A man’s brain is not connected to his dick – no matter what your girlfriend might tell you.
The penis sports its own brain – the purple derby bouncin’ on jolly old roger when he walks the plank – if you know what I mean.
This, please understand, is not the same as stating that man has no input in the arrangement, no responsibility to strive to uphold – for it just isn’t true.
Holmes would be lost with Watson, just as Watson would be lost without Holmes.
Man is as culpable as he is capable, his reason only impaired when he allows it.
Nevertheless, it is wrong to call him cunning in the way he maneuvers through this conflicting trajectory, for he is at its mercy, through and through – just as a woman is bent by the whims of her own biology – Little Dot obsessing, Little Lotta craving – Betty drowning in Veronica’s lake – Thelma lead by Louise.
It would seem to me, as immodest as it might sound, that the cause of the so-called “battle of the sexes” – Lucy seeing the back of Ricky’s hand, Ralph fleeing Alice’s frying pan – is none other than this need to see one’s desired self mirrored in one’s partner – a state as impossible to accomplish as it is to relinquish the need for – so many succumbing to the illusion, envisioning that perfect self and calling it love.
But, more often than not, it ends in a disappointment projected in a matched grudge, the sexes coming together in their fury – the red robot poised before the blue robot – a rock ‘em sock ‘em cultural slugfest defined by the very duality of sex, the windstorm of reproductive assignment that decides us all.
It’s been said that men seek sex by means of love, while women work from the opposite side of the net, using sex to find love – Bobby Riggs dying just a little in Billie Jean King’s arms – but I can’t buy so completely into such a generalization, for it seems an overreaching summarization of what is, in essence, a highly-complex web of chemical considerations between the “heart” and “mind” – Cupid’s arrow breaking The Thinker’s repose.
I believe we work in a blind field, picking the sleep from our eyes, not as two sexes, but as carriers of attraction – gatherers of the components of regeneration – every one of us of defined by the balance we hold, the division of what we call masculine and feminine, the dual agents that rely on mutual attraction to propagate – forever pulling on the generational chain to which we are all inextricably linked.
It may be true that men are almost always thinking of sex – a mob of lustful Robert Crumbs parading their crosshatched penises – but that says more about the composition of their powers than it does anything else. Our very survival as a species relies on a system designed by the magnetic pull of sexual compulsion, an arrangement, by nature, of opposite inclination, of opposing power – the Snoid exercising his ejaculatory prowess, Krazy Kat eating a brick.
What ultimately decides the balance of a man – his masculine portion – is what also defines a woman – for we are all shareholders in the same corporation, an enterprise built on male and female energies.
This, of course, I speak as a man – contemplating a woman, contemplating a man.
