I remember the first time I laid eyes on David Beckham. My mangina flapped furiously as pheromones oozed out of every pore on my body. All those delicious tattoos inked across that athletic build, his chiselled visage, a head of perfectly quaffed hair...it was enough to keep me salivating for hours. I would even sit through a full 90 minutes of that insufferable game just to catch a glimpse of the future Mrs. Manni Bradshaw. For months I thought Victoria Beckham was a luckiest women on planet earth and while I played out several scenarios depicting their inevitable divorce (because he chose me of course), my fantasy evaporated quicker than crystal meth the moment he opened his mouth to speak...pretty ironic for someone who drops balls for a living?
What happened? Where have all the cowboys gone, Paula?
According to Ang Lee they're either "out fishing", herding goats or
camping it up somewhere on Brokeback Mountain. But what about the rest of the
mutants from Mars? Surely they could not all have migrated to Uranus? Where are
those archetypical, stable men that represent the ideals of masculinity? The
protector, the gentleman, the cutie from the gym with the great sense of humour,
the man who doesn't throw his ovaries around the room every time you talk to
some other guy. Had there been some kind of evolution that scientists forgot to
pick up on? This is a catastrophe...no, worse, a castratastrophe! Somewhere along the way a new sub-species of hypersensitive
male had progressively emerged out of post-feminism, one that feminists
demanded but one they quickly forgot about the minute they decided to change teams. How the hell did we let the roles reverse so quickly? Has the
metro-sexualisation of the rugged man finally overstepped its boundaries?
Some men - like the poor Blue Bulls who have to wear those
ridiculous pink uniforms (thanks alot, Puma) - have no choice while others are
just downright confused with the metrosexual movement. I'm talking about the
guy who takes longer to get ready than you do (and looks better) or the dude
who thinks that wearing guy-liner is in vogue. If you thought they only exist
on the covers of some metro glamour mag being directed by some overzealous
creative director who thinks they look fierce, then think again. I myself
thought they were an urban myth until I saw one up close and personal. Margot
was hosting one of her fabulous dinner parties and had just started dating this
hunk of a foreigner named Kevin. Kevin was a gynecologist who not only looked
good but smelt as if he'd stepped off the Red Square express.
As the evening progressed and the wine diminished, Margot
and I got down and dirty on the dance floor as we usually do. Our display of
usual fag-hag behavior such as motorboating and butt-spanking was clearly an
affront to Kevin's delicate nature and he shortly stormed out of the room in a
huff. While personal hygiene and good grooming are way up on Lass-low's
hierarchy of needs, making a scene in front of your new girlfriend’s closest
friends was something far less desirable. Some kind of insane insecurity set
Kevin off into a frenzy, a performance I'm sure he would have won a daytime
Emmy for. I was convinced she was about to have a stroke. And poor Margot. It
was clear that she had to let this one go.
As if the man drought wasn't bad enough, the rise of
Captain Tampax has further limited the man pool from which to choose from. This is not
good news for all my single lady friends out there. If it's not the ego-maniacs, the narcissists or the devolved neanderthals, then it's the misogynistic assholes and player
fools. The middle man is either married, non-existent, gay or very hard to find. They
are the rhinos of the male species so when you do find one that does not exude
he-she qualities, hold onto him for your dear life.
When it comes to emotional men, I couldn't help but
wonder...did they need a tampon?