A sensitive guy’s emotional availability is decorative, a means by which to exploit a woman’s weakness for men who are not total beer-powered, boxer shorts wearing Guitar Heroes with mommy issues and 18 gigabytes of porn hidden in a computer file named “Unicorns.” This sort of dude displays his sensitivity with emo mixtapes, passionate rants on fluffy political issues like being pro-bunny rabbit or anti-death from shrapnel, and professions of understanding the subtle intricacies of the female heart.
I don’t understand the female heart. I can barely comprehend my own selfish, insecure, dark little heart — much less a woman’s. I have no academic or critical perspective on gender identity issues; all I know are the mistakes I have made. I have neither been lucky nor thoughtful in love. In fact, some of my exes might say I’ve been downright thoughtless in love. Like karma, self-awareness is a bitch.
One needn’t be “sensitive” to lure women into bed. That’s a lowdown, dirty trick. I have my own lowdown, dirty tricks that have served me in the past. My tawdry, wayward, lonely past. Now, I’m currently single and publicly working out how to be a better person. One day, I might write about those misadventures, without totally prostituting my personal life. I’ll just be slutty with it. So many hearts were broken over the course of some years, mine and others, that it all blends into one gigantic tangle of woe, confusion, and occasionally really hot sex in a bathroom stall.
In fact, instead of being the sort of guy who keeps an acoustic guitar around so he can warble an impromptu version of Guns N’ Roses’ epic late 80′s could-be-a-love-but-is-probably-a-veiled-abusive-boyfriend-apology ballad “Patience,” I was a guy who flipped his faults to work for him.
And I could quaff, and convince randy bar wenches to quaff along with me, in order for us to have bawdy fun, and then in the morning, awkwardly lament having to see each other at work.
So, I’m not a guy who’s “sensitive.” Maybe about myself and my own pain. I do admit to getting weepy near the end of “The Wrestler,” but they were manly tears. Tears so manly they could impregnate you.
[Full disclosure: I did not make that joke up. A Very Funny Woman who I know made that joke up. To the gentlemen reading: A Very Funny Lady is a precious resource, an alternative fuel. Never take them for granted.]
We could also continue open gender warfare, where every guy is a jerk and every woman a psycho. But that bores me profoundly. I have to admit, though, it’s becoming increasingly frustrating that my only choices for being a man are “sensitive guy,” “metrosexual,” or “toolbox.” I will pioneer the EmoMetroTool.
I aspire to empathy between the sexes and trying to figure out the hot mess of relationships. Do we have dilemmas, insecurities, and kinks in common? Zeus, I hope so. I want to understand. I’ll never be so “sensitive” to be able to pull off pretending that I know what it’s like to be stared at and judged by a bikini-clad waif from dozens of magazine covers, or to be eyeball-molested by a sneering man with perpetually wet hair, or to wonder if your lazy male coworker laughing it up with your boss gets paid more than you do. But I can acknowledge that these things happen, all too often, and I can try to contribute to making sure they don’t happen in my world.
The only thing I know for sure that we have in common is that banging it out with the right person at the right time, with or without a single glass of wine, whilst Pandora plays your Prince channel, is good. And that in the end what we all want is a forgiving pervert who’ll make us laugh when we’re both old, fat, and ugly. I mean, at least we have that in common, right?