MASCULINITY SCALE
As I mentioned in the Hundred Girls blog (Girl 28, Bait & Switch Girl), I did and still do attract lesbians. The reason: the spectrum of male masculinity.
On one end of the scale are the bad boys, the hyper-macho, the cops, firemen, pro football players, Marine Corps fighter pilots, Navy SEALS, union ironworkers and boilermakers, and the auto mechanics who can rebuild a transmission with their bare hands. The ultra masculine. In business, these are the CEOs who fly jet helicopters to work and run oil exploration companies or Wall Street hedge funds. The more extreme of them fuck their women rough, but for only four minutes a week, after which they unapologetically roll over and go to sleep. They are cavemen who drag women to the cave by their hair, and who thrill women just by walking by them on a street corner. The construction workers who wolf whistle at the females on the sidewalk may be the subject of female complaints, but deep inside the girl mind, they are psyched to be noticed by the beer-guzzling dirty-under-the-fingernails boys.
The problem with the super-macho is that they tend to put a lot more emphasis on hanging with their pals than with spending quality time with the bitch. Furthermore, they are prone to cheating, imagining that all females are equally tempting and perhaps as equally annoying. But for many women, this is all the male contact they can handle. They may complain to their sisters about how Johnny doesn’t spend much time at home, and when he is home he just sits on the couch with his hand down his pants, farting and demanding dinner or a blowjob, and that he does nothing for the woman’s orgasm. But truth be told, this is another one of those female complaints-about-nothing. These women in relationships with the super-macho are there by design. It is intentional. They can’t handle an all-night sex session with a bohemian artist or an avant-garde screenwriter. It would annoy them to be touched for more than their allotted weekly four minutes. They’d rather either just touch themselves or leave sex behind altogether. Because, after all, having a REAL sex life would mean having to be accountable for how THEY perform in bed, and so many females can’t handle a molecule of accountability or criticism.
On the other end of the machismo spectrum are the ballerinas, artists, writers, musicians and guys who talk about relationships and take ballroom dancing classes. These guys won’t be found whistling at miniskirt-clad women on the sidewalk, but talking about their feelings. While they generally earn female contempt, these are the men who surprise their females with roses and diamonds for no reason other than thattheir women exist. They write poetry. They plan amazing dates to new restaurants. They read up on new sexual techniques for bringing the female into the multiple orgasm zone. They dream about how their woman’s pussy looks, smells and feels. In short, they are the inspiration for that line from the song “Stayin’ Alive,” “Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk / I’m a woman’s man / no time to talk.” I first heard that song as a midshipman at the United States Naval Academy, a veritable training ground for the hyper-macho, and it made me vaguely sick. Now I understand it. The guys who used to enjoy disco? They fit into the non-macho category, and they’re the ones females who want a good romantic life should be with. The good boys. The ones who rarely get the girl. The ones who attract lesbians. Like me.
A side note, which came to me from some females who know more about men than I ever will: Some of the guys left of the ballerinas are bisexual, and perhaps off the map of masculinity, and further out than the bisexual ballerinas are the gay guys who are essentially the females in the gay relationship. On the right, the ultra masculine side, you get bodybuilders who are so incredibly macho that they worship the male body, and when they go off the chart into the gay world, they are the dominators, the males in the gay relationship. So the spectrum isn’t a complete circle even though it “goes gay” on either side, but perhaps you could call it a helix, a spiral.
So attracting the lesbo across the bar is par for my course. When the latest one stormed out of the bar, the cute barmaid smiled in amusement. “Really charming them tonight, I see,” she said. I grinned back in my best imitation of a bad boy. “Shut up, gorgeous, and get me another beer.” She did, winking as she set it on the bar napkin. Too bad she was 25. Hell, when she was a baby, I was fighting the Soviets in the Cold War a thousand feet beneath the tossing, wind-swept waves of the frozen North Atlantic on the deck of a fast attack nuclear submarine. No way could I imagine being in a relationship with someone that young. But I guess I could always consider throwing a few fucks into her. Isn’t that what the cops, firemen, union ironworkers and CEOs would be thinking? Or would they just focus on the beer and the television tuned to ESPN?
Hell, I had no idea, I thought. I’m a goddamned lesbian-attracting ballerina.
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