ve managed to recognize by reading Cosmo in line at the Supermarket - I have it all. I make myself available, I care, I empathize, I communicate, I try to understand her needs, I try to remember to lift the toilet seat before peeing, and I know more than just your basic missionary sex position ***. Aside from my ever-expanding ass lately, I feel as if I’ve got my datable bases covered.
And yet, she still seeks out another woman with which to satisfy her womanly desires. It’s every man’s nightmare come true.
This friend has tried to explain to me previously that it’s a simple case of our relationship lacking “chemistry”. Now I’m no Henry Cavendish, so am I alone here in wondering what this whole chemistry thing is all about? Or is this just lesbian code or something? I thought we were trying to appreciate and understand one another, not discovering new isotopes.
Now, I realize how stupid this all sounds. And, given the required time to get over it, I will continue to be happy and support her no matter what should transpire. I may be an asshole, but I’m a loyal open kinda asshole. But there’s still that little nagging voice in the back of my head that demands satisfaction – namely, what the fuck do women want exactly?
At the rate my understanding of women is developing, by the time I talk my way into someone’s bed my penis will have rusted off completely and be of little to no use to me anyway.
For the time being, I have to consul myself over the fact that even my best friend would rather munch bush than consider me as a viable dating option. And at the moment, that’s a bitter pill for my poor bruised ego to swallow. Not that there was ever any swallowing going on in the first place.
I guess there’s nothing I can really do but suck it up, get over myself, and carry on bid’ness as usual; carrying my wilted pride before me like a drum major’s baton.
Onward sissy soldiers…or something like that.
What else is there to do? It’s only a short step away from totally giving up on the whole dating thing altogether and shutting myself in with my $39.99 mail order ‘Penis Pump’ for good.
But, hey, at least the door has now been opened for the possibility of a little hot three-way action. At the very least, perhaps I could convince the girls to yodel 'The Lonely Goatherd' outside the bathroom door while I masturbate by myself with the Cocoa butter.
Lay ee odl lay ee odl lay hee hoo ...
* Hey, I was 19 years old and a whole lot more gregarious in nature. I could achieve wood in nanoseconds. I had all your normal budding male sexuality fantasies. Now, I’d consider a simple hand job during commercial breaks to be kinky.
** Exactly zero in over four years. I’m really tearing up the dating scene.
*** Okay - busted. I saw them in a porno movie once, okay?
Once, back in University, I started spending a lot of time with this girl named Sandra. We did practically everything together – apart from the usual “fun” stuff that most good amoral boy/girl friendships normally engage in.
That is to say, I wasn't gettin’ any.
I lacked that ability to lead the relationship into the next level. Of course, I mean the fabled “first base” that men so lovingly like to refer to it as. I was Darryl Strawberry stalled at first base waiting for the chance to take off for second. But, shit, I never even left home plate!
Apart from being beautiful, Sandra was extremely self-reliant and very assured of herself. She didn’t even so much as like to have a door held open for her. So, for a schmoopy ass old fashioned barf-o-matic such as myself, this meant that initiating those “tender” moments (such as kissing, petting, stroking, and hot anal action in back alleyways *) was never an easy thing to accomplish. I decided back then that I would have to figure out a way of kick-starting this whole process. So I set in motion a cunning plan to drive her into my arms.
I decided then to take her to a viewing of the just released ‘Schindler’s List’. It was perfect! She’d get all emotional and weepy-eyed, like chicks are apt to do, over the ensuing plight of the Jews that she would soon be seeking comfort in my strong masculine shoulders.
But to no avail - Sandra just sat there for three hours completely stonefaced. In fact, looking back at it now, I think she may actually have been cheering for the Nazi’s. I seem to remember seeing the faintest glimpse of a curled Grinch-like sneer, work its way across her face. The plan was beginning to spiral out of control.
To make matters worse, it was I who turned into the blubbering bag of mush as tears streamed from my eyes. I viewed most of the movie through a blurry veil of tears while Sandra sat there motionless planning her next strike on Whoville. Obviously my plan was failing me. Not only did we not hook up that evening, but I also had to over up with some weak line about having popcorn salt in my eye.
After that, Sandra and I didn’t see so much of one another. I lost myself in the usual male ritual of drug-induced inebriation while Sandra went off and joined a militant White Supremacist group.
Advance thirteen years to present day.
Now, I have been spending similar time with another female companion. As with Sandra, we have a, so far, clearly established plutonic relationship. Although, like every other blind optimist, I have always maintained in the back of my head that we would still make a great couple should we ever choose to go down that avenue.
As with Sandra, this situation has never come about.
But not through any misgivings on my behalf mind you. After thirteen years of romancing bottles of Cocoa butter, I’d happily date a syphilitic donkey. She, however, has always had a reason or two on why our relationship works best on a stringent “friends only” basis. Either I wasn’t “geeky” enough, or handsome enough, or responsible enough, or fun enough, or that I smoke too much pot. Whatever – there was always something about me that just didn’t register as potential boyfriend material with her. Fair enough.
