Kanye, you Monster (or, does Mr West need psychotherapy?)

Kanye certainly has a penchant for unfortunate imagery (what with his constant twitter barrages and endless self-publicity, I think I can safely say the world is on a first-name basis with Mr. West).

And I love him for it.

It takes a true Byronic Hero to name an album “My Beautiful Dark, Twisted Fantasy,” direct its first video, Run Away, singing “Let’s have a toast for the douche-bags! Let’s have a toast for the assholes!” and fill it to the brim with the kind of revealing, reflective and ridiculous imagery that plays Pavlov’s bell to thousands of drooling pop culture critics and arm-chair Freudians.

What’s that, Kanye? You want to fuck a bird? You’d like to keep a woman as a pet? You enjoy long walks in woods and learned helplessness? You ultimately acknowledge that your manic, self-centered, border-line-delusional behavior drives love away while simultaneously blaming your lover for not wanting to exist solely for singing out melodies of praise from your ego’s gilded bird cage?

Oh Kanye, you card. You are the height of too-muchery.

So imagine my delight and discomfort in learning that the best traditional rap track off of his new album had a brand new video. And imagine my wincing squeal win, having pressed play, the very first image I receive is women in high-heels hanging from the ceiling.

Merry Christmas, bored feminist bloggers, from Kanye West- sorry the gift came late.




Before we even begin this difficult discussion/dissection, I will allow that this video is the artistic vision of multiple sources. Moreover, I will admit that I am not of the school of thought that finds that every line, word, character and image speaks to a deeper truth about the artist his or herself. Myself a writer, I would hate to think that the behavior of my characters became a reflection of my inner demons and unspoken hatreds to critical readers.

That said, come on. Kanye BEGS for this kind of attention. A man with diamond studs surgically inserted into his teeth has a lot to say even when he’s saying nothing.

The key to watching a video like this is to watch it with the song off. Without the distraction of the lyrics or melody, you have the image in its purest form- and it’s a doosey.



The women we have here are highly sexualized. Ugly faces abound but, even when a woman in a wolf-monster or zombie, she’s still showing an awesome rack. Dead models lounge on couches, posed with the suggestion of necro-lesbianism (Rule 34); the aforementioned hanging women are all model-sized, leggy, high-heeled and in lingerie. This heady mix of violence and sex is juxtaposed with the glamour of the male rappers: Rick Ross, doning a Hefner robe and smoking a cigar; Jay Z in his trade-mark glasses, suited-up and swaggering; Kanye himself, open-shirted while the flesh-starved hands of (I presume) zombie fans claw his clothes off…. The men, the height of power. The women, more than submissive- corpses. Dolls to be played with, as Kanye shows in one scene.

An eagle-eyed observer would note that there are scenes with live women in this video. Saving Nicki Minaj’s self-flagellating sado-masochism (oh I went there), we begin with a pale male model-type bringing dragged, shirtless, across a floor- to be impaled by the living woman, with a heel.

The high-heel has a special place in the fetishistic circles. It is both an artifact of female sexuality and female submission. It is dominant while binding, something meant to pleasingly shape the female calve and add a few inches height even as it painfully cramps toes and alters one’s gait. In the modern world, only the corset can match it for schizoid sexuality.

So, on the one hand, there is a woman who is alive and killing, just as the men are presumed to be. The sexual power is in her hand (er, shoe). On the other hand, the murder is done with a phallic fetish object that seems to be aimed at the victim’s heart. Choose your own symbolic interpretation of that one, folks. And my (admittedly limited) experience with the sort of men who go to professional Dominatrix’s is that, even in submission they are a demanding lot. In the end, the woman is still very much an object.



Which brings us to my favorite verse, Nicki Minaj: the only female with a legitimately powerful (though, again, highly sexualized) role and who is she dominating? Another women. Not just another women, infact: she dominates herself.

Minaj is a bit of a mystery, in the hip hop world. A mix-tape diva, she was known for taking on multiple personalities on her verses and having a style that moved more towards diary than braggadocio. Many fans were disappointed by her debut album, Pink Friday, for being more mainstream than expected- the diary had given away to a younger, more energetic Lil Kim.

