Part I: An apology to the male species, the preamble

By the tail end of my Thanksgiving “vacation” I had to break camp from the seat of my parents’ couch or forever wear my ‘visiting parents’ uniform of the same sweat pants and sweater I had been living in, since I put them on Thanksgiving eve. There is something about being in my parents’ house that unleashes my dependent/depressive streak; frustrated that my mom can no longer write the “please excuse Shannon from…” letters. They work when talking to the dean of your HS about your abnormally high absence rate, not acceptable to your boss/landlord/grown-up friends/family and other people you are indebted to for an almost grown-up life.

Saturday night, I sat wallowing in self-pity watching Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, the 7th movie I rented that long weekend, as I shoveled leftovers of green bean casserole and turkey into my mouth, trying to gain motivation to change my circumstances. Wishing my dad didn’t pet my ever-growing beer belly, wishing I would stop fucking up at work, wishing my roommate and my landlord would stop fighting…wishing things that are supposed to build our character during the years of our quarter-life crisis, didn’t exist.

I stare at the tv and shove my Thanksgiving sandwich into my mouth as bits of food fall onto my lap. The phone rings. I try to ignore it, wanting instead to wallow in my depression and 3 day unwashed body. But I suck at ignoring people’s calls. Especially when I am depressed and need validation that I am well liked.

“Hey! Shannon! Some of my friends and I are going to be in your neighborhood and you should come out for a drink!”

“Oh..[pause, quick, thinking whether I want to give up listening to my mother talk about how much she saved with double coupons on groceries] I don’t know [I mean, the house is warm and double coupons are an awfully fascinating subject when you are depressed] I am actually on LI with my family”

“Oh, ok.”

[I think to myself, double coupon lectures or getting drunk in my neighborhood]

“You know what,” I respond, “fuck yea! Actually I should sleep at my own apt tonight anyway”

Even as a depressive, all it takes for me to get out of bed is the promise of an alcohol fuelled fun evening to snap me out of my melancholy coma. Or at least the promise of having enough to drink and forget the reasons that don’t let me sleep at night.

I decline my mother’s invitation of brownies, ciggs, and tv watching and instead take a cab to the train station. Inadvertently sharing a cab with the 2 50 year olds that my friend was hitting on at the Celtic the night before.
I ascend the escalator from the lower level of Penn Station to street level, relieved to see a hired vehicle that I don’t need to call an hour in advance to reserve. I hail a taxi home. I get dressed, trying on 8 shirts, hoping that one of them hides my Thanksgiving belly. Phone calls reminding me that I am late. Chug wine. Put make up on. Chug more wine in the name of pre-gaming. Put on my Manolos. Finish the wine bottle. Phone call reminding me that I am late. Grab purse, run out the door, simultaneously shoving a cigg in my mouth—trying to satisfy my nicotine craving that comes from the excitement of leaving LI and returning to my civilization. Dirty dishes, no curtains covering the windows, and lazy Greek faux son living on the couch, but there is an abusive comfort that I find in this.

I receive the fourth phone call standing on the corner of 8th and 16th St. Late, lost, and stubbing out the remnants of second cigarette that I lit off the first. About to light my third, I hear my name and realize they are right in front of me, freezing and waiting outside so the bouncer would know that I was with them.

Turns out it’s an industry party, people looking stylish but only with the padded resumes that support their lives. And of course the moment I walk up to the bar, a short Indian guy begins to talk to my friend and me.

“Hi! I’m peter, nice to meet you! How did you hear of this party?” as he looks down, away from my friends.

“Well Peter, its nice to meet you too! And my breasts would like to say hi as well, since it seems you were more pre-occupied with them.”

“Oh no! I’m so sorry. I really didn’t mean to…[he recoils, stutters] It’s just I am very shy, and I had a few drinks, and I am so sorry. I mean you no disrespect.”

And like all geeks, he pulls over his ambiguously gay friend, and begins to raise the peacock feathers of his job with Miramax, compensating for the blow I struck to his ego.
Using his job as a form of masculine currency hoping to barter my respect.

What the fuck?

It’s a trend I have come to notice from 95% of the male species (excluding the 5% who are hot and know it). An inability to call us women out on our bullshit behavior, thinking that acting like a doormat will get you laid. Like the book Reviving Ophelia, something happens to boys during the times of adolescence that makes them into pansies without masculinity, only able to barter earning potential and financial security for the pittance pussy.

I think I figured out the reasoning for the trend…

Adolescent girls who grow into neurotic women have ruined masculinity.

14 yr old boy fingers a girl for the first time without understanding the female anatomy …”Ow!” she yelps. “You’re hurting me! Could you just kiss me instead?”

16 yr old girl gives first blow job. For my gay male readers and my female ones, we all remember giving head for the first time (my hetero male readers receiving a bj from a first timer): teeth interfering, really can’t grasp the concept of suction and the simultaneous head bob, “Baby,” he says, excited he is finally getting anything, “you are the best!” As he winces in pain, thinking to himself, “did she just nip my left testicle?”

23 yr old woman having sex, on her back, glancing over her lovers shoulders to look at the time. He notices. “Are you about to cum?” he asks. “I’m just not in the mood tonight, that’s all,” she responds.

24 yr old lover having sex with the woman above, thinking to himself, “FUCK YEA! PUSSY! Oh shit! Z, Y, X, W…U…I hope I don’t cum…T, S.. I hope I don’t cum”

Ladies, we have fucked over the male species because of our un-supportive nature in bed. Think about it, how many of the guys who you know are amazing in the sack, take any of our shit? And it isn’t psychological, because psychology doesn’t know where my clitoris is…

To be continued…too tired and client meeting in a few hours.