Warning, OUTRAGEOUS is a series of filth, swearing, insanity and gross images. The easily offended (and not so easily) and anyone under about 35 should stop reading right now!
I was reading a blog earlier by Down with Emos Ninjas on Myspace. Well, on her space to be more accurate. It contained a list of all the things required by a girl for a guy to be the perfect boyfriend. It isn’t her list, by the way, she had taken it from the page of a far more bubble headed girl for the purposes of ripping the shit out of it. Good on Ms Ninja.
It was the usual stuff: Reassure me morning, noon and night, reassure me some more, buy regular gifts, show appreciation, don’t talk to other women without then falling at her feet to show the other bitch who it is that owns your arse, don‘t forget the promised phone call on pain of death and do get upset if some guy touches her inappropriately without permission. Didn’t specify behaviour in the event of said permission having been granted, but you get the gist.
I’ve met the compiler of this list often in my life. Not the actual compiler, just girls with such similar unreasonable and unrealistic expectations, they could have easily compiled an identical list. Most of these My-Little-Pony girls eventually become resigned to grim reality, but all too many actually get their dream man. A twisted, broken, deformed version of their dream man, moulded that way by themselves, but a version of sorts.
What these types do is seek and destroy. First they meet a man they like, one they find amusing and sexy and interesting and just a little bit dangerous. Then they use their womanly wiles to draw him deeper and deeper into a steady relationship; laughing at his jokes, making him feel special, having wild sex whenever and wherever he wants and then, once he’s fully hooked, the subtle process of taking from him all the qualities that made her like him in the first place begins. It works on a chip, chip, chip, drip, drip, drip, cajole, blackmail and wheedle principle that few men in love see coming until it is too late.
They move in together and one by one his friends drop by the wayside. At first he goes out with his pals a little less and has to get home earlier. Then he goes out with them a lot less and has to get home even earlier and can’t have a drink anyway because he has to pick up his girlfriend from her parent’s house.
Eventually, he hardly ever goes out except for nights when her friends come round to dinner and she doesn’t want him there, for once happily waving him off to the pub so she’s free to pull him to pieces behind his back and have a damned good laugh. By then only his lamest, loneliest friends will entertain him anymore and he stands in a bar for a few hours, listening to a bore droning on about things he never actually did, feeling his life and manhood ebbing away.
Watching the match on a Saturday with a few cold beers has been replaced by an all day hike around the twenty-seven shoe shops in the high street – expected to be smiling at all times – and bank holidays playing frisbee in the park (with a few cold beers) have been replaced by DIY and the DIY store.
Despite all this, he still asks her to marry him, pushed and poked and elbowed into thinking it was his own idea. This just serves to finalize his enslavement, but he is too far gone down the road of character crushing domesticity to realise it. The friends he once had are no longer around to warn him and cut off from any support network, he is left at the bitch puppeteer’s mercy.
As the years go by, he becomes a soulless shadow of the happy-go-lucky guy he once was. He says yes dear a lot, puts up shelves, admires her dreadful cooking, never falls into the “does my bum look big in this” trap and agrees with her even if she’s talking shit.
Every second Saturday, he shuffles around the twenty-seven shoe shops in the high street with the air of a broken man, his only rebellion an odd sigh, or secretly raised eyebrow at some other passing browbeaten wretch. And woe betide him if he is caught out in the only small pleasure this trek affords, that being the odd glimpse of other girl’s flesh or underwear between the changing room curtains. Listen love, he’s not a pervert, he’s a man. That’s what men do and if your man tells you different, he’s frightened of you and lying.
So he polishes his car a lot and hides in the garden shed a lot, these being the only parts of his world he feels any sense of control over and his last refuges from the demands and the whines and the withheld sex of their chintzy marital bed. She has hollowed him out, whittled him down, sucked him dry and chiselled him into exactly the man of her list – a dead-eyed do-right, who buys gifts, paints on demand, comes home early every night and never ever forgets an anniversary.
And now she’s bent him in every possible direction to finally fit her list, she realises she fucking hates him. She loathes the way he always gives in to her. He’s a boring, weak, emasculated man, with no backbone and no spirit. He never surprises her. Never throws her on the ground and has his way with her. Never takes a decision or the initiative. Never tells her no. Never comes home smelling of alien perfume to make her blood zing with jealousy. He’s a mouse-like, creepy little yes man and even the touch of his fingers makes her flesh crawl.
So she agrees to a drink with a dirty-nailed rough neck from work, ends the evening being taken hard in every possible way over some bins in an alley, realises that there’s more to life than pleated curtains and the twenty-seven shoe shops in the high street and within weeks has applied for divorce and thrown her perfect man out of the house he largely paid for and into the gutter.
He will flounder around in a state of shock, desperately trying to remember who he is and wondering what he should do now. She will let the rough neck move in, get slapped about every Friday night and also get pregnant.
The discarded shell of a man will feel like dog shit in the painful realization she felt living with him was worse than getting slapped about every Friday night and being impregnated with the hairy man of the dump‘s spawn, which he doesn‘t really want and won‘t take any responsibility for anyway. He will also lay awake nights wondering if the other guy has a bigger dick than him, but that’s men for you. Insecure and easily threatened.
Some of the elbowed perfect partners recover themselves and some don’t.
Anyway, I won’t get caught like that twice…
Only kidding, I’m not really talking about myself here. Well, apart from the twenty-seven shoe shops, the leching through changing room curtains and the hairy man of the dump … but then he was welcome to the backstabbing cow.
I’m also secure in the trouser area, thanks. How secure is for me to know and you to wonder about…