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:
- The reason I was standing there talking to Symbiotic-Nymph is because I happen to know her.
- 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.