One could almost see this scene, made for a song that dropped before her album did, in those heady days when Minaj was the one to have guesting crazy verses on your rap albums, as an acknowledgement of her lessened personal presence in the making of Pink Friday. Here she beats the other side of her multiple personality, self-hurt in video-form, beating herself over selling out. This, on Monster, is the beast we expected and did not find much of on Pink Friday. Don’t worry, fans, she hates herself for it too.

Or I’m bullshitting. Either way, a woman on woman lap-dance is pretty hot. Perhaps Minaj could have been suited-up, ala Jay Z, interrogating a shirtless male model in a gimp mask? It’s another artistic choice but, ultimately, more teasing lesbianism- the most frequent and juvenile of male sexual fantasies- wins the day.

So, what are we left with? Women as objects, fetishized heart-breakers, wonderful background furniture or lesbian fantasy. Typical frightened teenage boy stuff.



Ouch.

It’s kind of hard to make a case for Yeezy on this one.
Erasing media portrayals of women and sexualized violence has long been the strongest column of the last feminist crusade. It’s hard to argue against domestic abuse, rising sexual assault rates and the blasé hilarity that is Snooki getting punched out in a bar.



When the criticism comes (and it will, oh lord it will), the question is how will Kanye respond? He can be wonderfully tongue-in-cheek (though one never really knows if it’s self-aware, self-delusion or self-loathing). A man who names his album My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy using cover-art of what looks like an African caricature drinking a beer while fucking a white harpy has to have a few aces up his sleeve. Perhaps this plays into his hand, as a pop culture creator and critic?
Perhaps the only woman who can truly understand Kanye West… is Lady GaGa (The Fame Monster and the Monster? Imagine the gossip columns!).

I’ll just wait for the fire-works here with my bag of pop-corn.

Here's the video:

Why Can't Men Play With Sex Dolls? (Or, Why isn't MY sex-toy empowering?)

Have you ever read or heard an account of a man going to a porno shop to buy himself his very first Fleshlight (NSFW)? Was it a powerful experience that left him flush with confidence? Did he walk out of that porno shop with a brown paper bag and the swagger of independence?

Not much a realistic narrative is it? Okay, try this one on for size: a mouth-breather in a heavy overcoat slouches into Babylon to a chorus of fake moans echoing from the jerk-off booths where a mustached man idles against his spunk-mop. Pit-stained and nervous, the man enters the shop, buys his Fleshlight, averting his eyes from the bored punk chick who takes his money as if it expects to be sticky, and slinks out of the store and into the night to watch ANAL ANNIHILATION 3: The Quickening in his dingy studio apartment.

Yeah, that sounds about right. Contrast with this:

The staff members who work at the store left me pulsating with a sense of sexual liberation, feeling that there was no shame in any interest or fetish that I might have locked away. The saleswoman lead me around Babeland describing different products, asking me if I liked anal stimulation as casually as an employee at Banana Republic would ask if I want a rewards card. With each object she offered, she gave an informative explanation coupled with an open understanding of the good it can bring into people’s lives. Having a bizarre-looking stick described to me as if it were a family photograph or beloved tchotchke transformed the process into something much more normal and inviting.

“If you treat something as your ugly toy, then you will think it is ugly and never want to use it,” she explained and I realized how true that was. Before coming into the store, part of me looked at toys and fetishes in a negative light, but I was so wrong. What started off as a trip to buy a vibrator turned into a realization that everyone has a different way of pleasing themselves and that knowing what mine is will only make my life better.

If only my masturbatory habits were so life affirming!

A funny thing happens when you try and talk about sex toys and men. Masturbation is an assumed habits but if you use something like a plastic poon-tang, you are an aberration-- a real man goes out and gets laid; you want sex toy, buy a Mustang.

A dildo is a form of independence from male dependence; a fleshlight is a loser's security blanket. What's worse if it you add the notorious Real Doll to the equation:

Just ask Salon:

For a cool $5,000, scrubs of all shapes and sizes can obtain unlimited access to all three orifices on a bootilicious bombshell fashioned from high-grade silicone flesh.

