Women Like Assholes

Yes.  We like assholes so much.  That's why we don't like you, nice guy.  Shit.  I've dated a few "nice guys" in the past.  Turns out they weren't so nice.  They badly wanted to be liked so badly, they ended up doing whatever it took to retain that "nice" facade, going against the whole idea of being nice.

Let's not mince words.  Women like courage, not assholes.  Women want someone who has the guts to stand up for something he cares about, whatever that be.  We want someone who knows when to put his foot down, especially in the name of self-respect.  We seek the kind of person who stands up for their beliefs, even in the face of conflict or scrutiny.  This isn't something you can easily compartmentalize into the "nice" category.  It's something greater and it's called having the courage to be honest.  This undoubtedly becomes the biggest discrepancy in differentiating between the assholes and the wimps and sadly, I fear my dating pool is primarily comprised of these two types of males.

Nice guy wants to be liked, as we all do, so in order to obtain this he paints a pretty picture.  When he gets what he wants, he validates himself, particularly his ego, at whatever the cost.  Feeding the ego is like offering a sacrifice to the fickle, insatiable gods.  It's an endless cycle that requires continual yet fruitless effort.  So in hopes of winning you over, nice guy presents the most favorable version of himself.  This occurs in exchange for temporarily boosting his self esteem and keeping truth, anger and emotion stowed away. Let us not forget that such a compromise formulates with a noble cause: In hopes of gaining our affections. Totally valid.  Women love to be adored as much as the next person.  Yet what is on the other side of that adoration?  When the chase is over, what comes next?  You may find yourself in bountiful courting stages, but the nice guy mask cannot stay on forever and when the ugly head finally reveals itself, the end result is usually laden with bitterness, disillusion and hurt.

In love and romance, it's important to take heed in how pursuit is approached.  Nice guy issues become apparent when the male in question suddenly morphs into man of the year, or performs the "mating dance" in order to obtain his female of interest.  I once dated someone who pretended to be edgy and social so I would go for him.  It was generally very important that people like him, and our initial connection formed in going out for dinner and drinks.  It was an activity we both enjoyed, or so I thought.  After three weeks into dating, I began to notice he wasn't so gung-ho about dinner and drinks.  Turns out he was really a homebody who didn't like drinking at all.  In the end, he became judgmental about my drinking, when his vice was pot smoking.  He fancied himself a high and mighty wee girl, didn't he?  Fucking cub scout.

Before this issue surfaced, I distinctly remember this boyfriend being a very promising candidate, due to the romantic gestures he made within the first month of our relationship.  He would bring me lunch, love notes and flowers to work, showering me with attention and affection.  It was all very new and exciting to me.  The only problem was, he started to move too fast too soon, and everything became overwhelming.  Our romance was somewhat forbidden, since my then roommate had developed an unreciprocated crush on him.  I was torn between being a friend and a girlfriend, so the heavy duty Don Quixote bit became more stressful than enjoyable.  When I brought it up, his boner deflated and he was never the same guy.  He'd projected his romantic ideals on the person he wanted me to be (future baby maker) and when I didn't appease that ideal, his ego was crushed and he checked out.  Problem was, he didn't bother to tell me.  Why?  Because men are afraid of women when they're upset.

So it goes.  The demise of your relationship with Mr. Nice Guy begins.  Enter passive aggressive behavior, lack of willingness to communicate, time spent together becomes eradicated and let's not forget our good buddy, bad sex.  Yow!  Exit, nice guy.

After things with the cub scout began to fall apart and communication didn't make a lick of difference, I finally decided to end things after four months together.  The night I told him it wasn't working, he nodded his head vigorously in accordance.  He cried, but only after he started talking about how much he missed his dog.  Otherwise, I'd made his day.  The truth was he'd been trying to shake me off for weeks by not calling or texting me back, suddenly being really "busy" and all that other weak business nice guys do.  If the nice guy is erring more on the side of "asshole," he cheats and tries to get caught.  Whatever the method, the point is to make a clean break, where the female has to execute the breakup so he won't have to smear his "nice guy" image.  To put it simply, he's too pussy to be honest about his true feelings because he doesn't want to confront possibly hurting you.

Let's get something straight here, gentlemen.  Though we may at first be upset, we can handle it.  Don't insult us.  We will survive losing you.  Perhaps we may even...gasp! Flourish?  To dream!  A woman's post break up fit of anger is merely a blip when compared to the sense of respect one feels toward truth.  Yes, our panties will be in a bunch after you break up with us, but if you tell us what you sincerely think and feel, we will always look back on you fondly.  I feel an elevated sense of respect toward the ex's who didn't sugar coat anything and just kept it real.  It takes balls to put it as plainly as "I don't love you anymore.  Goodbye."  Though sometimes brutal, honesty eliminates the obsessive guessing games, speculation and torment surrounding the end of a relationship.  To save everyone a lot of time and energy, let us start to come to terms with the possibility of being momentarily disliked by our ex lovers and stop treating truth like an embarrassing afterthought, shall we?  If all our ex-boyfriends proceeded with breakups this way, life would be so much simpler, and so much time would be saved.

