I’m not special. I want what every guy wants. Just to have a piece of tail when I’m in the mood for it, and the rest of the time to have some peace and quiet.
Is that too much to ask for? I don’t think so, but she disagreed. Of course she disagreed. She argued about everything. No matter how many times I said I didn’t want to talk she just kept harping. Women. Nattering until you tune them out and then they unload some heavy shit with a big sigh and a dramatic announcement about needing to talk. About our feelings.
You see all these men, going store to store, even holding the damn bags while their women shop. I always saw the ones who looked happy. Bought the delusion that it might actually be possible to find the right one, but deep down I knew better. That book, Sleepyhead? Guy who wrote that, he knew. All a man wants is a woman who won’t say no or talk back, just lies there and takes it. None of this crap about being in the mood or whining about a cold start, saying it’s over before she’s even thinking about getting interested.
She doesn’t like what I watch, hates my music. Wants to know how much effort it takes to do something thoughtful, to surprise her. Jesus, it takes too much energy just to endure the nagging. I’m so busy tuning it out I haven’t got time to think of anything else.
More trouble than they’re worth. Same conclusion, every time. You’d think I would’ve learnt by now but I always think I’ll try. Must be some lingering misguided idea stuck in my head from all those pussy-whipped shopping boys with the artificial smiles.
But I tell myself you never know unless you try, so when I bring them home I make an effort. Really. And at first, they want to. They’re grateful, and it isn’t bad, as long as they aren’t a screamer. I don’t like that. I like it nice and quiet. For a while, it’s me walking store to store with a smile plastered on my face. I think this is it, things will are different this time. That I might not need the back-up plan after all.
Sooner or later, though, it’s all about socks on the floor and the cap left off the toothpaste and leaving the toilet seat up. How much effort does it take for me to put it down? If she doesn’t think it’s so hard, why doesn’t she put it down herself? You don’t see me griping about her not leaving it up for me, do you?
When it gets to there, I know. I still don’t want to admit it, but it’s coming. The moment of truth, when I do find the energy to surprise her. I always do it differently. Depends on what they’ve got that’s worth keeping. This one, it’s the feet. Her toes aren’t hairy, for one thing.
I want what every guy wants. A piece of tail when I’m in the mood for it, and the rest of the time, some peace and quiet. If you can’t find the real deal, you get a substitute. Not one of those plastic inflatable things but something with the touch of real skin. Okay, so it’s a bit leathery, but not completely artificial.
And it can’t talk back.
I’d like to dedicate this to Mark Billingham, Julia Buckley and Ian Rankin. If the reasons aren’t obvious there’s a trail to them, a question about whether or not I should change my name and a debate about whether or not I write male or female through the link.
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