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An Open Letter To MIT On Behalf Of Straight, Cisgender Women Everywhere

Illustrations by Nicole Daddona.
Manblender. Let those three syllables wash over you like a warm bath. Let them trip off your tongue, and know their perfection.
Dear MIT,
I’m writing on behalf of straight, cisgendered women everywhere who love men. There are quite a few of us. Like millions and millions. You do the math if you’re so smart.
I understand that you’ve been pooling your resources — both fiscal and academic — into things like chronic memory loss, artificial intelligence, and tracing extinction-inducing volcanic eruptions.
I’d like you to stop. I’d like you to stop being so myopically selfish and short-sighted, is what I’d like.
What good is saving the planet if everyone is walking around lovelorn and most importantly IRRITATED that no one person is checking all their proverbial boxes?
Is there not some extra lab space somewhere where this kind of deeply philanthropic science could happen? Is there not a maverick visionary among you who can see the fantastic potential of this application?
Perhaps you’re not privy to the research and the conundrum-cum-crisis that is the modern woman’s love life. There is an all-too-prevalent, two-fold problem I like to call The Miserable Glory of the Brain-fuck.
There are but two scenarios that define us straight and love-seeking womenfolk: There are men who are intellectually arousing, but do nothing in the nether-tingle department, and men who are nether-tingle masters, but do nothing for my brain.
This is a problem. We’re left with someone who is decidedly not the dream (to put it mildly) OR we’re tormented by the overwhelming desire to drop trous with our minds. Which, just so you know, isn’t possible. (There’s another idea for your to pursue, you’re welcome.)
We all have men like this in our lives. And we’d like to combine them — blend them! — to make a palatable, nay, exceptional man-lover.
Let me break this blender down for you.
Sordid sex scientists like to use functional magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI) to investigate people’s responses to audio-visual stimulation. Basically? They like to show homosapiens a bunch of smut (“erotic clips with a concrete story”) and then some heavier shit that depicts “sexual intercourse and genitalia.”
And guess what?
Men respond to visual sexual stimuli, like “nude or erotic pictures” (imagine that!) while some women feel “repulsed by muscular, erotic male photos.”
In other words? SCIENCE.
“Men are more sexually aroused by visual stimuli, but women are more sexually aroused by concrete, auditory, olfactory, touch and emotionally relevant sexual stimulation.”
Yes. I am turned on by being listened to. By feeling understood, heard, and seen. Bonus booty tingle points if you think I’m funny. Or, if I’ve been telling a long-winded, but definitely entertaining story, and I get interrupted by the waitress, and you turn to me and half-whisper, “you were saying?”
All the tingles.
I am this science. I am the walking incarnation of emotional sexual stimulation. (Yes, I love a good video of two twinkie-esque boys making out as part of my masturbation routine, but that’s neither here nor there.)
Mostly I want the talk. I want the banter. I want to brain-fuck men. I want to fellate their wit and make out — tenderly — with their emotional intuition. I want to spank their kindness and peg their generosity.
DO YOU GET MY GIST?
But herein lies the rub. A brain turn-on does not — I repeat does NOT — translate to a clitoral turn-on for me. I AM THE SCIENCE AND THEN I AM NOT. I am listening to a man wax poetic on the metaphysical castration of Mr. Rochester in Jane Eyre and I am so delighted, so metaphysically turned on, BUT THAT’S NOT THE SAME THING IS IT?
Sometimes I stare down at my vagina and scream at her to get her shit together: this is a brilliant, kind, FUNNY, objectively handsome man standing before you. Oh, what’s that, you say? You just don’t “feel that way” about him?! Pray tell, dear vagina, why oh why do you insist on rejecting him? Why can’t you open up your clearly clogged labias and listen to me?
This isn’t about perpetuating some damaging tropes about men-folk. Obviously, all sloe-eyed, red-hot minx-y slayers in the sack aren’t daft, and all cerebral bookworms aren’t miserable missionary-style martyrs. I JUST HAVEN’T MANAGED TO FIND THE OVERLAP IN MY VENN DIAGRAM OF LOVE. It seems that everyone has one glinting piece of my love-puzzle; the trick is how to get them together into one beautifully legible — and make-lovable! — amalgam.

A Few Scenarios to Consider:

Oh, this man has lush, thick dark hair tousled in a man-bun and radiates waves of warm soft soothing light from his body in the way I can only imagine Jesus did? Oh, and he’s not only willing, but loves to dress up in a retro suit and take me dancing at Motown Monday? Don’t mind if I do! Oooh, but he still calls his mother every. day. and masturbates to Betty Boop Gets Shiza-ed? No sale.
Shit! He loves Yeats, kitschy horror films, mountain biking, performance art, photography, and giving unabashedly eager cunnilingus, and all his friends are awesome? Step right up! Ugh, he still sleeps on a very sticky futon, never cleans the cat litter, and sometimes says, “That’s retarded”? I’ll pass.
Oh, he has a PhD in psychology, volunteers as a Big Brother, loves to bake, writes short stories (that are actually funny and dark and good), breakdances, and sings in a David Bowie cover band?! Panties DROPPED. But he only likes missionary sex in the dark and thinks vaginas are “a little like armpits”? WHY GOD WHY?
So here’s what we do.
Once these men are inside — yes, they have to be smaller to fit inside said blender, as well as to make this process painless (I’m not a sadist after all) — we’ll also need to talk about how best to work in conjunction with the U.S. government, perhaps a task force combining the FDA and the State Department, to get this new, born-as-a-30-year-old-man properly documented.
But I‘m here for you. We’ll can figure out all the nitty gritty—together—later.
All I’m asking is that you listen to your heart and your supposedly keen mind and get cracking on the kind of science that could spurn a societal seismic shift the likes of which the world has never known.
Something I like to call happiness.
Do I smell a Peace Prize?
Xoxo,
Katie
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