Sure, your local porn palace offers any number of disembodied vaginas sculpted after those of adult film vixens, and the plastic blow-up doll has been around for decades. And Abyss Creations has a number of competitors: Triple-X-Sextoys, for instance, offers a silicone love doll modeled after pornstress Chasey Lain for $259.

But Realdoll is the Cadillac of the club. With five anatomically correct body types; nine head styles, including a Japanese cutie named Mai; and a wide choice of characteristics including eye and hair colors as well as breast size, the company has gone a long way toward fulfilling the promise of that prescient 1975 flick, "The Stepford Wives." You know, the one where a cabal of yupper-crust executives take over a Connecticut town and replace their wives with oversexed androids who dig housework.

Well damn.... buy a dildo and it's rainbows, lolly-pops and You-Go-Girls rolled up in plastic phallic form; buy a Real Doll, it's a patriarchal conspiracy.

Continued:

Crikey, what have we come to? After all, $5,000 can buy a lot of trips to the local brothel for sex with an actual woman, not a lifeless puppet. Apparently some guys would rather own a trailer than rent a penthouse.

Hear that, ladies? Why buy a ninety dollar vibrator when you can go out, get drunk and fuck a random dude in your local dive bar? Ahem. Excuse me: I mean, fellas, why buy a sex toy when you can fuck a hooker? Ladies? Carry on.

Well, screw the biased (and male) writer of this article-- Where's The Pants is about the feminist/masculine conversation; what does a feminist scholar have to say about this?

"Obviously, I don't think it'll make women obsolete," says M.C. Sungaila, an attorney and writer in Southern California specializing in feminist issues. "But reducing a woman to an inanimate object in order to relate to her in the most intimate way is kind of disturbing."

Sungaila grants that individuals have the right to pursue their own fantasy lives but objects to Realdolls' larger message.

"Knowing that it's out there and that somebody thought this was a good idea -- to make money off the complete objectification of women -- is discomforting to say the least," comments Sungaila.

You'd think Sungaila never Jilled-off with a Feeldoe (and I find myself wondering whether, if she did, was it to Martin Luther King speeches and Betty Friedan Audiobooks?).

I believe we've moved on from the antiqued image of the 70s, second-wave feminist and the "All Sex Is Rape" strawman, but there is a lingering cultural threat from male sexuality-- specifically, male masturbatory habits.

In the use of porn, we reduce women to objects- we dehumanize; in the use of sex dolls, we only seek to perfect the patriarchal project, with perfectly submissive, perfectly docile sex holes in vaguely feminine shapes.

We shoulder the guilt of the long-standing stereotype that man is a beast with a penis and woman is a complex work of art: remove the penis from a man, you have safe sexuality; remove the personality from a female, you get pale imitation.

I don't solely blame the old-thinking feminists for this perception: no, I blame the lingering sexist attitudes of men for most of the issue.

Women are the competition and the prize. A woman's value is in her vagina and a male's virility is in how much value he's accrued in the plunder of said vaginas. If a male uses bought and paid for, toy vaginas... well, the question becomes, is he a real man? It is aacceptable for a man to remove himself from the competition for sex?

Ask most men and the answer is no: refusing the compete is to admit failure. The very definition of "Loser."

I recognize that I come at this from a male perspective: if you ask a woman about her objection to the idea of realistic sex dolls (as I've gathered from the comments sections of these various articles), the question then becomes one of relationships.

Can a man who has invested his sexuality in a silicon girl with a fixed smile ever be emotionally rehabilitated? And if one has voluntary chosen to "love a synthetic human", are they mentally disturbed and in need of psychiatric help?

The (full) documentary, Guys And Dolls, delves into the lives of men who have used these toys to varying degrees and purposes: we have Davecat who considers himself on the forefront of a new kind of sexuality, "Organiks" loving "Synthetiks"; we have Everette, the photographer who has found his perfect subjects; Gordon, the liver-faced, angry misogynist loser we've come to expect. And then we have Michael, who uses his 6 Real Dolls the way a woman would use a variety of vibrators and sex-toys-- something to hold him over until he finds himself a real, flesh and blood woman.

