gender [in]equality

I’m not a feminist and I’m not a misogynist. Honest! I honestly believe that women are superior to men in many, many ways. There was an accurate description summarizing the not-so-subtle difference between the sexes in a book I once read: “A man is a thing;a woman is a being.” The longer you live the more it dawns on you just how true this is. 

In any way it’s fairly obvious that a stupid man is far worse than a stupid woman. Hear me out. A stupid man is a public menace; he’s an incompetent, deluded primate limited by his lesser drives and aggression, capable only of inflicting pain onto those around him. At the same time a stupid woman can become a highly skilled housewife, model (yeah, I said it, so sue me), caregiver, artist or PR consultant, basing all of her achievements on nothing more than intuition and belief in the good in people.

The main problem stems from the fact that men and women are stupid in different ways. Stupidity in the latter is actually closer to what we usually refer to as ignorance and thus goes hand in hand with an almost blissful delight in discovering the earthly delights of the world while remaining unaware of all repercussions. Women’s stupidity is simple ignorance without malice – truthful inability to understand coupled with lack of desire to learn. Hence all the stories and sayings that it’s impossible to convince or teach a woman anything she;s not willing to consider.

Male stupidity is a whole other story – it’s overpowering, permeating and, above all, active. If you were to open any of the numerous online dictionaries you’ll notice at the core of the definition of ‘stupidity’ is some type of illogical, unintelligent and/or poorly thought-through action

This is why women rely on the foolproof tactic of finding someone who seems to have a better understanding of things than them and hitch a ride or lay low and wait for things to change. Men, however, run around hectically and wreck emotional and all other sorts of havoc due to inability to stay put and simply do nothing. Do the math which scenario leads to worse results in the long run.

What’s worth mentioning is that in intelligent men and women things are in reverse, meaning that smart men are generally more equipped to do something productive with their mind than women. In this case being passive, which is their trademark, keeps the latter from exploring the full potential of their intelligence.

Fortunately, the construct of the world is such that smart people are far less than stupid one, and since we already established that stupid women are better than stupid men, it’s safe to deduce that the present paradigm is well sustained.

What was my point again? Ah, yes – women are better than men in so many, many ways..

 

a fairy-tale, sort of

She always knew when he was with Her. Not physically per se, but in his mind and heart. It was in those moments that he became aggressive, detached and rough – pinning her down and turning the bed into a war zone. He was trying to extinguish his unhealthy attachment, to erase Her image – from his mind and life, strip it down and tear it apart until there was nothing but an aching scar in its place. She pursed her lips and took it, afraid to admit even to herself that she was enjoying this torture. Afterwards she was always quick to reassure him with her eyes that it was OK. Not that he seemed to care.

Inside her his movements were slow, deliberate; he listened to her sighs and barely audible moans and stroked her with tenderness he didn’t think he had in himself. Every time he wished they could stay connected like this until the end of time. She felt ethereal next to him; he needed physical validation that she was there. Albeit a short-lasting one.

He was careful to avoid all the places where he used to go with Her.Everything needed to be different. New. Unique. Luckily she didn’t resemble Her in anything. Different figure, brown instead of blue eyes, long straight instead of short and curly hair. Her features were so delicate she looked like a fair-skinned figurine; it took him a while to get used to handling her as he wasn’t fond of being careful. Sometimes he would think of Her generous curves and hour-glass frame. She was as different on the inside as she was on the outside – anxious, restless and fleeting like the surface of the ocean on a windy day. Nothing was what it seemed with her. He was unable to forgive her for nothing being like He, but loved her for who she was.

She often fantasized about talking with Her and so did he. A desperate attempt at seeking out the ‘why’ they hoped would fill the numerous cracks in their turbulent relationship. A vain one too as She had no interest in speaking to either of them. She had moved on; they were the ones who were stuck. He wished he could see them next to each other to know for sure if he had made the right decision. Not to compare them – no one can be better or worse than someone else; people are just different and he was perfectly aware of that. But he needed some sort of reassurance.

– Why do you put up with all of this? – he would often ask her.

– I love you. – she would reply.

– How is that even possible. I am so cruel to you.

– That’s all you have left.

– What if She never loosens her grip on me.

– She won’t, but it doesn’t matter.

One day he realized to his surprise he had pined her to the wall and was roughly slamming her against it not in an attempt to punish her (not her, of course, it wasn’t her fault…he was trying to punish himself), but because he had come to understand it was what she liked and expected from him.

He sighed with relief. Outside the dawn was breaking. Both of them had this renewed hope now everything would be different. And new. 

domestic disputes

It’s unnerving to live with a person who says: “There’s never anything to eat in the house.”

It’s tiring to live with a person who says: “There’s nothing to eat around here. Don’t forget to pick something on your way home.”

