What if it were a guy’s crotch?
Meg
223

Meg, I will grant you coming in, I do not know what it feels like to be a woman. Perhaps in that sense of fairness you have demonstrated so well heretofore, you might undertake that rarest of projects in female humility, and proceed with no further assumption that you know what it is like to be a man.

Granted also, men don’t tend to make much of a bio-narrative, of our feelings. Maybe this isn’t breaking news to you, but I happen to believe you are a more developed adult than simply to assume that you as a woman know what this means. Men have feelings. We know what it is to feel unsafe. We know what it is to be a target, to be a thing in others’ eyes, to anticipate being taken advantage of, to be used, to be disregarded as of equal status, to be abused, to be discarded, to be perhaps more than all these things, summed up neatly in sexed terms and brushed aside when we seek redress of our grievances.

If you aren’t already laughing, rolling your eyes, and doing that “oh please” thing (which is in fact hurtful and I think the ladies know it is), then you are qualified to make use of what I am telling you. I hope you are, because women who think they understand men and manhood by viewing it through a female lens and assessing us by female standards, are doing themselves no favor.

And as it happens, often enough, it is a guy’s crotch. Maybe not in a physical act of grabbing it or making unpermitted use of it, though if you watch enough daytime TV talk shows you might think that castration is some feminine rite of scale-balancing warranting a big belly laugh from the gallery. But I won’t even ask you to imagine what it is like to be viewed by women, as if that is where our brain dwells, in our crotch. To have every thought, decision, priority, undertaking, sense of right and wrong, and approach to daily life, laughed off by women who believe that we are nothing but walking cocks in search of a pussy.

You haven’t heard, or maybe you have, discussions between men trying to make sense of near-daily assaults on our sensibilities that amount to “it isn’t just all about YOU”, from creatures who make themselves in our male eyes the center of a gynosuperlative universe from the moment they sit down to their makeup mirror in the morning to mask their true selves from the world’s observation.

You have no idea how rare it is for a man to interact with a woman and know at a glance that she is being genuine and not duplicitous, that what she says is what she means, that how she responds is actual communication and not part of a maneuvering agenda with a self-centered goal, that a public face of etiquette is not plastered over a private one of mockery.

I think a great many men do our best to show respect to women and continually wonder why women have so little respect for themselves, and even more so, for each other. The viciousness, competitiveness and treachery that takes place routinely between women, is an utter mystery to men, and leaves many of us wondering how in the world we can trust your sincerity toward us when the example being set in your conduct among yourselves is one that makes you appear juvenile, selfish and readily offended to the point of continually imagining methods of retribution. If a woman treats her own kind this badly, we are wondering, how in the world can I take her at face value when she appears to be showing me any kind of regard?

But no, we don’t make an agenda, a world view, a political platform, of what an exercise in uphill rock-rolling it is to try and coexist with women. Even though as often as not, the rock comes rolling right back down over us. The powers that women have, without ever lifting a finger in actual violence, to mock, reduce, and even destroy, everything a man holds dear about his own life, have no match in any supposedly “patriarchal privilege” accorded to men. There is no national system named after us and funded into the billions, based on the idea that whatever we say one of you has done to us must be believed. There is no social ethos that we as parents are parents by nature and must be trusted by default to be beneficial and safe for our children. There is no political agenda that defines us as a voting bloc and our “issues” as paramount in the setting of policy.

And in large part, those advantages and extra powers and special status that women do have whether any given woman ever claims them or not, are things men find it fitting for you to have, have striven mightily to see that you retain. Men look on at this business of “equality” and see the misery and the bitterness and the vileness exhibited by those who demand it the most loudly, and wonder why anyone would settle for equal when they had every chance to be treated as superior to begin with. And then manhood itself is thrown back in our faces at us, dismantled as a policy in the educating of boys and young men, discouraged as a goal of fathering them, and reduced to a “social construct” by fake scholars making their careers ascendant by means of unaccounted-for official funding and sanction.

So as to your headline, since indeed how we are measured within today’s facsimile of a civilization we helped build for all our sakes, is that our brains, our souls and our consciences, reside in our genitals?

It IS a man’s crotch. And pretty much all the time.

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