'Though I Never Laid a Hand On You, My Eyes Adored You

More Notes From The Field:

I finally had that experience that my friend K keeps talking about, the one where your eyeballs, your vision goes from being a 2-dimensional experience to a 3-D tactile, sexual organ of its own. I was paying small attention to an Adrian Brody movie, the Undertaker’s something something, when all of the sudden, this woman’s breasts were in her dress.

Yes, her breasts were in her dress. She moved, they moved. Within a millisecond, they had gone from their dramatic, balletic, sensuous presentation in her slinky black shift, to literally grabbing me between my legs hissing “Pay attention.”

Every hair on my body erected. Lust flooded the interstices of my every cell and an unfamiliar energetic field shoved itself from me like a punk in the mosh pit. In extreme slow motion, the breasts moved, one up, one down. They danced a special erotic tango together. They made their skin especially soft and tan and oiled, just for me. They went in perfect partnership with those legs, that stomach, arching up and out from fabric, a Dionysian tease of implicit union – me, you, forest orgy: STAT.

I can’t even tell you how visceral this was. I’m an ASS MAN, f’crissake! It wasn’t even a real human; I hadn’t even been paying attention!

Women have of late had the capacity to transform in an instant, from a complex, integrated, human being, to a veritable Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade of parts: oh look, there goes an ass! Oooh next comes some thighs, look how tight those thighs are! Oh, wow, those shoulders are even better than last year’s shoulders! How bout that boob?! Look how high it is! My my my!*

While women have recently hastened to assure me that their sex is equally ill-equipped with good breakup protocol, I must insist that there’s a strong tonal difference between the way men behave and the way the less hairy sex behaves after a relationship is over. My personal experience is that when a woman is obsessed, she’ll call 5 times a day and show up on the doorstep with a meal, or volunteer to do laundry. When deterred, she simply fades away over time. A guy on the other hand, anecdotally at least, may find himself wandering the streets, looking for the new guy, to do what exactly with him upon discovery? My poll reveals men are more likely to show up at a woman’s place of work, to inform them of their ire, their displeasure, at the woman’s cunty ways; more willing to park in the front of the ex’s house, like an indigestion ridden, low rent P.I., waiting patiently for their former lover to come home, simply so they can inform their ex how much they hate her. And then ask them if they want to get back together.

My informal census shows that while women and men both may stalk each other online, or in person, men want you to know they’re following you. I rest easy in the comforting knowledge that I’m simply too lazy to stalk like that. I’m purely unmotivated, thank god. My personal brand of obsession lies somewhere between the sexes (imagine that!), but it has been disconcerting, unsettling, to observe fantasies of violent revenge emerging recently, like gas bubbles in the tub, for the most spurious of occasions - being cut off in traffic, being ignored in line, overhearing pignorant prejudice. The testosterone, like a man ignored, will be heard.

Again, I thank the gods I’m a lazy man. It’s most certainly not a testament to my stellar character that I’m not more of an asshole. All my defects of character keep me in line: misguided pride, sloth, “I can’t let you look better than me” - but what the hell. Most of my exes don’t talk with me because I was able to confine my assholatry to the relationship and simply didn’t need to whip it out for the breakup. So kudos to me. Anyway, I’ve got better things to do than go chasing after you; I’m watching the hair grow straight out of my neck.

*So way better than Wonderdog. Or is it....? Remember Wonderdog?!