It’s nice to live with a person who says: “We’re out of food. Shall I get take-out or do you feel like eating out?”

the magic is gone

It’s surreal to run into the one who got away. Remember her? You used to fall asleep buried in her hair and breathing in her scent eagerly. Now you barely register a change in your pulse as you pass each other on the sidewalk. Its rhythm is the same as always – even, slow, monotonous..perhaps it skips a beat for a short moment as if you’re waiting, no, hoping for something that never comes to be.

It’s unreal to recognise those eyes, that voice, the hands you kissed in a daze not because they had done something exceptional, but simply because they were perfect with their gracious imperfections. She looks the same; in fact she hasn’t changed a bit, her movement, the way she answers her phone – all exactly the way you remember them. The way she frowns, smiles and pauses to ponder on something important – so painfully familiar, but void of that inexplicable power they once had over you.

A fleeting emotion, a barely distinguishable feeling of warmth, but nothing more. it’s weird to realise you would have fallen just as madly and deeply in love with her even if you had met her now. Yes, you’ve changed and yes – you’re wiser, but you know with certainty that you would’ve written poems, hoping she would read them because her opinion is the only one that matters. And you gaze in awe at the years that have passed when you ached for her presence in your life; now she’s here – as close to you as you had wished her to be numerous times – and it brings nothing of the longing for completeness and peace you hoped for.

Instead you’re able to observe her impartially just like a passing stranger. She doesn’t seem as dangerous as you thought her to be. All those little tricks she had up her sleeve to keep you in line and chasing after her, begging for approval – powerless. Her laughter flows melodically, but you pay no attention to her jokes; you don’t have to any more. You see her walking away while holding someone else’s hand and it doesn’t matter. The thought of this happening used to make you curl up in a fit of pain and now it puts a smile on your lips. Sure, you’re still attracted to her, but without the drama, the whirlwind of emotions, the anxiety. There’s not even a trace from the all-consuming rage and fear of rejection.

It’s as if a team of scientists working in a lab have removed a single molecule from the formula they’ve been developing and the liquid stopped fuming and bubbling. It’s pristinely clear and still now. The fire is still burning, but its flames are nourishingly warm instead of lethally consuming. It feels strange to be this close to her without dying inside.

Then you realize time has nothing to do with any of this..

everything must come naturally

I’m curious about the way she kisses. Is it unique? Is there or has it ever been anyone else who kisses just like she does? Can any man out there explain in disturbing details the way she locks lips with another human being? Does she know just how natural, necessary and deeply emotional experience kissing is? Perhaps she knew, but forgot at some point..

I remember us kissing casually few brief moments after we met. It was awkward and we were nervous, but pressing my lips against hers felt natural. I don’t think I’ve ever done this before I met her – casually lock lips with someone you’ve been friends with until that point. All of this seems so far away in the past. Her kisses disappeared. Or maybe they never existed; it was always me who initiated them at least. We concentrated on the intensity. The count and depth of penetration. All of these characteristics are closer to the nature of the agreement. Still, I find happiness in being with her..in kissing her.

Present-day literature and cinema show an unhealthy infatuation with a person’s ‘first love’. You see, we’re all led to believe that a woman never gets over her ‘first’ and that a man becomes one solely with his ‘first’ sexual partner. What a crock of steaming shit! I realize with striking calamity that it wasn’t until I was in my late 20s that I met the woman who showed me what sex..good sex and a real woman were supposed to be like. Too bad it turned out she could go without those kisses I so desperately crave and need. One time she kissed me on my back, right between the shoulder blades and now – in moments when I’m particularly aware of her absence – I can feel the spot burning. It seems that after all – it’s not the depth, count or intensity of penetration that show the level of emotional infatuation since all of them can be recreated perfectly with another partner. The kisses can’t, however, and remain the only true barometer for love, attachment and intimacy. Every person kisses differently and you can never erase that from your memory. When all else fades with time, the recollections of former lovers’ kisses remain just as vivid and palpable. Yes, I’m intrigued by the way she kisses. Some may even say it’s vital to my existence.

Another thing I’m curious about is her smile. Not her laughter or her reaction to a joke or a funny story, but her reaction of pure joy. Naturally, she smiles when she’s amused, but she never smiles when she’s content or happy. (actually, is she ever truly contented or happy?) She squints her eyes and lightly purses her lips as she looks away – it’s impossible to tell whether she actually enjoys or is fond of something. You can guess and try to recreate it to see if the reaction will be different – more emotional and sincere – but it won’t work. Everything is under control in her. Her emotions, her feelings, her reactions, her actions, her words and, I figure, even her thoughts. This often leads to the [almost] complete eradication of any emotion whatsoever. Negative and positive ones. Especially if you abuse this self-control for a long time. And there’s nothing more peculiar than the sight of an indifferent woman, believe me.

