So, I’ve spent the last week squatting with three lovely girls. They’ve made me tea, they’ve let me eat their food and they’ve forced me to shower, all in return for chips, Scott Pilgrim novels and nectarines. Bargin.
But I’ve learnt one very important point about the female kind. They’re perverts. More so than any male friend I own, these girls spend their time glaring at the male form, pointing out their good points, their bad points and informing everyone in the room of how much they want to snog their face. I have only one issue with this.
I don’t mind women being free to perv on guys. Men have been doing it for millenia – oogling and groping and fucking and impregnanting the big hipped, big titted fitty from the cave down the road all for their own sexual perverseness. It sickens me.
Anyone who has watched a film with me knows that I can’t stand kissing. Seeing two people kiss makes me feel violently ill. It’s weird. I’m weird. Get over it. I just put this in here to make the point that I find the sexual nature of most of modern media disgusting. Regardless of gender.
But that’s not my issue. It’s only fair that women get their chance to perv back at men. And, while I don’t want to watch it when they do, they’re free to oogle and grope and fuck and impregnate men as much as we do them. My issue is this.
It’s never me.
I’m not an overly attractive person. I’m average. And that’s only on the good days. No one pervs over me. No one notices me walk past and fans the orgasmic sweat off their face. No one, dispite the rumours, thinks of me instead of their boyfriends during sex. And this irritates me.
It’s not that I even want to be. I just want a chance. Think of the film ‘Hitch’ (which I was made to watch the night I arrived). Long spoilers short, the Fat Guy gets the Hot Girl because he’s funny and they share interests and he has that boyish charm that no one she’s ever met does.
BULLSHIT.
It doesn’t matter if you can make a girl laugh, doesn’t matter if you can have conversations until 5 in the morning about nothing or farm animals and boyish charm is good only for introductions and the occasional persuasion of making them buy you a drink. But if you don’t have a cute arse, you won’t find love. Atleast not until your late 30s.
My late 30s. When the attrative men have moved on to the attractive younger replacements of you girls and your saggy, used bodies will crawl back to the unattractive people because – “Hey, I want kids one day, right? And he’s not that bad really… He’s got this boyish charm.”
It’s here I quote from a break-up I had. A sentence said to comfort me but that has haunted me everyday since.
“You’ll be the perfect husband, but you’re just not a good boyfriend for me right now…”
‘Nuff said.
