Men are pigs. Cavity-scratching, couch-deforming, football-watching, boobie-honking, wolf-whistling, navel-picking, alphabet-belching, bean-filled dingleberries-twixt-the-cheeks. With curlicue tails. And we fart a lot. In short, we are swine. And don’t let anyone tell you differently. I know this is true because in the last ten minutes, I’ve done half the things on that list, and thought of doing the other ones.
We’re unceremonious facsimiles of the original troglodyte who, given a choice between romance and the regional playoffs, would choose game every time. Besides, they might get a chance to stare at gratuitous shots of the cheerleaders between the scrimmages.
And that, my dear, is my point. Don’t let us fool you. We’re experts at fooling you. Sometimes we may even fool ourselves, especially when it comes to the moment when sex (or maybe a halfway-decent grope) is on the line. That’s what we spend half our lives wanting beyond all other sensations. The feel of a woman. Lacking that, we wouldn’t mind just staring hard at a few women. If that option isn’t available, we work out our latent aggression by watching violent displays of gladiatorial activity, or masturbation. Maybe both, but in this modern age, gladiators are generally forced to wear pants, or at least a cup.
I know guys who are all sugar and spice when he’s near the woman he’s trying to impress, but the second he’s away from you, he’s chatting up his conquests, and saying something like “She is my Everest and I’d sure like to Mount that.” Only less classy. More, well, grunts and snorts. But yeah, sugar and spice when you’re around. He probably likes your Big Rock Candy Mountains too.
Men are pigs.
I don’t know why you put up with us. Is it in the hope of romance, or perhaps a budding relationship, or the fulfilment of marital bliss? You realize you’re far more than likely to harvest cornucopia of empty Pabst Blue Ribbon cans.
I don’t blame you for persisting. Relationships are special, tender things. For men, the special, tender things happen to dangle between their legs. Incidentally f he tries any funny business, aim high and strike hard, because trust me, it’s where millennia of evolution has allowed our cerebral cortexes to seep down into.
This letter isn’t about you and your sex life. I want you to trust yourself—you’ll know when the time is right for you—but I want it to be with the right guy. Not some scabby, slick-talking hobo. You you’re your moments of intimacy to be with someone who makes you smile. I think you can find someone who treasures you, and who you treasure in return. In short, no Panamanian politicians, pimply perverts, or pimps. You could give it up to the first John Thomas or Harry Dick who compliments you, but I know you’re better than that. Make it special.
Occasionally, you’ll get a decent guy, against all odds—a Darwinian freak of nature. I hope and pray that you’ll find him, you know. I really do. I want grandkids someday, and Lord knows your brothers will be fighting an uphill battle in that respect. Maybe you’ll find this mythical guy—one who cooks, cleans and crochets in his spare time, maybe was a music major, and whose filing system was learned in Library School. Now there’s a catch. Oh, it can’t hurt if he’s really tall, has kind of a goofy cute gap-toothed smile and a devastating sharp wit. Trust me, you will want to find a guy like that or do your very best. Not everybody is perfect.
Somehow Polonius from Hamlet doesn’t sound so senile to me, you know? Just be careful out there. You’re a trusting sort, and not everybody is a great person. Hell, some people aren’t even good. They just fake it well. Be careful of them.