A continuation of my previous post series. As always terms are as I personally use them, not necessarily how they’re commonly understood: Continue reading Some notes on how I use common terms 6
An interesting discovery I made just today (30/9/15)…
I’m a friendly guy, I can chat to anyone: male, female, ‘black’, ‘white’, old, young, etc. I can even hold a basic conversation with non-Anglophones when I want to! This afternoon I was speaking to some of my male friends, and something really struck me.
Men and women speak about completely different things!
Obviously that’s not news, but the contrast between what women talk about & what men talk (or more importantly, don’t talk) about is astounding. To this day, there are two topics I’ve rarely if ever heard men talk about amongst each other:
- Intimate sexual matters
OK, let me explain.
Women discuss details about particular men, past, current and potential. She’ll say what she wants him to do for her (pay for stuff, help around the house, hold good conversations – ironically), why she broke up with an ex (he stole her money, only got with her to stay in the country), how good he was in bed, whether the last one she ogled would be a one-off fuck or a keeper, all of that. Men are more likely to talk about women in general – “I want a good woman (‘good’ usually vaguely defined),” “English women are all gold diggers,” “You have to play games with them to get with them.” Even when he’s in a committed relationship, he’s unlikely to talk very much about his gf/fiancée (wife elicits more vocalisations). More likely he talks about his bits on the side and/or babymamas and/or 1-night stands, whether he has any or not.
Only a few guys I know who’ve gone into depth about this kind of stuff, and it’s always been with me alone. Not in a group of men, not even a small group, just one-on-one.
Then the intimate sexual stuff. Even in public groups most women I know have no qualms talking about periods, ejaculation fluids, the length & girth of men’s dicks and how it made them feel, even whether she was really in the mood or not. Guys, on the other hand, talk about ‘bitches,’ ‘pussy,’ ‘dick,’ wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am, and that’s about it. It’s like sex is something to not take seriously or respect, or it’s a round/ match in a game. Why else do guys call it “scoring?”
EXCEPTION: religiously devout guys. Back when I was a muslim I went for iftar dinner with one of my workmates & his friends (all Sasian). One of them, a “good practising brother”, was about to get married. He looked round about his early 20s but whatever. But he had a question: how do you do sex? Another guy, older and more world-wise, used an interesting series of jutsu-like hand movements to depict the inside of a vagina. That truly awestruck me; I was a virgin at the time and I still knew what the inside of a vagina looked like! Islam doesn’t shy away from topics like that; I more or less understood the mechanics of sex since I was 8! That must’ve been some deep sand his head was buried in.
I can’t speak on behalf of all men on Earth, but I reckon it’s because most guys are emotionally stunted. We speak less than women in general. Why? We subconsciously think we have a limit on the amount of stuff we can say so we ration our words across longer periods of time! Sounds weird but this is exactly how I used to think and I know other guys who behave the same.
Emotionally & neurologically developed people converse like this:
Many/most guys speak like this:
However, I must admit that could be age-related. I tend to be around guys my own age whereas women are much more likely to be older. Nevertheless, even from most older guys I speak to I’d be hard-pressed to hear anything about their affection for a particular woman, or what exactly about her he loves.
So two points to make for men in general:
- Don’t be afraid to talk about the one woman you love to other guys.
- Don’t be afraid to talk about sexual matters in depth and non-colloquially.
To the men who wear
Their dicks between their shoulders
Instead of their legs,
I caught you.
After that football match in Islington
You scarf-spanked a stranger’s ass without her approval
Expecting to blame the animal crowd for your wild urges
When I snarled at you.
In Morden you told your drinking partners
She’d be your second, third, fourth and fifth wife
Believing the night will cover your optic cheating
Like the bedsheets cover your wife from other men cheating on you.
That night after Notting Hill Carnival
All 6 of you tried to separate the chaff of me and my grown woman friends
From the grain of our underage girl friend
Just ‘cause you fancied some wheat-coloured meat.
In Dalston, shooting down the road on your bike
Your mouth fired,
“She looks like 21 magic mushrooms on the go fam!”
Yes. Women look daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayum good.
Yes. They may want to show some skin sometimes.
Yes. You are male.
(Men is debatable)
No. You don’t have permission to stare when she’s avoiding eye contact.
No. You don’t have permission to ask for her number when she’s on the phone.
No. You don’t have permission to touch.
Save your hands for when you get home
Don’t invite me to your garden.
I don’t wanna know how you ride your bikes like a pair of bitches,
How the white one’s easy & the black one gives you drama
And forget how you treat one better than the other.
If I had your vision,
If I were able to look at the opposite sex
And see inanimate frames to be
Bought, used, worn out, pawned off
We might deal each other eye-to-eye
But I’m not that business-minded.
You need to crucify your eyes,
Bury them in 3 days of heart, brains
And the balls to doubt traditional gender roles
Then resurrect in the dawn of 20/20 vision.
Otherwise you’ll make me look bad.
