Shot down again.
My post Tuesday in which I imagined myself a misunderstood inner city almost-dropout stud muffin and Michelle Pfeiffer my earnest, misguided but highly desirable schoolmistress (yes, Mistress!) received some unexpected comments.
In the totally imaginary persona that I assumed, I may have said some things that I myself in real life don’t actually believe. The short version would be along the lines of Oh, my God, Miss Pfeiffer, please don’t quit teaching and if you wear that little red dress you wore in The Fabulous Baker Boys I’ll do anything you ask, even memorize poetry that may or may not have been written by homosexuals. Or in other words, as far-fetched as it is, as remote the possibility, what I think when I look at Miss Pfeiffer is Hooeey, I want to roll around and get dirty with that!! Something like that. Doesn’t matter who she is, or that I have like, zero chance of even touching the hem of her granny gown, let alone unzipping her little red party dress.
The comments were split between…
- Yowzah! This is a prime cut, wink wink, and
- Memorizing poetry won’t work, you ignorant schlump.
The guys generally saw where I was going (or where I was coming from – I really cannot talk Street), and wanted to go there with me, damn the torpedoes. The women (I will never call you girls, because I respect you too much) said, with one exception* that my shallow approach would not work. I’m not sure if they meant it wouldn’t work on them, or it wouldn’t work with Miss Pfeiffer, or it just plain wouldn’t work with any woman, period. But the suggestion arose more than once that I knew it wouldn’t work, or at least I should have known.
So there it is again: All men are pigs, we only want one thing, we completely fail to understand women, and the one thing we want will be withheld from us because of our lack of understanding.
Are there exceptions? Sure, the ethereal Shelley’s and Byron’s who write the damned sensitive poems in the first place, and their spiritual descendants, the fevered fellows in the frayed turtlenecks who drink coffee in the Student Union (they smoked in my day, but I’m guessing that’s over now) and seem to dwell in that angst-ridden fantasy land where the higher sensibilities rule and Big Drama is the order of the day.
And I’m not even sure about those guys. They might be pigs, too. I know they have at least some of the qualifications.
So what is the answer to this Big Question? We have to get together, boys and girls. We have a programmed need for each other. We actually want to be in love with each other, I think. But, perhaps due to God’s grand sense of humor, the boys must forever keep guessing at the secret password, and the girls keep changing it (I can say girls here because I said boys, OK?) while wistfully seeking a man who understands, who is sensitive but still very strong, rich but not obsessed, sexual but only with them, rugged but soft… well, I’m not making a Great Expectations video here, but you know what I mean.
As always, my heart overflows with confusion and love.
* But Steph has made sort of a career of charmingly missing the point. She does it so well that she makes me think I’ve missed the point. Wait a minute. I have missed it, haven’t I?