By and large, no one thinks about him, about a man. What is it like for him to live? They think more about seals and fur seals.
Everyone (let’s not point fingers) thinks only about whether he loves or doesn’t love. Does or doesn’t. Will he come or won’t he? Will he cheat or won’t he? A woman dependent on a man is like a prisoner whose arms have been twisted and tied at the elbows to someone else. To her man. The slightest move, she hisses, “It hurts.” When he freezes, she tugs, “Why are you frozen? Are you alive? How do you feel about me?”
I’m exaggerating, as always.
But by and large, look in the mirror. A woman who either no longer expects anything from a man or whom he calls his mother can truly think about him.
More and more of my male acquaintances are complaining about loneliness. They look lonely. They choose loneliness. Sometimes they just need us to stroke them and not ask questions. To my shame, I can stroke, but in most cases, I can’t help but ask questions. Because I’m worried about myself. Does he treat me like that? Most of the women I know, one way or another, by hook or by crook, squeeze attitude out of men. At least some attitude.
Meanwhile, the man gets tired and closes his eyes. He no longer wants to see his business, his woman, or his overall responsibility for everything.
If something doesn’t work out for him, he’s an asshole. He lives with the feeling “I’m an asshole,” and he doesn’t have the magic word “but”. It’s all simpler with us. Things aren’t going well at work, but at least my husband is good. I have no husband, no job, but at least I have legs. And breasts. Okay, I’m fat, but Katya is even fatter.
For some reason, this “but” doesn’t work for men. Their rules are honest, strict, and simple. You have big balls, but you don’t have a career? Well, you’re an asshole. You have a Bentley, but you don’t have a woman? Well, you’re an asshole. You have a woman, but you don’t have a Bentley? Well, you’re an asshole.
They are always built into competition – one, and into a hierarchy – two. They are always figuring out who is the puppy and who is the boss on the court. And sometimes, when they come home, they just want to lie face down and close their eyes. Alone. Because if they are not alone, then they are an asshole again. A weakling and a wimp.
I could never be a man. I am a weakling and a wimp, and I often cry under the covers. And no one will say a word to me. I myself will not say a word. And real heroes have a strict taboo on self-pity.
I was young, and my husband was building a business. In the 90s. He would come home and lie down with his eyes closed. And I wanted him to talk to me. And he did. Barely alive from fatigue.
Later, already in my unmarried life, I wanted something else from the men I loved. To love. To marry. Roses. Don’t hurt me. Don’t move. Or no: move – and make me feel good. How do they feel about this?
The further into the forest, the less I understand it. And when I have the imagination to imagine that sometimes they just need to be accepted and understood, and kept silent, and brought tea, and all this – not today and not tomorrow, but for a long, long time, until everything gets better – then it seems that I understand everything. Then gender disappears, and there are simply two adults who can do something good for each other. Supportive. Friendly. Loving.
For the first time in my life, I seriously think about this. It seems to me that they are becoming more and more lonely and abandoned against the background of all these courses for bitches and female independence. And they can’t tell anyone about this, about their growing loneliness. And from this pitiful place, from this anxiety, I can no longer want anything from a man. Although, from the point of view of successful women, I turn out to be a complete asshole. After all, I don’t have a fur coat, a husband, or even a regular text message to say “good night.” So don’t follow my example, don’t.