Michael finds his woman, Jody, someone he openly talks about on camera as "the one." She knows he has a secret and it bothers her that he won't share. So he shows her his doll collection. On his birthday.

She leaves him a week later. So much for honesty....

Two of these men are simply lonely; one has a fetish; the last is someone you wouldn't want in the gene-pool anyway.

What's wrong with these men? They're human.

They have problems. They have idiosyncrasies. They don't fit in very well. Or they're just plain disgusting. And most well-adjusted women wouldn't give them the time of day.

To quote Everette, "There are worse things in life than living with dolls, really. Like living alone."

So why shouldn't disgusting people be happy too? Is it so wrong to be QuirkyAlone?

It all comes back to a piece of M.C. Sanguila's quote: "individuals have the right to pursue their own fantasy lives," full-stop.

Part of sexuality is objectification: it is breasts and abs and detachable penises.

Part of modernity is isolation: the disintegration of traditional communal ties, the re-ordering of society along more niche, individualist lines.

Industrial societies are becoming more physically alone, while increasing their interactions through objects. Flirting through texts, selecting dates from the content of their essays, falling in love through font.

That is modernity. Get used to it.

So if a girl can name her dildo Long John Silver and still find herself, if she so chooses, a mate-- why can't John screw his Real Doll until the right Jane comes along? Or not?

Why can't men play with dolls?

Week 4.

I haven't been updating on the weekly schedule I expected to because a funny thing happened in week 2-- all the changes went away.

I no longer have strange, strong dreams.

I still am not easily aroused.

I am no more aggressive than I was a month ago.

While I severely desire to end this fast already, I'm determined to stick it out through the 20th-- at this point, it has become less an experiment than an exercise in will power.

What we may learn, here, is that while the body may hormonally jerk about from temporary conditions, it will find a way back to its balance.

Week one: complete.

Perhaps it's that I've been biking nearly 20 miles most days of the week or the fact that I haven't orgasmed for the same amount of time, but I've been having the most vivid, memorable dreams: and not all of them are sexual.

Mind you, most ARE in some way involving the opposite sex or the female form, with only a few blatantly pornographic (indeed, one dream was neither-- I was a wolf, hunting someone-- yet I still woke up unusually aroused), but the only consistency is that they are there, every night and morning, at the very tip of my thoughts when I wake up and often lingering after.

Thus, my first week of the sex-fast has been one filled with fantasy.

The interesting thing about this little experiment is that while, yes, I get very stiffly aroused and, yes, I give second and third looks to every and any woman with a wisp of flesh showing (thank god for Lakeshore jogging paths), I also found that, after the first few days, I'm not easily aroused. The first day? Drop of a hat-- second, third, a stray thought could get me going.

But then around the fifth I found that I'm not as constantly hard as one would assume, considering a pop culture that SCREAMS that men are horny beasts-- especially without any manual relief.

The truth, it seems, lies in the middle-- I think I've moved a bit passed the physical and into the psychological. I'm not hard at the drop of a hat but my mind is still pretty preoccupied.

Are these clues to the supposed "sexual energy" some gurus of abstinence are so adamant about? I'm a believer in energy, in the non-spiritual sense: I believe we pass on subtle behavioral cues that influence group behaviors, whether you realize it or not. So, perhaps, there is a sexual energy but it is only the build-up of hormonal tensions then expressed in interpersonal interactions.

In the mean time, I find myself more focused on the physical, again: daily, I find myself distracted by the desire to do push-ups, pull ups or get a ride in.

Mind you, that may be tied to hormones crying out for relief: the "Look good, drop fat, get chicks" model.

Indeed, I've actually thought more about dating, more than I have in some months. I idly peruse OKCupid. I listlessly click pretty faces. I passively hunt, late into the night. Still, for now, it's only looking.

I'm curious to see if this is going to make me more aggressive in my interactions with women I don't know: aggression being something that only manifests itself in me when I've been drinking.

