Here: Date My Dead Fish. My Dead Fox. My Big Truck. My Harley. My Dead Bear. My Dead Deer. My Big Boat. My Dog. My Sports Car.
For those of us who are (foolishly)hopeful about possibly finding a match on any of the available online dating sites, there is one abiding truth about certain men: They will shove anything in our faces that they think might be of interest as opposed to doing the much harder work of actually writing something intelligent about themselves.
Or, for that matter, show us their faces. That is, other than to post a photo of them running a marathon that clearly dates from the Sixties, given that kid is sporting a two-foot and very exuberant ‘fro.
Honey, at 71, you neither possess that hair nor that waistline.
We aren’t in the business of marrying a distant memory.
Some post a pic of themselves in uniform from the Korean War or Vietnam, which was my war (yes, folks, women DID serve in Vietnam, and in fact, some of the world’s most potent warriors were women, including Americans). Look, even I’m not so stupid that I would post a military photo from forty years ago. I look one hell of a lot better than back then.
Yet certain men continue to believe that we faint-of-heart females will fall over in a receptive heap for a man in a uniform. Not when we wear one ourselves, and these days also fly the fighter jets . Join the current century, please.
However, there seems to be a universal agreement among a significant proportion of men on line that holding out a dead fish is supposed to make us damp with desire. Or, kneeling over a dead bear (that you shot while it was hibernating, you oh-so-manly man you) is going to make us go ga-ga.
Or, put another way, they replace the penis with a piece of dead meat.
Which describes a great many penises in my experience. The term road kill is uniquely accurate after one’s prospective amor has succumbed to three- quarters of a bottle of scotch.
In fact, road kill is precisely what a great many of today’s women (who make up the bulk of animal rights and conservation action groups) would like to turn cretins like the Trump turds and Jimmy John’s founder into after they put their evil mugs online grinning over dead rare animals. So, dead animals might not be the best approach for a certain age group.
But I digress.
I’m not sure if these guys have been watching too many Tarzan films. Or, that they haven’t noticed that one of the fastest growing group of hunters in America is young females. I don’t happen to like hunting in general (except for subsistence) but every time I pick up a brick of organic beef in my local Whole Foods Store, the thought does occur. With the cost of housing going up astronomically, the idea of hunting for one’s dinner does have appeal. Besides, people who learn to hunt begin to understand what happens when you wipe out a whole species just for shits and giggles (Exhibit One: Plains buffalo), rather than just what you need.
Besides, when it comes to wild animals, I’d vastly prefer hanging out with this guy:
I prefer petting animals with the fur still attached. But that’s just me. The above gentleman and I could be very good friends.
I also prefer leaving fish in the water, as polluted as it is, thanks to us. Although, and this has just gotta piss men off about fish, the fastest-growing demographic in the field of fishing is… wait for it, women.
But I digress.
It’s not enough that old men- who can finally afford an expensive sports car- will post a picture of said car in lieu of his face. As though that were enough to get us to settle back onto a pillow and open wide, if you will. The problem with that assumption is that plenty of women have their own $220K luxury cars and are spinning past Daddo in the slow lane like the Little Old Lady From Pasadena.
It’s long been a sad joke that as men age (particularly in the days before Viagra) that the sports car or SUV— the Dodge Ram, pun intended — replaced the penis, or was an extension of same. Except for folks with horses and cattle, that has the ring of truth.
If anything, they now walk into a dealership knowing more about the features and the engine and the performance specs than their fathers, boyfriends, and buddies. The dickwads who ignore the real buyer and try to sell the trucks to their attending dads or BFs on today’s car lots are going to have their junk handed to them. And, the “up” will walk, taking her $33k for a new Dodge Ram with her.
What’s a guy to do? Well, again, how about waking up and smelling the Twenty First Century, gentlemen?
Where women are taking over chunks of the future of hunting, fishing, four-wheeling, boating, Harleys and just about everywhere that used to be territory dominated and effectively owned by men. I might suggest that eventually, even the military is going to have to adapt in fundamental ways. Not just by making sure the PX has Tampax.
In fact, guys, if you had the balls to actually show up in Sturgis in the dust-and-scratch-free Harley that you trucked in from Silicon Valley, don’t be surprised if you’re dragged off your nice clean little bikey-poo by a Biker Mama with twelve times the tattoos, fifty times the attitude, a hell of a lot bigger bike and more road rash than you do. They don’t just ride in back any more.
