It’s been said, you can’t live with them... you can’t live without them (except in the case of a post operative hermaphrodite); heck I can’t even get them to stay in the same room. It’s not like I look like the wrong side of a bulldog, whatever side that is. In fact in the right light, with slightly impaired vision (an eye patch on the wrong eye would help), I could be mistaken for attractive, and I’ve been told by a few almost sober people that I’m a pretty smart guy, but I have one negative trait, which in the game of gals and guys is bad, real bad, finito...the big kibosh.... I’m a nice guy. Not a phony, sugar toothed grinning sleaze ball with bucks and assistants to remind him who’s birthday he hasn’t forgotten.
No, I’m a twenty four-carrot chump... A nice Joe, a good guy, a heck of a catch. Don’t get me wrong I’m not a push over... I just like to treat women like they’re almost people. Okay, they are people, at least until I try and make a pass at them. Then it’s...dames and their head games. “I want you to find me attractive, but don’t you dare treat me like your attracted to me.” I’m not saying this applies to all women...just the ones I seem to collide with every day of my life.
Maybe I just slobber over the wrong gals. Another thing that strips the screws in my head is when I read that woman want a sensitive guy. I’m not buying it, not for a Stephen Hawkins minute. What they’re really saying is that they want a guy who grins sheepishly in public, acts nice to their friends, and family, but comes home with a truck load of bad traits, or a prison record that dates back to their first burp, so they can spend they’re entire adult life trying to change him-- trying to make him into the nice guy -- the guy I already am.
I’m convinced that when Barabbus was let go instead of Jesus... it was Pontius Pilots’ teenage daughter who gave the bad boy the nod to freedom. Sure, Jesus did have a few traits that women would find attractive especially the one where he thinks he’s God (to Sadist gals he looks good in thorns), but what woman would want a guy who would go to the trouble of raising from the dead to keep a date - she’d think he was too needy - a sap - a square - a do gooder - a God dam saint. And what lass would want to live with a saint, there wouldn’t be enough room for both people on the pedestal... And if they could fit who would dust it. For creatures who pride themselves in being able to read emotions they keep mistaking kindness for weakness.
Hey, don’t get me wrong, I don’t mean to be hard on women. Heck I really like them. No I love them, and for the right reasons. I like talking to them, listening to them (not only if I run out of things to say), and just plain like being in their presence (especially those who like to go Dutch). They can make a cracked, mildewed motel bathroom in Bloomfield New Jersey; seem like the swankest Gondola, on the prettiest evening in Venice (but fall a little short of a box seat in Yankee stadium during the playoffs).
What I like most is that first moment when I realize they like me, maybe it’s just a sweep of their hands down my back, or it’s when they lean easily toward me in the movie theater, or maybe it’s when you reach for their hand, and they don’t shove it deeper into their coat pocket, all the way to the side furthest from you. No I think it’s that moment when you go to kiss her and you realize she’s inching her lips closer to yours (her perfume powerful enough to cover your bad breath), and you don’t have your hand on the back of her head, or no one's pushing her towards you, she’s doing it all on her own. She likes you, and not just as a pal. And then when those lips first touch, and you can feel the moist intent (so thrilling you’re not yet concerned about germs), the tender acceptance, that this girl in some symbolic way is giving herself to you (or some one she's fantasizing about). Saying, okay, let’s get to know each other on a new more dangerous level.
It’s the first bet, the first chip thrown into a progressive pot and from then on you begin to lay your cards on the table (except for your most treasured baseball cards), finally showing all you are holding (if you're a decent chap and not some pervert). Trusting her, she trusting you not to bluff, or cheat, but to play the game fairly (according to her rules), and hope both of you emerge winners. I couldn't live without the prospect of that moment and what exciting things are hopefully about to follow. But trying to get to that point from a guy's prospective is like trying to catch a hot grounder in your mouth without chipping a tooth. Sure, it’s possible, but not right out of the chute, it’s a practiced art that only few guys I know have learned (usually slime buckets with full heads of hair), but one I certainly haven’t got the handle on.
Maybe I’m trying too hard to understand them, something no man, hermaphrodite, or cross dresser is really capable of doing. Or maybe I expect them to understand me, or worse yet, I expect them to see my honorable intentions, my sense of humor, my immense talent, my potential for enormous wealth, my magnanimous generosity, and my great heath plan, and over look my geometrically growing bald spot, my canary yellow teeth, the effects of global warming under my armpits, ear hair that gets tangled in my car keys, or my frequent night time urination. Good luck, trying to shove all that at someone over a cocktail, or a cup of gentrified coffee, or while scoffing down some God awful party dip made from three kinds of anti matter, that causes your acid reflux to percolate loudly from your lips. Yelling your professional and emotional resume at her loud enough so she’s sure to hear every precious spin doctored word under a pounding disco beat, yet making it slip out so modestly you sound like Gandhi on Zanax.
You wind up coming off like some oaf over compensating for bad karma, no money, ten years worth of free Saturday nights, and so much decency that you’d stop to pick up and return a leper’s hand. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be easy, maybe the enormous difference between men and women was designed to keep our minds off the real issue... that two people getting together in an intimate, meaningful, lasting manner, no matter what gender, race, creed, sexual preference, political party, or contagious disease they both share is nearly impossible. And those lucky enough to find a person they can share their limited edition with are the exception rather than the rule. The endangered species that relationships cause no danger to.
