Fun Date Idea

You —a person who’s insecure about her trashy accent— and I —a well-known bastard— spend an afternoon exploring a crowded museum, where I insist that you express your thoughts about each display. Every time you finish speaking, I respond with “Say again? I can’t understand a fucking word coming out of your head.”

When a group of schoolchildren pass, I get their attention, point at you, and roll my eyes while you repeat yourself. The kids’ chaperone gives me a dirty look, but then pauses to listen to what you’re actually saying, shrugs, and gives me a sympathetic smile.

Then the chaperone and I go get a drink while the kids ask you if you were dropped on your head when you were little.

How Men Lost the 21st Century

I have a number of things to say about the post-Weinstein era. This is the first piece.

People who are surprised by all of the #metoo’ing have been ignoring an increasingly obvious fact: somewhere along the way —by my guess, the late ‘90s or early 2000s— men began to cross a line. A line that had somehow survived 10,000 years of male cultural domination, if only by becoming an invisible part of the apparatus of control. Without a thought, we boldly went where no men had gone before.

We wrecked women’s sexual shame.

I mark the start of it with *Girls Gone Wild*, although an argument can be made that *The Real World* and other proto-reality-tv stuff might have set it off. We started conditioning girls to see how intimate, uncontrolled exposure in front of large audiences can be as exciting as it is terrifying.

From there, the process worked its way through the Paris Hilton and Kim K. tapes, and into a newly, dramatically more extreme porn business that was suddenly open to more women than ever, as both creators and consumers. Acts that were once seen as fundamentally degrading became… not so much *less* degrading, as much as *differently* so. Women figured out en masse that the pursuit of debasement and pain can be a bit like art, and a lot like an extreme sport, only one where you can’t trust your teammates for fuck-all. And it could be profitable, too.

Finally, the process brought itself home with revenge porn. That’s when men showed every woman alive that it didn’t matter if she sent us the photos we demanded, if she fucked us the nasty way we liked, if she remembered not to provoke us when we were drunk, if she adamantly insisted to the ER nurse that the bruises were from a slip in the shower, nor if she forgave all the drug money we “borrowed”… it was all for nothing. Even when she ultimately compromised everything she had just to get us to leave her the hell alone, we would still share pictures of her semen-soaked face and cunt for our sleazy little buddies to post and mock online. We had one of history’s great lopsided bargains tilted in mankind’s favor —we won’t tell everyone what you’re willing to do as long as you’re willing to do it— and *we couldn’t be bothered to stick to the fucking deal*.

I’d say the last stage really kicked in around The Fappening. It makes sense that the dominos would start to fall first in Hollywood; once we stripped women like Jennifer Lawrence of their privacy and dignity in front of hundreds of millions of people, after making it abundantly clear that no matter what their standing in life they would always be targets, and after turning public humiliation into something that looked survivable, well… why would they ever again put up with a man’s shit? What would be the point? We took away everything they had to lose.

This generation of men has truly been special. We accidentally made the world a better place by being the biggest assholes we could possibly be.

Someone asked if I have any thoughts on the Weinstein fallout, and the answer is: oh fuck *yes* I have thoughts. So, so many. I’m just not sure what I want to do with them.

I’ve got a half-written post where I speculate about a subterranean cultural connection between the rise of *Girls Gone Wild* and the #metoo explosion, there’s a long list of things I want to say to men in general about not being complete fucksticks all the goddamned time, I have a little side-rant about the manspreading cock-goblin that sat next to Lady Macbedtime on the bus yesterday and proceeded to play with himself all the way to their destination, I can go on at length about the Roy Moores of this world and what it’s like to grow up among them, and I can finally explain why I never connected with the work of Louis C.K.

So… yeah. In case it isn’t obvious, none of this would be part of our regularly scheduled Dark Sexy Fun. And in order to feel right about broadcasting my complicated, conflicted opinions at all, I’d need to ante up my relevant experiential bonafides, the thought of which makes me mildly uncomfortable. I’ve found that real vulnerability —like cheerfulness and plaid— is not a good look on me.

But given my subject matter of choice, I more or less feel a responsibility to say *something*. And I shall.

Seen on Tumblr:

“I think the biggest turn on is knowing you turned someone else on”

I don’t know about *that*, but it’s certainly important.

In fact, that, in a nutshell, is why there are limits to my sadism; it’s simply no fun for me if you don’t want to come back for more. If you don’t want to follow me out of the room and curl up next to me on the couch, or at least come scratching at my door the next week like a lost animal in heat, then I’ve missed the mark. If there’s not a part of you that yearns for me just a little for the rest of your life, then I’ve let us both down.

It might seem a cheap trick, but I want you to want me.

FYI

I’ve got family medical emergency stuff going on, so that’s why I’m even more scarce than usual.

Also, just a periodic reminder: alcohol can slowly kill you in really ugly, unromantic ways, untreated mental health issues will only exacerbate your physical ailments, and you really don’t want to be figuring that kind of shit out in your forties. Start now.

The problem with being the perfect man for your time is that your time…

The problem with being the perfect man for your time is that your time…

The problem with being the perfect man for your time is that your time can end long before you do. At 91, Hef was past perfect.

But for the twenty years of his prime, he filled a lustful, thoughtful, man-shaped hole in the American tapestry. He edited more than a magazine; he edited the national image of manhood, exposing his audience to the literature, art, and ideas that intrigued him, as well as the big titties that got him hard. Without firing a shot or winning a contest, he pushed a generation of men to be more interesting versions of themselves; that he didn’t really succeed is less an indictment of his vision than the nature of the generation he sought to inspire.

I missed Hugh Hefner before he was gone. His death simply means that I get to miss him out loud.

It isn’t complicated.

My mind likes that way you giggle, that you get my jokes, that you accept my failings, and that you’re *just* slightly clever.

My heart likes that way you hold your face when you’re asleep, that feeling when I know you’re safe, that change in the air when you’re around, and that time you said that thing.

But my dick? My dick likes that you sit still and do what you’re told while I throw everything else away.