In fact, you might want to rethink why you want a hog. If you’re one of the doughy guys with receding hairlines and advancing midlife crises that I see posting their bikes on line- in lieu of photos, profile copy and any other piece of worthwhile information- you’re advertising precisely what you’re not: a badass.
Here’s where the waters get murky. Precisely what defines a badass any more, for either sex? How about we actually find out what our hopeful partner really respects and find out from her first? I might offer that those definitions have very blurred edges. Gender roles are changing faster than you can say Twump Tweeted Again. Rather than be pressured into being a so-called “badass,” as defined by a standard that’s got more than a little grey on it, perhaps what’s available is that men (hey, all of us) can finally redefine themselves in ways that were never available before.
Well, that takes work.
That means guys have to get creative. (Kindly we all do.)
If you really want to enjoy online dating creativity, see this. I couldn’t decide which one to share, so have a go. The problem is how many just like that show up in my inbox.
My personal favorite?
The guy who looks like he just got out of thirty years at Sing Sing, claiming
I am not a molester.
Well now. That’s helpful.
For those far too young to remember, this line brings back some vivid memories, the source of which is here. For my part I cannot wait for history to repeat itself, but I digress.
On Zoosk, for example, a few minutes ago I got a message from a guy whose handle is “Wee Willy.”
First of all, I might posit that this isn’t exactly wise brand positioning. While I’m not in the market for a Mack Truck, thank you (that’s a whole other article) I’m not interested in someone for whom sex is largely trying to find the damned thing, especially if it’s in a cold tent. It’s bad enough that both the boys and the hopefully-named Mighty Sword retreat at speed from Women With Cold Hands (my icy paw is up) but far worse when said full-scale retreat from the booty battlefield has to be accompanied by a 4800 lumens tactical flashlight, a magnifying glass and a pair of tweezers.
Women with Reynaud’s can relate. How many times have you had to retrieve the BF from the ceiling after you put your (bloodless) gentle, investigative fingers on the family jewels?
That gives a whole new meaning to hands-on.
I can just hear George Carlin adapting that story for an HBO special: “Words you will never hear, directed at a beautiful woman: DO NOT TOUCH MY PENIS.”
Honey, you’ve never been camping at altitude with the Ice Queen.
Another creative Oscar-winner refers to himself as “Zombie.”
That also immediately brings to mind a great many other first (and last) dates. More men than I can count were dead before the bed. Especially those who pointed at the Mighty Sword (what there was of it, they didn’t get out much) and expected me to be duly impressed. I’ve been more impressed watching fungus grow.
So, I ask again: what’s a guy to do?
How about: Learn to read. Learn to write. Learn about yourself. Do interesting things. Find a way to make yourself useful in the world. Ask what women want. How about trying less to be The Great Badass Outdoorsman (kindly, folks, Bear Grylls you are NOT) and spend more time trying to understand where women they are headed, not where they were fifty years ago?
Learn to find a clit without trying to start a campfire with all your frenetic and misdirected manhandling. Learn how to kiss without inserting your tongue so far down a throat you’re going to retrieve lunchtime’s half-digested chicken croissant. Learn how to fuck without assuming that a woman’s tonsils are sex organs. From either direction. For more on that, please see the monumentally funny piece by traceybyfire. Understand the words NO and THAT HURTS are not jokes and learn to Back. The. Fuck. Off. Learn that the entire spectrum of your humanity as well as your willingness to do your best with what you were given matter far more than a terrific fuck.
Trying so hard to be a badass when women (especially women of color) are flying by you at warp speed being even bigger badasses (because they had to fight like banshees to earn it) is just, well, lame.
Because it’s not about who’s the bigger badass. It’s about how all of us can adapt in a rapidly-changing world. The very best women I know have no interest in a partner who is going to pull her backwards. Drag her down. Demean her for becoming who she always wanted to be. The same way you want like a partner to support you. Now, that is badass, guys.
A very smart person said to me recently that if I am going to be successful in my new business, I needed to know who my market was and where they’re going. That way I can be prepared when they actually show up. That’s strategic thinking.
Want company? Want love? Catch up, gentlemen. Kindly put the cave club away and notice what century we’re in. Time to get ahead of the curve, instead of just expecting those curves to catch up to you, look up to you, and worship you.
That train has left the station.
Piled with dead fish, dead bears, dead foxes, rusty Harleys, barnacled boats, and Sixties Ford Mustangs.
And in my case, my green men’s Army fatigues from 1973.