I love men
I’d be that Damsel in distress anytime
*Image taken from Canva
I apologise for the second rant this week, but my rant-brain was activated by some online bullshit. If you would rather enjoy my fiction, just ignore/delete this.
As it usually happens with these rants, I have some thoughts about a specific theme swirling in my head for a while, until they form into a big chunk of fairly articulated essay, that feels worth publishing.
Of course, as a conservative old witch, I usually have that snarky grin observing the progressives rolling around in puddles of their own verbal vomit of hate, simultaneously claiming, “love is love”. Or rather “love, but only the one we approve of is love”. I haven’t met more hateful people than those claiming to be the most open-minded-freedom-of-love-professing ones.
But enough is enough! What sparked this essay was a fairy tale published on Substack meant for little girls to teach them how they should hate the patriarchy. Fair enough. So how does it go? In short, an obese, unpleasant prince sets out to find himself a princess, who shuns him at the end, and he gets stabbed to death by his unicorn. Well, even taken as a woke fairy tale it doesn’t stand the test, because it teaches fat-shaming and misandry. The woke claim little boys are victims of patriarchy too. So, you teach how a fat boy is the baddie? Not a great plan! (I still hope maybe this “fairy tale” was satire).
I say - bring back the strong male protagonists. I love men. I love the archetype of strong male character in fairy tales, in fantasy, anywhere really. And having the mature mindset we have nowadays, a strong male character and a strong female character can stand together, side by side as equals. Each have their strengths and weaknesses, they complement each other, a royal power couple. Now that’s a progressive fairy tale.
I love men, or rather the positive masculine character traits - resilience, stoicism, determination, courage, honesty, mental strength, selflessness, etc. I absolutely hate how the progressive have subverted the idea of courteous behaviour as misogyny. I love gentlemen, men who open the door before a woman, who carry the heavy shopping bags for her, who would do anything to make their lady smile. Isn’t that beautiful?! All those little gestures were signs of selflessness, not misogyny. Damsel in distress saved by prince charming? Or the sword-wielding girlboss? I’d choose to be the Damsel. I’d make that Prince work for my love. I get all the goods without much effort and the prince gets his purpose in life. Win-win! I get my prince and my happy ending, while the sword-chick rides on home battle-scarred and lonely.
God has given women the cunning wit of a snake, so why not use it?! Smart women throughout the ages knew how to get their way, no need for dumb protests and running around with bare tits. Let’s keep our dignity, ladies!
I love men. I think they’re wonderful, fascinating creatures. I love their boyish mischievous attitude, I love the honesty of their friendship, I love them not over-complicating things. I love their resilience to drama. I love the beer-and-football afternoons. I love their strength and courage. I love them carrying their little kids for miles uphill on their shoulders if they have to. I love all the best qualities that make a man.
Of course, I hate all the worst about men, just like I hate all the worst about women.
As a Western society, we have matured enough to recognize the negative traits of the times long gone. I think this could be the time of excellent, educated, courteous men, if only… if only the ghost of delusional feminism from the past wouldn’t have been choking the life out of all the positive masculine traits by calling them toxic. Toxic masculinity. The evil patriarchy. Grow the fuck up, whiny bitches! (Of both sexes!) The men are okay. There will always be assholes (of both sexes!). That your ‘educating’ will not change.
Masculinity isn’t evil. It’s beautiful. It’s natural. Let boys be boys!
I have been in gaga, mouth-breathing, stupid love with one and only one woman since a certain day in concert choir class at A_____ High School in 1975.
She is the strongest, most determined, alpha-type person I ever met, and the kindest, most thoughtful, most loving and beautiful and vulnerable of haloed angels most men have ever tried and failed to imagine.
Our eyes met first, in mid-song, across a choir room ringing with music. I knew. When the bell rang, I walked across to her, took both her little hands in mine, and stared into her eyes without speaking until the bell rang again. The boy who left for school that morning never went home again. Every minute since, I have been the man who loves her. Her: not the stunning face and figure, not the animation and intelligence, but the secret girl inside, the warrior woman and the crying child. My One, my Only, my Darling. I lost her.
We both had so many issues from so much baggage. My radical fundamentalist upbringing, her poverty and abuse, and all their roots and tangles. In the mid-80s I was still writing her desperately, but she drifted out of reach at last and disappeared. For twenty-five years I searched every airport for those eyes, every crowd, every street. I married, had kids, tried to love the emotional abuse and hatefulness, and finally failed that, too. For the century’s first decade, I waited to die. She found me on Facebook.
“You have a message from A___ F___,” was waiting in my inbox on a dreary 2010 January morning, in a grey world with no horizon, no hope, no sky, no moon. And as I read it, all the color and the music I had lost so long came roaring back.
I spent the next forty days getting thrown out of Hell on my ear, laughing out loud for the joy of my escape, with twenty dollars, a toothbrush, and the love of my life. I am still laughing.
Our thirteenth anniversary was earlier this week, and I have been falling more in love with her for every one of these sweet years. We have been through more than one hell together, and our love has grown strong, stronger than we ever knew strength of love could be. The memories of her that I treasured through all the hateful years apart were only the hint of a promise of the joy I know as her man.
I call myself her Rescue Husband, and her tiny finger touches my lips as she says, “I’m the lucky one.”
We are older now, and we will lose our battle with Time. But we fight to fill each precious minute. It is not how long we live, it is not how long we love: It’s how much.
I love men too- but I have always despised the whole damsel in distress trope. I’m afraid I’ve never wanted to be one. 🙃
I have worked in professions where I have been the only woman in the room. I adore the way (most) men are open and not backstabbers. I have and continue to have great friendships with men.
Meanwhile, my adult sons do open doors, walk women home to make sure they are safe, are perfect gentlemen. Even when their hearts are broken. They are woke, certainly. They, like you and I, despair of all the posturing that goes on.