Why I (mostly) love men.

I have a weird dichotomous relationship with the male gender. No, I don’t have   Daddy issues. I just… let me put it this way: I worked in an all-male kitchen for 6 years, from the age of 18 to 24. This environment was a boys club, a sexual harassment lawsuit on the verge of erupting.  While there was no physical assault (my ass was slapped all of once, by an idiot who quickly regretted it), my virgin ears were completely destroyed. These guys, my veritable brothers, had officially tainted (hehe, insert immature joke here) my perception of men. Consequently, I do not trust a one of them. They’re all scum!

Then again… god dammit they can be so ruggedly sexy. Por ejemplo:

 

Luke Wilson à la Royal Tenenbaums… once he cuts off all of his hair: notice the soulful eyes, strong jawline, and that beautiful curve between his biceps and forearms. NUM/#DROOL:

Loooook at those eyes/chin

Loook at those biceps

 

Maybe it’s just my pride. I hate to admit it, but sometimes I feel self-aware to a fault. The sardonic comments my previous workmates would make regarding real or (more likely?) imaginary exploits left a bitter taste in my mouth. I didn’t appreciate the way they objectified women: it was overtly sexual and demeaning. I didn’t want to feel, or be portrayed, as just another notch in someone’s bedpost. Even in a casual encounter, I wanted some sense of appreciation; ya know, a “hey, thanks for having sex with me” at least. And all this ‘time with the boys’ left that desire seeming silly and naive. But is it? And if so, why should it be? And is my perception, overall, an inaccurate picture of the male population? God DAMMIT I hope so.

Yet, I can’t deny that contradictory impulse either:  When I go out, I revel in that primal gaze of attraction when you project just the right amount of sexuality. It’s flattering…..verrry flattering…. Mmmm, Andrew Garfield….

please don't stop staring at me

 

….Doesn’t he look like a babay Wolverine? Maybe it’s the hair…

rrrrraawwwwwrrr....

 

But then my inner feminist rolls her eyes, and I am immediately reminded of all those art history papers on the male gaze, the woman as an object of desire and nothing more substantial than that. I can’t help it, I demand respect. And that respect, although possibly there, is difficult to absorb in a crowded bar, 2 drinks deep.

…but then there’s that swagger… It’s soooo… intoxicating…

 

 

I first noticed it in accomplished athletes. Watching their seemingly effortless physicality was breathtaking. As a clumsy, awkward teen, I was amazed. They made it look so easy!

It evolved as I got older… I still appreciate athleticism, but I’m generally more moved by academic and artistic prowess. A quiet, coy kind of confidence, built with knowledge and experience. He knows his way around a kitchen, a camera, a movie set, a musical instrument… your vagina. Lol no, not necessarily that last one, although it’s always a bonus. He’s pensive, self-aware, and at ease with himself.

The second I’m thrown a nudge and a wink of that alluring aplomb I’m weak in the knees. It’s that tenacity when he knows he’s in his element. It’s that, you know he knows, he’s kind of a baller.

It’s inexplicable. And kind of  infuriating. I can’t help it, I’m kind of a control freak.

 

Such a fucking sexy tragedy… isn’t it Joseph Gordon Levitt?

 

…yep….

 

Current Jam: “Do What You Do” -Chuck Ragan

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