The only thing I'm sure about, in this little experiment, is that it is very, very hard to complete-- no pun intended.

This is going to be one long, hard month.

No pun intended.

The Sex Fast. Week 1

It occurred to me the other day that I had stopped enjoying sex.

Not to say sex wasn't enjoyable-- it was, as far as it goes. What I noticed was that, enjoyable as it was, I was less and less there as it was happening.

There I'd be, in bed with some wonderful girl or another, and my mind would be elsewhere-- the passion, the fire, would be elsewhere. For a while, the only thing that really worked for booze: properly drunk, I would bowl a girl over like a far-sighted caveman, drooling and slobbering until I got my last "grunt."

Not my best performances, I'm sure.

Truth was, and is, I had been in a sexual funk-- no interest in hunting Big Game and, if a deer happen to stray into the line of my phallic metaphor, no real interest in pulling the trigger either.

Worse yet, I didn't even want it alone. Every orgasm was a limp cough, a fleeting spark without a fire. The worst time to be disappointed in yourself is when your masturbating.

So I got an idea. And by "got," I mean stole.

Some guy had posted in a forum about how he had gone without an orgasm for an entire month-- no sex (he was married, so it wasn't hard-- har har), no masturbation, no nothing.

Eureka.

Since yesterday, August 19th, I have gone without touching myself and will do so for 30 days.

And you, lucky readers, will be along for the ride.

Like smoking, I hear the first week is the hardest (har har): so, a week from now, I'll report again on how my thing fares.

As for right now, I don't feel any different. No blue balls, no leering at high schoolers, no morning wood. But, my friends, we shall see.

If I don't report back by the end of the 30 days, assume I've gone on a killing spree.

(by the way, how is this about masculinity or feminism? Seriously, a 30 day fast from sex? What better way to find out what a man truly is... when he's not trying to get laid.)

Rage.

I was 15 years old and she was my first real girlfriend-- real in the sense that we spent a lot of time together, we cared for each other and, most importantly, we had sex (and the kinds and variety pretty much spoiled me for life).

She'd a rough time, as long as I'd known her. She'd been raped. Her father was long gone. Her past boyfriends tended to be gangbangers with uncomfortable nick-names (Face-high was the one I recall).

When we'd first met, she'd been called over my house by two friends who were tentatively planning to get her high and "run a train" on her. I had no plans on joining-- I was a virgin at the time and that wasn't how I saw myself stepping off the starting block. She came in, she smoked, she saw what was up and, instead, decided to take a nap in my room.

I came in, put a blanket over her and let her sleep. She wasn't sleeping, of course-- I found that out later. That was the moment, she later told me, that she fell for me. We became friends. We later became more.

She was a good girlfriend. She defended me like a Rottweiler. She wrote me poetry. We had some really great sex, for a 15 year old. All because... I was a nice guy and most people weren't.

It's important you understand that. Because later, when, in a moment of blind rage, I shoved her to the ground and some dark thing crouching in the back of my mind howled for her, when I looked into her eyes it was the nice guy she'd fallen for reflected back at me.

The argument was stupid and petty and involved my little sister: I didn't want her around, she did, and we argued, I suppose; she insisted, I suppose; and, I suppose, I got very, very upset. I barely remember the whys. Only the effect it had on me.

I never wanted a woman to look at me that way, ever again.

Perhaps, in her eyes, I saw my mother.

I have fragmented memories. None of the act, really-- just the fallout. When my mother "fell down the stairs" and had to have stitches in her face. I stayed with my grandmother, that time. The house with blue walls. Memories of screaming, through those walls. The constant, constant fear.

I remember going to school and there being a class on domestic violence and I went home and I told my stepfather to stop hitting my mother. I was in 3rd grade. Gawky. Small. Big headed. Standing up to a monster.

And it stopped, for a while, that's one thing I will never forget-- for a while, God help me, it actually worked.

Until it didn't.

I'm sure at the time I could never fathom why these horrible things had to happen. And then I got older. And I got into an argument. And the chittering, insectile thing perching at the base of my skull hatched from its egg.