Apparently, though, I just wasn’t Lesbian enough.
How’s that for a blow to my fragile male ego? Not exactly the encouragement I need to give up my precious marijuana now is it? Christ, I need it now more than ever!
Perhaps I should first explain things a bit further.
This current female friend of mine, during our time together, has become very important to me. For all intensive purposes we’ve been living out the boyfriend-girlfriend camaraderie thing for over a year now, only without the obvious fleshy benefits. Bosom buddies as it were. Pretty much par for the course where I’m concerned. Apart from the cleaning lady at work, she’s the only dose of femininity that I experience on a day-to-day basis.
As such, I often use her as the benchmark with which to base all my other prospective dates against **. I know she didn’t ask for that responsibility, but I think that that old adage that a “man looks for somebody resembling his mother” is just fucking creepy. Lets get one thing straight here – I have never, now or ever, wanted to bang my mother. And anyone who suggests that I do, regardless of what the Ph.D. diploma on his or her wall may suggest, can just bite me.
Likewise, I don’t want to bone my cleaning lady either.
So here is a girl for whom, despite being a good friend, is someone who in the back of my mind would be a great potential life partner. That’s not such a terrible notion is it? So why then isn’t she capable of feeling the same way about me?
Yesterday, I noticed a hickey on her neck. Oh fuck.
She proceeded to explain to me that the hickey on her neck had in fact been left by another woman during some hot lesbo weekend tryst. Oh fuckity fuck.
My precious machismo imploded in on itself like a ceramic vase at 200 fathoms. All my ugly insecurities rushed to the surface like an erupting volcano. What am I doing so wrong that even my close female confidants don’t even view me as a viable mate?
Am I that big a risk? I seem to literally repel women like opposite poles of a magnet.
What do I have to do exactly to convince girls that I am, in fact, all man? I do all the regular manly stuff. I scratch all the appropriate places, watch the mandatory amount of sporting broadcasts, I can fart on cue, I can grill a steak during a Category Five hurricane, and the center of my universe revolves around my Charlie Brown’s. What am I doing so wrong?
Likewise, I also have that oh-so-important touch of quiet feminine sensitivity that women seem to crave. After thirteen-fucking-years I have become a regular Martha-fucking-Stewart! Shit, I can cook, clean, knit, sew, and have been known to cry during sad movies – so put that in your Crockpot and smoke it! If I were in any more touch with my feminine side I would have grown ovaries by now.
By all standards - at least those that I’ve managed to recognize by reading Cosmo in line at the Supermarket - I have it all. I make myself available, I care, I empathize, I communicate, I try to understand her needs, I try to remember to lift the toilet seat before peeing, and I know more than just your basic missionary sex position ***. Aside from my ever-expanding ass lately, I feel as if I’ve got my datable bases covered.
And yet, she still seeks out another woman with which to satisfy her womanly desires. It’s every man’s nightmare come true.
This friend has tried to explain to me previously that it’s a simple case of our relationship lacking “chemistry”. Now I’m no Henry Cavendish, so am I alone here in wondering what this whole chemistry thing is all about? Or is this just lesbian code or something? I thought we were trying to appreciate and understand one another, not discovering new isotopes.
Now, I realize how stupid this all sounds. And, given the required time to get over it, I will continue to be happy and support her no matter what should transpire. I may be an asshole, but I’m a loyal open kinda asshole. But there’s still that little nagging voice in the back of my head that demands satisfaction – namely, what the fuck do women want exactly?
At the rate my understanding of women is developing, by the time I talk my way into someone’s bed my penis will have rusted off completely and be of little to no use to me anyway.
For the time being, I have to consul myself over the fact that even my best friend would rather munch bush than consider me as a viable dating option. And at the moment, that’s a bitter pill for my poor bruised ego to swallow. Not that there was ever any swallowing going on in the first place.
I guess there’s nothing I can really do but suck it up, get over myself, and carry on bid’ness as usual; carrying my wilted pride before me like a drum major’s baton.
Onward sissy soldiers…or something like that.
What else is there to do? It’s only a short step away from totally giving up on the whole dating thing altogether and shutting myself in with my $39.99 mail order ‘Penis Pump’ for good.
But, hey, at least the door has now been opened for the possibility of a little hot three-way action. At the very least, perhaps I could convince the girls to yodel 'The Lonely Goatherd' outside the bathroom door while I masturbate by myself with the Cocoa butter.
Lay ee odl lay ee odl lay hee hoo ...
* Hey, I was 19 years old and a whole lot more gregarious in nature. I could achieve wood in nanoseconds. I had all your normal budding male sexuality fantasies. Now, I’d consider a simple hand job during commercial breaks to be kinky.
** Exactly zero in over four years. I’m really tearing up the dating scene.
*** Okay - busted. I saw them in a porno movie once, okay?
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