Then we have the guys who are so stifled by their niceness they can't even make it into the boyfriend zone.  They are stuck sans girlfriend and place full blame on the fact that they're "nice."  This species of male tends to be particularly bitter toward women and their asshole loving ways.  I have been fooled by this type before, but am now adept to hang a quick left at the sight of them.

Not getting laid for an extended period of time will do one of two things: Give you clarity and allow you to detach yourself from the physical need to be with someone or make you horny and crazy as hell, leading you to get down on yourself and project your neuroses onto every person you meet.  This is also known as not keeping your shit tight.  It's unfortunate, but it happens to the best of us.

I recently met someone while searching for an apartment on Craigslist.  Not a good start, I know.  This guy was very cordial and light hearted via email, but in the end, he rented out the room before I even had a chance to look at it.  He sent an email letting me know, apologizing all over the place and offering any help if I so desired it.  I thought, "Wow that's really nice of him."  True to form, turns out he was a really nice guy.  Now that I think about it, he was the king of nice guys.

I sent him an email thanking him and in reply, he offered to buy me a drink sometime.  I stupidly accepted.  Upon meeting him for the first time, I was pleasantly surprised.  He wasn't half bad looking.  And not only was he easy to look at, he had an elevated understanding of good music and interesting things to say.  However the red flags began to pop up soon enough, when I realized he was a sycophant.  He began to place me on a pedestal, telling me everything I said was perfect, that I did no wrong.

Whoa.  Get to know me buddy.  Perfect is not the word to describe anyone, particularly me.  I started to get the impression that if I stuck around I'd become this guy's teacher, as I was not only smarter, but wiser as a cause of being three years older, which is equal to ten in man years.  Teaching is for teachers and I already teach yoga, thank you very much.  I like to leave work at work and I certainly don't need another full time job.  Especially if it's teaching you how to be my boyfriend.

The second time I hung out with the king of nice, the alarms really starting going off, after he openly told me he hadn't dated anyone in six years.  Apparently, girls always rejected him on the grounds that they'd rather be friends (since he was so nice and all), to which he bitterly retorted, "I already have enough friends.  I don't need another one."

C'mon!  That's the biggest piece of horse shit I continually hear from scorned nice types.  I don't need another friend.  Shit.  I'm sure you don't.  You are beyond needing friends.  Listen to yourself, will you? You sound like an ass.  Even if it's true and you have plenty of friends, don't say it.  I beg you.  Don't even say it.  It makes you look bad and serves to keep you single.  No one was ever harmed in having one more friend and if you think you're above this, it's probably time to check your ego.  You couldn't find a better way to make yourself look like the down on his luck sap, when things like this come out of your mouth.

So did I take on the gentleman who probably didn't know how to fuck (six years and no girlfriend?)  No, I did not.  I was very candid about why we couldn't move forward with any sort of romance, because I felt I owed him truth.  I let him know he wasn't able to afford me the level of intellectual stimulation I needed, and that he did wrong in selling me the down on his luck "nice guy" whom women wanted only as a friend; the same guy who took no interest in having yet another burdensome female friend.  Did he appreciate my honesty?  No, he did not.  He pretty much sent me to hell.  Needless to say, we did not remain friends.

And why did these women only want to have him as a friend in the first place?  Because he was too much of a coward to keep as a boyfriend!  No one wants that.  This guy literally asked if he could kiss me in a bar, and didn't even wait for an answer before coming in for the kill.  He got shoved off real quick, whilst I simultaneously whipped my head away in mild disgust.  I'm sure I could've kept him around to abuse and manipulate to my hearts content, but that's not what I'm looking for.  I'm looking for a man who's secure enough in himself to not seek validation via self deprecation, pity partying and ass kissing.  Grow a pair!

I like nice people.  I appreciate human courtesy and respect.  I don't appreciate men who use lame cop-outs to cope with being rejected by women.  That's not fair.  You know what else isn't fair?  When men cry about how women have it so easy because they can use their looks to get what they want.  That's just about the only trump we have over men, and now they want to take that away too.  It's an outrage!  Ok, big whoop if I can get a couple free drinks at a bar by flirting.  Society still dictates and men still run the country.  You're going to complain about us getting free admittance and free drinks?  For the love of jesus, just let us have that one thing.

Furthermore, when women are rejected by men, they turn inward and blame themselves for not being prettier.  This doesn't make us any better; it's pretty sad actually, but at least we assume responsibility rather than shift blame.  In the end, we all want the same things: Someone to share a few laughs and good sex with.  So like Lesley Arfin from Vice Magazine wisely put it, learn how to eat pussy and start memorizing lines from Will Ferrell comedies like your sex life depends on it, because it does.

I recognize there's another side to the coin, regarding the assumption that men love bitches.  Books have been written on this topic and there is much analysis and discussion to be had here.  For instance, what really constitutes being a bitch?  Is "bitch" also just a label generalizing behavior that's altogether misconstrued?  Probably.  I invite a rebuttal from the man's perspective.  Because I am just as mystified by my single shelf life as you are dude.

