The Dickhead Duo: Turning in My Man Card

My name is Buck, and I’m here to act like a horny rabid baboon!

It’s time for my bimonth­ly urge to turn in my Man Card. Well, this time I think I would if I could, but I’m not even sure where it is. I think it’s buried some­where under the pow­er tools.

As always please let me clar­i­fy: I’m not switch­ing to pink panties—I still pre­fer tighty whities (or sag­gy din­gies, more often) some­times even with the occa­sion­al Her­shey High­way inside. I still smoke a pipe, not spark­ly laven­der pump­kin spice lat­te e‑cigs. I still drink beer, not Men­stru­al Moji­tos or cup­cake cham­pagne in Hel­lo Kit­ty flutes.

No one would mis­take me for a female, even though I wouldn’t be upset if they did. It’s not about those super­fi­cial things any­way. My occa­sion­al urge to ditch the Man Card is not due to any fail­ure on my part; as usu­al it’s due to the embar­rass­ing behav­ior of oth­er Real Men®™© I don’t want to be asso­ci­at­ed with.

I was grab­bing a few things for din­ner at Wal-Mart and found myself in line behind some firefighters—two men and a woman. The woman was hold­ing all their gro­ceries, most­ly because the two men were too busy slob­ber­ing and slaver­ing over an attrac­tive woman in front of them in line.

You know the drill: the eye­brows, the frank leer­ing, the crude stage whis­pers: “I’d take THAT home and hit it!” “HIT it? I’d RIDE ‘er home and put her away wet!”

I snort­ed qui­et­ly as I jug­gled my deb­it card and the rolls and ham­burg­er I was pick­ing up, but not too qui­et­ly for the female fire­fight­er to roll her eyes at me and exchange smiles briefly with an unmis­tak­able See the ani­mals I get to work with? I shrugged back apolo­get­i­cal­ly with a rue­ful So hard to find good help these days, huh? wink.

Then I noticed the tar­get the Firestuds’ testos­terone lust hoses were spray­ing down: Sym­bi­ot­ic-Nymph, a friend of mine. She was dressed the way she nor­mal­ly does for casu­al day at the office: an-ankle length wool cloak, granny-style boots, a laven­der corset, opera gloves and a vel­vet top hat.

No, real­ly: Sym­bi­ot­ic-Nymph likes to dress the way Madon­na would if she had some mon­ey to spend. I had remarked on her sar­to­r­i­al ele­gance at a local munch once—it was at bar where every­one else’s idea of spiff­ing up for the night was to find match­ing socks and the T‑shirt with­out the mus­tard stains. She was wear­ing sil­ver lamé harem pants with a match­ing pirate wench blouse, a tri­corn hat with a white pea­cock feath­er, a leop­ard­skin cape with a white silk bowtie, and was bran­dish­ing an ivory cig­a­rette holder.

I joked that she didn’t have to get all dressed up for just us; she replied she’d left work a bit late and hadn’t had a chance to go home and change.

You wore that to work?”

Sure, yeah; I like to dress up,” she said.

So there she was at the self-check­out in Wal-Mart, decked out in fem­i­nine liv­ery like she was going to go out­side and take her post on the back cor­ner of a coach on its way to a roy­al wedding.

Behind her were the fire­fight­ers with their black tac­ti­cal car­go pants, the pock­ets bulging with steroidal accre­tions of man­ly life­sav­ing gear, wear­ing too-tight polo shirts with seams care­ful­ly pre-split over their bulging shoul­ders and biceps, capped off with high-and-tight tac­ti­cal mus­tach­es, per­fect­ly trimmed, and tac­ti­cal wrap­around Oak­leys with tac­ti­cal safe­ty lan­yards and, of course, tac­ti­cal spiky glis­ten­ing hair. Tac­ti­cal Studs R Us, baby.

And behind them stood me, in san­dals, tat­tered jeans, a shape­less tank top and my every­day rum­pled, gray bushy beard and too-long-for-my age hair. Pic­ture a cross between Albert Ein­stein and Top Gear’s James May, minus the brains and posh accent.

I stepped around the Tes­ti­cle Twins and walked over to Sym­bi­ot­ic-Nymph. “Hey you!” I said, pok­ing her shoulder.

She lit up. “Well, hi! What brings you here?” She gave me a hug. Behind me I heard a quadru­ple click as the Dick­head Duo’s eye­lids sprang open hard enough to sprain their eye sockets.

Just snag­ging a few last-minute din­ner things,” I said.

Me too—thought it’d be eas­i­er to pick it up on the way home from work so I would­n’t have to go back out.” She start­ed bag­ging her purchases.

I guess you weren’t kidding!”

About what?”

You real­ly do like to dress up nice all the time; even for work.”

Yep. I just got this corset,” she said, throw­ing back the cloak. “Thought I’d try it today.”

Nice!” I said, admir­ing the stitch­ing around the bon­ing and brass clasps over the front busk. “Bet your co-work­ers loved it.” Behind me I heard a dual splop as the Dynam­ic Douchenoz­zles’ tongues hit the floor, accom­pa­nied by an embar­rassed groan from the unfor­tu­nate fire­fight­ress who had to keep them corralled.

Remem­ber how, in A Christ­mas Sto­ry, Ral­phies’ mom has to keep drag­ging him away from the soft glow of elec­tric sex in the win­dow before she final­ly “acci­den­tal­ly” breaks the Old Man’s major award? Watch­ing the belea­guered fire­fight­ress wres­tle the Twat­waf­fle Two­some past Sym­bi­ot­ic-Nymph and me when the next check­out opened up was rather like that.

One of them was still ogling Sym­bi­ot­ic-Nymph; the oth­er was glar­ing at me. I could see what he was think­ing as clear­ly as if he had a com­ic book thought-bal­loon hov­er­ing over his head: How the fuck does HE rate? Look at that dick­less won­der stand­ing there to that fine pussy instead of me!

All he need­ed was a nametag read­ing My Name Is Buck and I’m Here to Fuck!  and a key­chain labeled Pussy Wag­on.

Well, the answers to his ques­tions are simple:

  1. The rea­son I was stand­ing there talk­ing to Sym­bi­ot­ic-Nymph is because I hap­pen to know her.
  2. The rea­son he wasn’t—and nev­er will—is because Sym­bi­ot­ic-Nymph is not a fine pussy. Or a boda­cious rack. Or a sweet tail. Or a juicy piece of ass. She’s a per­son, not a body part.

For­tu­nate­ly for Buck, or what­ev­er his name was, I’m not man­ly enough to bite off his bot­tom lip, slash his Achilles’ ten­don and slam his head in a door repeat­ed­ly.

There’s nev­er a Black Mam­ba around when you need one.