Just because I’m one of you doesn’t make me one of you.
You can be blicker than Wesley Snipes
Or hwit as Stephen Thompson,
Women will still confuse me for you.
I won’t put up with that.
Masculinity is mine for the making,
I am a conscientious objector
To your battle of the sexes.
I measure manhood
By how far you further your mind
Not by the one to twelve inches between your legs.
I call them
Not bitch, ho, bird, chick, slash, ting
Or any name that equally applies to non-humans.
When those carrier pigeons of misogyny fly from your lips
I will load my sniper rifle mouth with words of basic human dignity,
Shoot the nest in your skull that birthed those vermins
And then declare Open Season on all you fools.
You have been warned.
© One Tawny Stranger, September 2015
A leading Saudi Arabian “self-help” writer and cleric has reportedly urged his 97,000+ Twitter followers to sexually molest working women in the nation’s grocery stores.
Using an Arabic hashtag translated by various news outlets as “#harass_female_cashiers”, Abdullah Mohammed Daoud apparently made the comments in an attempt to “encourage” Saudi Arabian women to stay at home and protect their chastity – as the country’s female labour force increases.
Daoud’s tweet, which was picked up by Gulf News, was reportedly “justified” by a homily about a 7th century Islamic warrior who did not want his wife to leave home to visit the mosque.
The paper writes: “Daoud claimed that Al Zubair hid in the dark one night and molested his wife on the street. The wife rushed home and decided against ever going out of her house again, saying ‘there is no safer place than home and the world out there is corrupt’.”
The IBI Times quotes conservative cleric Khalid Ebrahim Al Saqabi as endorsing the call and claiming the government’s proposed law against sexual harassment was “only meant to encourage consensual debauchery”.
However, others were less enthused.
You are a fucking disgrace to mankind, Abdullah Mohammad Al Dawood, I hope you die a slow and painful death. Hope your wife gets molested.
— Adil (@adil_khan86) May 29, 2013
Daoud has also retweeted several messages from other twitter users critical of women mixing with men in the workforce, since his original tweet on Sunday.
One of Daoud’s arguments is that allowing women to work is tantamount to human trafficking and that females are being exploited to attract business, the BBC says.
According to Riyadh Bureau, Daoud is the same conservative writer who sparked controversy by suggesting female babies should wear burkas to prevent them from being sexually molested.
Women are not permitted to drive in Saudi Arabia, which has a poor women’s rights record, and where religious police only recently lifted a ban on females riding motorbikes and bicycles – as long as they wear the full-length veil and are accompanied by a male relative.
The Gulf Kingdom is governed by Sharia law, and it is illegal for Saudi women to travel abroad without male accompaniment. They may only do so if their guardian agrees by signing a document know as a ‘yellow sheet’ at an airport or border crossing.
It was only in 2011 that women were given the right to vote and run for office in municipal elections in 2015.
Makes me glad I’m not associated with these fuckers anymore. Note how he’s directly telling men to chuck their “virtue” away just to force women to keep theirs. Let’s see him get molested on the street and see how he deals with it.
Anjali wanted to fly. The gossamer wings of her ambitions throbbed for wind to gush between and against them
But He said no. She grieved, for she expected the stabs of her Father’s razor tongue to ease away
Ever since mum was torched to death – but she was wrong.
In Jamaica, surrounded by the friendliest people and lapping up the Patois accent
Yet every morning and night she’d be back in India.
Father picked up where the Raj had left off, the weight of misogynistic oppression
Cracking her tiny bones just that little bit more every day.
Sister was reduced to splinters years ago. Brother piled the weight on, a sadistic smirk surgically implanted onto his face.
Anjali wanted an education, so she could grow up into an astrophysicist.
Father, on the other hand, wanted her to be a “good” obedient wife to a man she didn’t like or know.
Keeping her gaze down, not daring to glance at any other male while he watched her. VERY closely,
Biding his time for the blood-red flag to be raised to announce the onset of puberty.
Living across the street from the most beautiful school in Jamaica yet Father was honour-bound
To keep her parched, roasting in the deserts of ignorance. Knowledge, whether a trickle
Or an oasis, had to stay hidden in the well of her brain lest he demolish it,
Haemorrhage it out of her like a desert-ravaged vampire. Like the Rainbow Snake who ate the fertility-mother’s daughters in Aboriginal mythology
It was his job to possess females’ God-given birthright to power.
She couldn’t take it any longer, waiting til she’s bigger and stronger would have to wait.
Immigrated herself back to Portland Parish from the ghetto of Taj Mahal.
Wind gushed against her skin harder and harder as she accelerated. For the first time ever
The gossamer wings of her ambitions stretched, making the rainbow jealous of their colours,
Stretched and caught the wind by surprise.
Steady and straight toward the most beautiful school in Jamaica she fluttered.
Of course she’d need to quench her dehydrated mental faculties before she could go faster or further but…
At last Anjali flew.
© One Tawny Stranger 2014