I’m curious about her emotions. Although I’m afraid to dig as I don’t think I’m able to face what I’m bound to find. Sometimes I dread that I may not find any emotion whatsoever. I don’t know which scares me more. Either way I have a feeling that the later I find out the truth – the better for me. I just can’t chase away the feeling of pity that she hasn’t made the most of the man that I came to be.

Where is her pleasure center? I imagine her inner world quite desolate and lonely – nothing but a serene fountain, surrounded neatly by an impenetrable wall of stones fitted so closely that there isn’t a single crack. Al access to this fountain is restricted with an iron gate, barbed wire and a numeric sequence. There isn’t even an escape route. And there are so many joys out there, waiting in the big bright world. Does she see them? Can she feel them? Does she take? Use? Receive? Consume? It would be such a pity if she didn’t..

I’m also curious about her deeds. It’s because she’s very careful to avoid any as well as anything else that she considers ‘too final’; ‘too engaging’ or ‘too formal’. She subtly passes from one state to the next, from one situation to another, gradually shifting her attitude and body language. Acting as if though ‘things just happen and we have to make due’; as if very little [if anything at all] is within our control. Such a chameleon – she just blends to the point, where you can safely assume this has always been her natural state as far as you know. Everything is seamless; everything falls perfectly into place. Except for you as you’ve never felt more uneasy in your entire life. She doesn’t..she can’t understand your predicament – “why make a fuss? things just happen” and there’s no pulling her out of this state of existence. Is there anything that can jolt her out of it? What would invoke a human, heart-felt reaction in her – these are the types of things I’m curious about.

Somewhere, deep below the calm surface lie the answers to all these questions. Reasons and justifications lie in an erratic pile she clearly doesn’t want to dig through. Or she doesn’t feel like it. It’s hard to say, but I have a feeling that in these depths there isn’t a single crack, vent or any outlet whatsoever – everything is sealed with stones and concrete – smooth, orderly and neat. There’s probably some quiet harmonic music in the background. And there’s nothing you can do about it.

This type of person who always blends with the surrounding reality is impossible to please. ‘Things just happen’ and she accepts them whether they cause her pain or happiness, because she’s given up on being in control of her life long ago. How can you convince such a person that the two of you can make one hell of a life together? … And I ache to see her smile; to taste her kisses; to feel her hand running through my hair; or to put my hand inside hers. I crave to sense an emotion in her voice, in her actions, in her movements.. ANYTHING. Either way she will give me exquisite pleasure because she’s mastered the technical side of things. But it’s not enough to make me happy. It’s so unfair that I can’t do the same for her. And I can’t chase away the fear that, sooner or later,  she’ll meet someone who’s perfectly capable. This will come naturally to him. Like everything else in her life.

 

 

it’s a feline thing

There is a common inclination to compare women to cats. Putting aside how pretentious this comparison is, there are undeniable arguments in favor of the wild theory. Of course, whether the creature prefers to purr on the couch or scratch the wallpaper in the living room is a matter of personal preference.

Drawing analogies between women and cats is as old as the world and borders on the line of cliché. As much as I adore both types of predators there are several elements in their common behavior that are quite alike.

Women as well as cats have either been worshiped or prosecuted for witchcraft.

It’s nice to have a woman as well as a cat in your bed.

When there’s a cat in your house you can never be sure what’s keeping her there – you or the warmth of the home.

Only women and cats can still maintain their dignity while begging.

When the cat presses against your feet you think she loves you, but she’s actually spreading her scent  to mark her property. Or maybe she loves you. Or maybe she’s just marking you. Is there a difference?

Both, in the spur of a heated argument, can be referred to as a ‘creature’.

Cats and women pass their entire lives, balancing between cautiousness and curiosity.

When you live with a cat or a woman you can never be sure if she’s living with you or you’re living with her.

Regardless of the fact that both are highly intelligent and intuitive, cats and women act mainly on their emotions.

Cats and women always expect something from men..And men expect them to simply..be there.

Cats and women always trim their fur, even when they’re not going out. Not that they’ll run to someone else, but who knows..

After the cat leaves you, all that’s left from her are few scattered hairs, chew toys and a litter box. And all those things are screaming at you how unjust and cruel you’ve been. Staring at them you wish you could hunt her down and beg for forgiveness till the end of time.

Cast and women will always test the boundaries of what’s acceptable and what they can get away with.

A cat can scratch out your eyes just because she’s in a bad mood. Afterwards she’ll curl up in a ball in your lap and you’ll forgive her everything.