I know what it's like to feel a bone deep, monstrous rage. I know it feeds on itself, builds itself, takes off like a run-away train. I know what it's like to want to beat someone you love. Not hit. Beat.

They say that the most common indicator for future violent behavior is a violent environment. I've spent my entire life very much aware that I am a statistic.

I have an affliction, is all. I do my best to keep it under control. Sometimes, it's hard.

I dated a woman who had just left a physically abusive marriage. One night, during an argument, she began pushing me-- she gripped an argument and chewed on it, pushed the topic, backed me into an emotional corner.... She goaded me, almost taunted, and I knew she did it on purpose because she'd done it before... in her marriage. The psychodrama was playing over for her and all I had to do was play my part.

It became physical. She started kicking at me, willing me to hit her. I didn't. I left.

No similar incidents happened. We broke up soon after. She'd later tell her friends I was emotionally abusive-- I suppose the physical was just too big a lie to pull off. See, she was very used to be a victim. Abuse was part of her identity, at that point.

I had a fight with a female friend, one of my best friends. I said some pretty terrible things and I said some pretty honest things but mostly I said things she didn't want to hear. We were shouted, she was emotional and it became physical.

She came at me, scratched me. Left marks. Pushed me further than I've ever been pushed until I grabbed her by the throat and held her against her car and I thought, then, that I would love to see her lip bleeding and tears in her eyes. And then I let her go. And I walked away.

I had a long distance girlfriend I hopped onto a bus to ride 5 hours to see, to repair a break in our relationship. It was a lovely romantic gesture, I thought. She didn't see it that way. We immediately got into an argument, at my hotel room; her pacing, me sitting very, very still.

We get closer and closer to resolution only to break into fighting again until she leaves, refusing to talk to me face to face-- only phone communication, she says, and I'd had enough, I'm frustrated, I'd gone so far and she could only insist on her position, she just wouldn't back down, that bitch, and there I was, outside, in downtown Minneapolis, screaming into a cell-phone, kicking newspaper holders and slobbering like a beast. I'm lucky I wasn't arrested.

I left a voicemail message that probably sealed the deal on our breakup. And made her friends think I was psychotic.

People think that men who commit domestic violence are all just rotten human beings but I know better. They're people like me.

There is a rage that boils up so strong it can take days to come down.

It comes from this little voice that whispers... disrespect. That whispers, she should know better. It's defensive, this voice. It's always their fault. It doesn't like being pushed, it doesn't like it when someone doesn't listen, it doesn't like when someone makes it feel small. It hates to be pushed. Just do what the fuck I say, it hisses. Submit.

It has it's own logic, this rage. And it is intoxicating. That is sad, sad truth.

Do you want to hear horrible thoughts? I once got into such a rage wanted my stepfather back to beat the living fuck out of my mother. I am not proud of that moment. But it was true.

It's made relationships hard. I avoid conflict. I avoid intimacy. I actually fear getting worked up with a loved one. I know what will happen, I know that rage is waiting with it's terrible logic ready to goad me.

It sometimes feels like the safest route is solitude.

All this and I've yet to lose control.

I know both men and women can be guilty of domestic violence but this is largely a male problem. There are ads out there, saying things like "Real Men Don't Hit Women." Real men.

I don't consider myself better than anyone else because I keep myself in check. I consider myself a sick person whose disease is in remission. An alcoholic who hasn't touch the bottle in 10 years.

The rage is there and it will always be there. Waiting.

And I'm a nice guy.

Why Men Cheat. No, for real. I have all the answers.

I cheated.

Years ago, while in a loving and committed relationship, met another woman, we hit it off and in the electricity of the moment we were damn near fucking. Were it not for the intervention of a good friend, we would've had sex that night.

Didn't matter. Fuck the Clintonisms; it was still cheating.

Let me tell you, though, that I can say without any reservation that cheating was the best mistake of my life.

It seems the entire world is obsessed with cheating right now. The reasons are simple, of course. Jesse James, Tiger Woods, any given congressman, an episode of South Park and every cover of every women's magazine--- the entire world is obsessed because women are obsessed- and scared. If some other man cheated well, then, your man's gonna cheat.

