Hey, don’t look so surprised, ladies–and don’t trip out and hire a hitman (or woman) to gun me down or anything. After all, I’m just a brother who’s speaking the truth. The simple fact of the matter, believe it or not, is that we men are not all “dogs,” and we’re not only out for a quick dive into the proverbial sack (or onto the kitchen table, or the floor, or in a chair, or up against a wall or… oops! Sorry!). Our minds are not one-track machines that revolve around sex twenty-four hours a day either!
We do not all want to use you, abuse you and then move on, either.
The sad truth is, that rumours of our being conniving, heartless animals have been greatly exaggerated.
Let’s attack these silly myths (notice I was very careful not to call them “old wives’ tales”) one by one, shall we?
First, and definitely most popular is the notion that men’s lives revolve around serving The Almighty Phallus, which we proudly display and clutch at every given opportunity, just to flaunt in the faces of all the women on the planet, that were are “the stronger race.”
I’m the first to admit that almost every brother on the planet has, by adulthood, developed a close personal relationship with the symbol of his manhood. Heck, my little homey and I have shared some of most triumphant highs and emotional crash-and-burn incidents in my life.
And yes, we all – at some point or another – feel comforted by holding onto the “family jewels”, whether it be while walking down the street, watching the Bulls kick the Sonics’ butts (for those few ladies who don’t know, those are basketball teams) or just relaxing late at night just before going to sleep. (A good friend of mine, who happens to be one of the lead singers in a very popular black American R&B group swears that he did his best recordings while grasping his “jewels” in the vocal booth!)
Before you ladies dismiss us all as crotch-grabbing addicts, be sure to check yourselves, or, as one of my mentors, Ice Cube, raps, you may well “wreck yourselves.” So what if we like to grab our “thingies”? How many of you (when you’re all alone, of course) happily cup and/or caress your breasts, glad that God gave you such treasures? Not to mention you feisty females who are so proud of your boobs that you walk around carrying them aloft, like priceless Persian pillows whose magnificence all must admire.
And what about those sisters who toss their hair around like they were cracking a whip–when they’re not just standing still. They’re stroking it, twisting it, teasing it, running their fingers through it…
Not to mention that age-old habit of resting your hands on your hips to relay pleasure, sexuality, vexation, frustration, or just to stand comfortably.
I take it you get the point: body parts are just body parts. Men have this one thing you gals don’t, and you ladies have all this neat stuff that we weren’t born with. When one is happy with what one has, one shows it off–regardless of whether one is male, female or somewhere in-between!
Moving on to the next “man myth,” there’s this general feeling among women that men are sex-driven. “All they want is sex, girl,” I’ve heard females say, “just a quick romp in the hay–no strings, no commitments. They just want to get between your legs, and they don’t give a damn about what’s between your ears.”
Admittedly, some of us guys just love sex.
I have friends who groan and complain if they haven’t had any for a day or two.
Okay, I’ll even admit that there are some of us who just enjoy seeing how many women they can seduce, for no other reason than the “need” to get “some.”
On the other hand, there are some brothers who appear to be male “hoes,” but underneath all the male bullshit, there are some very interesting reasons why they do what (and whom) they do.
Take the case of one friend of mine (I’ll call him Slick) who used to plan his whole day around making love to three different women, whom I’m I’ll refer to as Kay, Jaye and Iesha.
“Let’s see,” he would say every day, “I go to work at 7:30 in the morning, then at lunch time I go to K’s house for a quickie (that lasts nearly two hours). Then, I work for a few more hours and go to Iesha’s place where we’ll do the ‘nasty’ for a couple of hours or so. Then, I rush back to my place, where Jaye has let herself in and is waiting eagerly to get it on.”
I know what you’re thinking: “If that’s not the daily schedule of a bonafide `dog,’ then what is?”
Before you judge, however, I must point out that not only were Kay, Jaye and Iesha aware of each other’s relations with Slick; they even decided who outranked her in the sexual hierarchy!
Iesha, who had been Slick’s girlfriend for several years prior to the appearance of Jaye and Kay, immediately assumed the position of “ruler of the roost”– not to be disputed with.
Kay and Jaye, meanwhile, fought for the position of “official mistress.” Somehow the poor girls got the idea that if one was considered the “mistress,” the other was merely a “hoe.”
I’ll never forget the night that Kay showed up at our house to meet Slick (did I mention that he was my roommate at the time?), found that he wasn’t at home and began to rave: “I know he went to see that bitch (i.e. Jaye) again! How could he do this to me? This my was MY day (for sex) dammit!”
She even tossed a couple of sexual invitations my way in the midst of her frustration, but, nice fella that I am, I opted to politely refuse. Despite occasions like these, Slick was initially thrilled with his new-found super-sexual existence, but after a month or so of the three-way sexual gymnastics, he finally began bitching about the situation. “I don’t know what to do,” he would lament to me, “all my money goes into condoms! I can’t keep this up much longer. Three women… and all of them expect me to give them incredible sex, complete with fabulous orgasms, every day!”
Being the logical thinker that I am, I suggested to him that he call it of with the other two and concentrate on Iesha, who had been his girlfriend for several turbulent years.
“I’d love to,” he whined, “but it’s not that simple. Kay has always said that she’s not romantically interested in me. She doesn’t even like me as a person. She only likes the way I make love. However, she refuses to step out and leave me for Jaye, whom she hates with a passion.
“Jaye, on the other hand, started out having sex with me just as a physical thing, but now she’s in love with me and refuses to let me go.”
“And Iesha says that if I don’t get rid of all these other women, it’ll be hell to pay! But Kay won’t go unless Jaye goes too, and if I cut Jaye loose she might commit suicide or something.” Oh what a twisted web we weave.
The point, however, is that he didn’t get into this mess by being a “dog.” He was just having trying to have his cake and eat it too (a natural human trait, I might add).
Besides, for every guy I know who just goes around racking up names for their “People I Had Sex With” list, I know a woman who does the same! So if casual sex is a crime, both sexes are equally guilty. You ladies can thank Women’s Lib and the “New Woman Of the 90’s” for that.
Oh, and before I call it a day, I thought you should know: I’m a 24-year-old male with no sexual partners at the moment, whose last relationship lasted eight years, and who was monogamous (despite ample temptation and opportunity) until it all went haywire at the end.
I’m hoping my next relationship will be the one in which I settle down, eventually marry (after a few years) and produce the next generation of Gordons.
When I’m out with a women I do all that cool stuff that you gals say no-one does anymore: open doors, pay for everything, be understanding about personal affairs, not get jealous, etc. Yes, I’m a true-to-form nice guy (for the most part, anyway). There’s only one problem.
I can’t find a viable female who’ll put up with me… because they all say I’m too “sweet.” It seems that despite what you gals say, you really do like “bad boys” and “old dogs.” Well, too heck with this nice guy crap, then! To quote Dancehall sensation’s Beenie Man’s latest Reggae hit: “Old dog like we/We have fi have them in twos and threes…”
Maybe there is something to that “All men are dogs” statement after all.
If that’s the only way to get yourself a girl these days, then count me in.
Woof! Woof! Hoooooowl!
Sit, Boo-Boo, sit! Good dog.