So guys forget about trying to figure out what makes a woman tick, or what miracle it’ll take to get her to your place for a night of slippery passion, and look forward to going home by yourself, to an empty apartment, to an ice cold unmade bed, familiar sheets imprinted with your outline like a shroud, knowing that the only person judging you worthy or not, is you, a man who plays by a man’s rules, rules that only a man can understand. Then pick up the phone and call a hooker. Heck, the only man she sees or judges is the one on the hundred-dollar bill. And to her... he’s perfect. To my girlfriend, if you read this it's all made up.
No, I’m a twenty four-carrot chump... A nice Joe, a good guy, a heck of a catch. Don’t get me wrong I’m not a push over... I just like to treat women like they’re almost people. Okay, they are people, at least until I try and make a pass at them. Then it’s...dames and their head games. “I want you to find me attractive, but don’t you dare treat me like your attracted to me.” I’m not saying this applies to all women...just the ones I seem to collide with every day of my life.
Maybe I just slobber over the wrong gals. Another thing that strips the screws in my head is when I read that woman want a sensitive guy. I’m not buying it, not for a Stephen Hawkins minute. What they’re really saying is that they want a guy who grins sheepishly in public, acts nice to their friends, and family, but comes home with a truck load of bad traits, or a prison record that dates back to their first burp, so they can spend they’re entire adult life trying to change him-- trying to make him into the nice guy -- the guy I already am.
I’m convinced that when Barabbus was let go instead of Jesus... it was Pontius Pilots’ teenage daughter who gave the bad boy the nod to freedom. Sure, Jesus did have a few traits that women would find attractive especially the one where he thinks he’s God (to Sadist gals he looks good in thorns), but what woman would want a guy who would go to the trouble of raising from the dead to keep a date - she’d think he was too needy - a sap - a square - a do gooder - a God dam saint. And what lass would want to live with a saint, there wouldn’t be enough room for both people on the pedestal... And if they could fit who would dust it. For creatures who pride themselves in being able to read emotions they keep mistaking kindness for weakness.
Hey, don’t get me wrong, I don’t mean to be hard on women. Heck I really like them. No I love them, and for the right reasons. I like talking to them, listening to them (not only if I run out of things to say), and just plain like being in their presence (especially those who like to go Dutch). They can make a cracked, mildewed motel bathroom in Bloomfield New Jersey; seem like the swankest Gondola, on the prettiest evening in Venice (but fall a little short of a box seat in Yankee stadium during the playoffs).
What I like most is that first moment when I realize they like me, maybe it’s just a sweep of their hands down my back, or it’s when they lean easily toward me in the movie theater, or maybe it’s when you reach for their hand, and they don’t shove it deeper into their coat pocket, all the way to the side furthest from you. No I think it’s that moment when you go to kiss her and you realize she’s inching her lips closer to yours (her perfume powerful enough to cover your bad breath), and you don’t have your hand on the back of her head, or no one's pushing her towards you, she’s doing it all on her own. She likes you, and not just as a pal. And then when those lips first touch, and you can feel the moist intent (so thrilling you’re not yet concerned about germs), the tender acceptance, that this girl in some symbolic way is giving herself to you (or some one she's fantasizing about). Saying, okay, let’s get to know each other on a new more dangerous level.
It’s the first bet, the first chip thrown into a progressive pot and from then on you begin to lay your cards on the table (except for your most treasured baseball cards), finally showing all you are holding (if you're a decent chap and not some pervert). Trusting her, she trusting you not to bluff, or cheat, but to play the game fairly (according to her rules), and hope both of you emerge winners. I couldn't live without the prospect of that moment and what exciting things are hopefully about to follow. But trying to get to that point from a guy's prospective is like trying to catch a hot grounder in your mouth without chipping a tooth. Sure, it’s possible, but not right out of the chute, it’s a practiced art that only few guys I know have learned (usually slime buckets with full heads of hair), but one I certainly haven’t got the handle on.
Maybe I’m trying too hard to understand them, something no man, hermaphrodite, or cross dresser is really capable of doing. Or maybe I expect them to understand me, or worse yet, I expect them to see my honorable intentions, my sense of humor, my immense talent, my potential for enormous wealth, my magnanimous generosity, and my great heath plan, and over look my geometrically growing bald spot, my canary yellow teeth, the effects of global warming under my armpits, ear hair that gets tangled in my car keys, or my frequent night time urination. Good luck, trying to shove all that at someone over a cocktail, or a cup of gentrified coffee, or while scoffing down some God awful party dip made from three kinds of anti matter, that causes your acid reflux to percolate loudly from your lips. Yelling your professional and emotional resume at her loud enough so she’s sure to hear every precious spin doctored word under a pounding disco beat, yet making it slip out so modestly you sound like Gandhi on Zanax.
You wind up coming off like some oaf over compensating for bad karma, no money, ten years worth of free Saturday nights, and so much decency that you’d stop to pick up and return a leper’s hand. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be easy, maybe the enormous difference between men and women was designed to keep our minds off the real issue... that two people getting together in an intimate, meaningful, lasting manner, no matter what gender, race, creed, sexual preference, political party, or contagious disease they both share is nearly impossible. And those lucky enough to find a person they can share their limited edition with are the exception rather than the rule. The endangered species that relationships cause no danger to.
So guys forget about trying to figure out what makes a woman tick, or what miracle it’ll take to get her to your place for a night of slippery passion, and look forward to going home by yourself, to an empty apartment, to an ice cold unmade bed, familiar sheets imprinted with your outline like a shroud, knowing that the only person judging you worthy or not, is you, a man who plays by a man’s rules, rules that only a man can understand. Then pick up the phone and call a hooker. Heck, the only man she sees or judges is the one on the hundred-dollar bill. And to her... he’s perfect. To my girlfriend, if you read this it's all made up.
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