If the cat is pressing herself against you too hard she either wants something or she’s feeling lonely. And you never know which one is it. She might have pissed in your shoes, but there’s no point holding a grudge about the past..Although the cat never forgets.

A cat cannot be convinced or forced. You have to be firm, but gentle with her. However, if you’re too firm she’s going to piss in your shoes and if you’re too gentle she’ll take advantage of you.

The cat will bring you a dead mouse once and spend the rest of her life convinced she’s provided for you.

You remember every cat who’s lived with you as a separate life despite the fact all cats were the same. Although the creatures were different after all. Go figure.

When she disappears, a cat leaves behind more questions than answers.

the right approach

Everyone at our high school were obsessed with her. All the boys drooled over her and all the girls fantasized about being her. It’s not that she was a flawless masterpiece, wasn’t even damn near perfection if you ask me, but there was a certain je ne sais quoi quality that gave her an intoxicating allure. You know the type – ephemeral, barely out-of-this-world and always just a fleeting step away from your fingers when you most wanted to touch her delicate skin. A moment later and she was gone, her summer-y scent lingering on long after recess was over and the corridors were empty.

There was an unspoken game of winning her over going on between all the seniors. There wasn’t a surviving male friendship in sight because of her; all the hormone-crazy teenagers were frenemies and secretly raiding their parents’ wallets every chance they got to try and impress her the old-fashioned way – by showering her with the type of silly obsolete stuff adolescent girls liked. It didn’t work. Then someone had the brilliant idea to join the football team and get to the gal’s heart the American way or at least the way all mediocre rom coms teach us is a safe bet, so for a few months there was a streaming line in coach’s office every day. The poor guy had to finally start turning away love-crazed adolescent boys who had nothing better to do with their time, but try and impress some chick. It was every teenager for himself; more cunning means had to be developed and pursued in order to engage her fleeting attention.

Luckily, all the time this was happening, as her best friend’s brother I was able to hang out on the inside, thus acquiring direct access to her inner emotional unrest (if there was ever such). I wasn’t attracted to her and it struck me as weird when all my classmates, friends and random acquaintances found any excuse to bring up her name in virtually every conversation we had. Come to think of it, it was the first time I learned that having everyone want something instantly made me want to run away from it as far as possible. I’m like this even till this day..Anyway, so I sat and observed how her homework was always written; her assignments handed in on time; she was picked up from school and her house in the hippest, coolest cars there were; her cute pink Swarowski-encrusted phone got a matching dangling pink thingy to go along with it and so on and so forth, but there was never one King of The Kill crowned, if you know what I mean.

Well, at least not until Mike Foryshewski came along. He was tall, well-built and had sharp features that gave a somewhat menacing look. His cold grey eyes were always nervously scouting around and his movements were brisk and concise to a point of machine-like accuracy. He noticed her immediately, although she remained as aloof towards him as she had always been with everyone else. One day after classes he pulled over and invited her in his convertible with a gesture. They had barely exchanged a word until then, but she was used to being driven around by every guy in sight and had started to think of it as somewhat of a birth right accompanying the fact of being born a pretty woman.

The rest I know by overhearing her many, many, many exhilarated conversations with my sister in the following days, but apparently instead of driving her straight to her house he took a little detour down to the creek and after pulling off, wasted no time in coming on to her. He had been passionate, eager and firm in handling her or so she described it. Couple of thrusts and the girl no one had ever made it to First or Second Base with had lost her virginity in the back seat of a shabby convertible.

News of this sort of thing is not bound by the meager laws of physics applicable to everything else on Earth and that same night the entire school was on their phones outrageous about the turn of events. The next day as Mike was making his way down the corridors you could feel the hate emanating from every single guy he walked past. What made things even more awkward was the sight of her skipping alongside him, carrying his books for class. This continued for the rest of that day as well as the following ones. Mike was acting as if though it was the most natural and logical thing in the world. While the rest of the guys were busy glaring at him and brainstorming what could he have possible said to get ahead so quickly, the female population was blowing the story out of proportion with gossip about the mythological size of his private parts (which seemed the only logical explanation as tho why he got her attention in the first place) and were desperately trying to seduce him to prove their thesis. Neither succeeded and rumors lingered on till prom when we all parted ways.

With a more scientific rather than personal interest in the whole thing, I decided to tactfully approach the subject one warm evening few months after things had began to settle down. My sister had conveniently sneaked out the back to make out with her then boyfriend and I jumped at the opportunity to ask the question on everyone’s minds:

– “Tell me how did he do it? It’s not like you were short on attention; you had guys lining in front of you, ready to jump hoops just for a look of approval.”

– “I know.”

– “So why him?”

– “He found..the right approach to me.”

So there you have it. May we all find the right approach to the women of our hearts..