It Begins...

I fell down twice walking to work yesterday.  Not once, but twice.  I suppose it was actually one and a half, but it's more important to note how this foreshadows the commencement of winter.  Given that a single snowflake has yet to fall, it's going to be a harbinger of a winter.

I managed to take four terrific little spills last year.  2011 is off to a running start with one and a half under my belt, as a prelude.  I place blame entirely on my shoes.  The heels were worn, which created a slip and slide action when I stepped down on them, causing me to propel forward in an unprecedented manner.  Unprecedented and undesirable, as most travesties go.  If I really wanted to skid down the road, I would've done like contemporary adolescents do and bought Sketchers with wheels on them.

A word to the wise: slippery shoes are no good when you're late and rushing to work while wearing a skirt.  They started to give me trouble as I marched down 1st Ave in a huff, but I managed to catch myself just short of falling.  It'd been my third attempt to stay upright as I approached St. Marks.  Prolonging the inevitable remained no more.   My right heel slid forward as my left knee buckled and hit the rough pavement. I basically did the splits in the street. Took a knee on the sidewalk.  This created a nice little tear in my pantyhose and skin.  Blood was shed, folks.  You can't imagine my displeasure.

It brought me back to my 'winter self'.  The person I was exactly one year ago when I'd just moved to New York.  The most interesting part about experiencing seasons for the first time is the shedding of skins.  With seasonal change we seem to metamorphoses psychologically, depending on how we emotionally acclimate to extreme temperatures.  I reminisce on my old winter self as bumbling, beaten and with little direction; literally and metaphorically.  I could meditate on the numerous times I ducked around a corner to sadly scrutinize the crummy NYC street map I held between my frozen fingers.  Hence my falling nastily in public an unprecedented four times.  My spirits took quite a ride.  This winter was starting to look similar, but not without a good omen.  Just one day prior to falling on the way to work, while wearing the exact same boots, I basically levitated over a manhole.  Walking along the sidewalk late at night when things begin to get blurry, you naturally pay less attention to the ground.  So it's not too surprising that I stepped directly on a manhole cover to a shop basement, with all my force.  Most of us would do the same and not give it second thought.  But this manhole was different.  It was not secure.

I just remember springing really deeply, a sensation much like when one is trampoline jumping came over me.  I'm pretty sure I went airborne.  Couldn't believe it.  Looking over at my friend in hopes of registering what'd happened, he marveled at the fact that I'd remained above ground.  He thought he'd lost me to the basement for sure.  I suddenly went from dopey klutz to urban Jesus, jumping manholes versus walking on water.  Some of us were just born lucky I guess.  Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.

Yes, it will be a harbinger of a winter indeed.  Because it's last winter's pitfalls that prepared me for the year to come.  With these battle scars I continue to slug my way through the world and I am not alone.  If there's one thing the winter brings, it's a sense of congregation.  A shared sense of hatred or deep seeded resent can be extremely unifying.  It can bring even the most unexpected people together.  Christmas-a-come and we know what's in store:  The pain of leaving the house.  Ice cold temperatures that make it all the harder to get up and go to work.  The process of leaving.  The pain of going into the kind of cold that gets in your bones and cuts through your skin, leaving your hands raw and red.  Being blasted in the face with ice wind until you feel your head might explode.  The wet, slippery streets and falling on your ass.  Yes, it blows.  We can agree on that.  We can also come together and drink heavily in a dark bar to ease our sorrows.  The holiday parties, festive gatherings and comfort food are all gifts offered in attempts to help cope with extreme conditions.  Although somewhat dreadful, the winter is an interesting time, from a social standpoint.  We can get shit housed if we want to.  Our shattered souls need it.  This is understood?

And when the snow melts and the spring flowers begin to bloom, New Yorkers everywhere shed their chapped winter carcasses and rejoice in the delights of a new and less painful season.  It's a phenomenal energy shift.  The energy that emerges from a change to warmer temperatures is unlike anything I've experienced and for this I am truly grateful.  Full seasons allow for a deeper appreciation of pleasant weather, which you are more prone to take advantage of when it's less easy to come by.  Furthermore, shedding seasonal skins does something to you, sort of like leveling out the playing field of your psyche.  Sure my winter psyche may be held together by cobwebs, but on the other side of this my summer psyche is lusty, impertinent and ready to lunge at throats with outstretched hands.  All these dimensions just give us more depth, or so I choose to tell myself.

So as I prepare for another season of slipping on black holes and busting my ass on the concrete, I remind myself that in order to fly, one must fall.  In order to fall, one must let go of fear because being able to fall freely takes courage.  If there's anything this city has taught me, it's the importance of keeping courage.  I commit myself to another season of bravery in the face of potential falls and subzero temperatures.  And though the brave may not live forever, the timid do not live at all.  I choose to live, but this time I'll come equipped with better shoes.