So women want answers. As a cheater, I can very easily give those answers.

But first, a story.

The reasons behind my cheating may be rendered in complex terms: my ex and I were at a crossroads, an ebb in the flow of our relationship. She was suffering from a libido-killing depression, I was feeling tied down and unattended to and into this mix came my very own Manic Pixie Dream Girl... and movie magic happened. Or some approximation.

As far as I'm concerned, the why doesn't matter-- well, not until the end, that is....

It's what happened afterwards that's important.

I woke. I looked over, seeing the pantied and snoring form of my mistake. I went home. Not mine. Hers. I crept into my ex's apartment with her spare key and I wept. I cried as if some important person, my mother, my sister, my child, had died. I grieved.

I called my mother, weeping like a widow, bargaining with her and God to somehow make this not-alright thing, alright. And then, later, much later, I sat my girlfriend down and I told her.

And then... she told me. Yeah. She'd cheated too.

It was years ago, with someone who I used to joke about her cheating on me with.

She told me she was afraid. She told me she knew, the way I was, that I would leave her the minute she told me. Leave her and hate her for it. She was absolutely, 100% right. In hindsight, I approve her actions-- they showed she knew my character better than I did.

If I remember correctly, I laughed. And in those moments, I had an epiphany that has since changed my life: people cheat. You can't control them. You can't figure out reasons, you can't guilt or bribe them and you can't even love them into not-cheating. Some people cheat and some people don't and that's the universe, in a nut shell.

Let me tell you something I believe about human nature: we are all, each and every one of us, the protagonists of our very own living novels. Humanity, being what is it (a rational-seeming being in an largely chaotic, irrational set of circumstances), tries to make sense of the world through narrative. We tell ourselves stories, about the trees, about the rivers, about the Gods and about our own motives.

Ask yourself, after all, which comes first? The emotion or the action? The feeling or the processing of what that feeling is? Do you feel anger and then realize it is anger you felt? Do you feel love first, then call that feeling love?

We're all in a story, written by ourselves, starring ourselves and let me tell you, we are very, very unreliable narrators. Whatever our actions, most people, at core, believe they are good... or at keast just. Everyone believes there's a good reason for whatever it is their character is doing. Just ask a rapist-- that bitch always deserves it, doesn't she?

This may seem like a philosophical digression (and it is), but there's a point.

Would you like to know why men cheat? It's the same reason why women cheat.

Because it felt good at the time.

We'll call it sex addiction, we'll call it a moral lapse, we'll call it a drunken escapade; we'll blame our spouses for not loving us enough or loving us too much. We'll need space, we'll need attention, we'll need whatever but in the end those are just the stories we tell ourselves to make sense of an irrational chemical instance: we fuck because it feels good. We flirt because it feels good. We cheat... because it feels good.

Got your answer? Good. Now stop freaking the fuck out. You can't control other people any more than you can control the weather.

All you can do is all you can do and the rest? The rest is just someone else's story. Live on, writing your own.

Fatherhood.

Some time ago, a friend of mine asked if I'd father her child.

She's in a relationship, right now, and nauseatingly satisfied with it; unfortunately, the male counterpart in said relationship is unable to perform the task of stuffing her cavity full of crawly, squirmy, active, sperms. So, they tapped me for the stringer.

This friend is my ex-girlfriend. I love her and, once, was in love with her. The decision was simple and no forethought, on my part, was necessary.

But afterthoughts....

I've always wanted to pro-create but never wanted to be a father. Some part of me has always been convinced I'd make a good daddy, if only because I've spent a lifetime avoiding the mistakes of my parents, but most of me has been horrified by the idea of being a father-- with all the attendant disciplines, scoldings and guidance.

How could I be a father, after all, when I've never really had one myself?

My father left my mother when I was too young to know whether to care. He was replaced by a string of idiots who only had single personalities traits: there was beats-mommy, the longest runner, there's frog-eyes the crackhead, possible-pedophile the mechanic, psychological-abusey, guy-who-can't-pronounce-my-mother's-namey....

None could take the place of an actual father. Whether they knew it or I did, there was always a separation: I was not of them and they had nothing to do with me. In the starkest terms, on the coldest nights, when I'd look up at the ceiling and my pre-teen mind verged towards nascent German philosophizing, they were just the guys currently fucking my mother.

My father was a ghost. He disappeared and started an entirely new family, complete with wife and kids and left me, instead, with a series of broken memories and a handful of aphorisms for modern living:

"Son, if you ever meet a girl who can pee standing up... Marry her."

I'm not making that up.

He also left me a shining example of what not to do: Don't have children in highschool, don't smoke crack, don't get cancer and if you do, try to fulfill your dreams before learning you're terminal, not after. Oh. And only pussies go Christian when they know they're going to die.

Sorry. Dark digression, there.

Back to the infinite potential laying between my legs.

After talking to the true parents, the one's who'd raise this child-in-negotiation, I realized I'd be just like my father after all: I'd inseminate a woman (the old fashioned way, if you're curious--- these are very modern people, I'm dealing with. Plus it's cheaper.) and just... walk away.

No responsibility. No attachment. No costs. And I fulfill my biological imperative.

I talked to a woman I know, a woman who had this same situation-- she was impregnated for a friendly couple (the old fashioned way, if you're curious-- I know a lot of very modern people) and carried the child to term, birthed the child and just... walked away.

She talked about how she couldn't be happier. That it was a gift for them and a relief for her-- this woman, single, 37, globe-trotting... and, by her own words and my own insights, thoroughly alone. She said to go for it. Just do it.

Yes. But what if I loved it?

I had an ex-girlfriend (a different one) who asked me, upon the birth of my only nephew, if I loved the boy-- and of course, I did and do.

She couldn't fathom this. How could I love a creature I'd never, up until then, met? Granted, I'm pretty sure this particular ex-girlfriend was a Aspie, but her point stands. How could I love something I'd never even seen?

Even now, when I think of this nephew, I think of him almost as if he were mine. Except that I live hundreds of miles away and have nothing to do with his rearing.

And so it is with inchoate offspring. I feel myself veering towards love for an idea... in which I will have no responsibility, no hand in raising.

I wonder if this is how people sponsoring egg-headed African kids feel, fingering their Polaroids and sending their just pennies a day.

When I last went to visit this friend, this future mother, I saw her with other people's children. I saw another couple, the biological mother and her boyfriend. I saw them discipline. I saw them scold. I saw them set boundaries and take away play-things. I saw them parent, each and every one of them.

I didn't think I could do what they did. And I realized, in these moments, that the truth was-- the very things that make one a parent are the very things that make one a "Man."

Setting boundaries. Discipline. Solidity.

This journal has been a personal exploration of masculinity in a largely feminist (even though it doesn't want to admit it) nation; a nation that sees women as, more or less, equals-- who can go to school, who can hold jobs, who can have careers outside of motherhood. Condoms and birth-control and a woman's choice and fuck-buddies and women's only gyms and OKCupid.

It's also, I realize, a search for what masculinity means-- intellectually.

And, at this moment, I realize that this journal is a document of a tragedy.

It is the search for the meaning of something that I could have been taught, if only I'd had a father.

This friend, this child, will not have this problem-- her or she will have enough parents, sisters, brothers, to be birthed and reared whole.

And I can have a part in that, simply by fulfilling my father's role-- to inseminate, and walk away.

But I can't help but question... whether I'd truly want to.

Perhaps, in walking away, I step further away from the growth towards my ideal... towards being a "capital M" man.

I talked to my mother about this idea, about helping this couple, in terms that made it clear this hadn't happened yet and she told me, if it did happen, she didn't want to know. If she couldn't see the child, hold the child, think of it as her grandchild, she didn't want to know about its existence.

Perhaps that would be the easiest way.

Maybe I'd feel differently if this were a sperm-bank and I'd never have to see these friends, and their offspring, again.

Or maybe I'd be like the African sponsor, loving something I'd never met. Maybe I'd wander through life searching every child's face for hints of my own.