I am man.
So hide your goods or I may decide that they are mine.
That’s right, I mean your breasts. Hide them. Because if I catch a glimpse of them, who knows what I will do?
I am a sexual Hulk, the monster lurks inside me, and once aroused who knows what devastation it may cause?
It’s not me, it’s the creature that lives inside, and so I cannot help what I do, for I cannot help what I am. Boys will be boys and men will be men.
When I see something that I want, I should get it, or I am not really man. The whole world is rightfully mine, and nothing should be denied me.
I am man, and what I like I deserve to have.
I like breasts, and so all breasts are mine. If I check yours out, if I stare at them, it is because I can’t help it and I believe they are mine. As objects designed for my enjoyment, I will call them tits or boobs or hooters or whatever pet name I deem appropriate to name what is mine.
If you hide them then I may not think about how they are mine and then we may have a real conversation – as long as someone not hiding them doesn’t walk by. Or whips them out for their baby because they’re too lazy to mix a bottle; they’re clearly asking for my attention; how dare the shameless exhibitionist feel insulted when I am doing the ogling they wanted by baring their tatas in public. Oh yeah, I also wear that tata bracelet because I love thinking about them all the time.
But I also like butts, women’s butts.
So you should hide that too.
I just can’t control my mind; when a woman walks past in tight pants and a form-fitting shirt, I have to look. I can’t help it.
It cannot be controlled, it is an automatic response and I must check you out.
Your worth is determined by these things. My attention must be earned, and I will give you the attention you want based on what you’re comfortable flaunting.
Your breasts, your butt, and also your legs. Hide those too.
A short skirt will force me to look. And to want. I really have no choice, for I am man.
And your shoulders and back, because they can be so tantalizing and distracting.
Better cover them up too.
What’s left? Nothing I hope, because I don’t believe you should have to wear a burqa; that’s just dehumanizing. Then again, even if you did cover up completely, it really couldn’t stop me from thinking about the sexy thing teasing me underneath.
Because let’s face it: my arousal is your problem. You caused it, so it’s your responsibility. But don’t think that it’s a bad thing. Ugly people simply aren’t worth my attention, so you’ve done well capturing mine.
Not that I had a choice.
Because I can’t help but stare when I notice something sexy. And I can’t help my own arousal. Since you caused it, it makes sense for you to take care of it. If not actually, then inhabit my thoughts for a while and I’ll help it along. But that’s a compromise I shouldn’t have to make.
What’s left? Well, your mouth. When you talk, it moves and I wonder what it would be like to smother it with mine, so you should consider concealing that too, because even if you’re not talking it’s there like a beacon, beckoning me to wreck myself on it. Yeah, you should probably hide that too.
And your eyes. Wow. Eyes are sexy. And I have no control of myself when I find something sexy.
You know what else? Confidence is sexy too. Sexy as hell. Attractive to a point you can’t even imagine.
And deep conversation.
And creative thoughts.
Oh yeah, those are all sexy too.
So basically it doesn’t even matter what you wear.
And you’re responsible for my arousal, so it’s completely natural that I should take advantage of that.
If I’m inappropriate, it’s your fault.
If I harass you, it’s because you’re just too damn sexy.
You were asking for it. Because you look like a woman, or you have ambition, or you’re confident, or you maintain interesting conversations, or you’re attractive to me in some other way.
If I find you attractive or sexy in any way, it’s your fault, and what happens as a result is your fault also.
Because I am man.
And I am not responsible for my actions when I find someone sexy.
I can’t help it.
And I call bullshit.
If this is being man, then I quit. I turn in my man card. I never wanted it anyway. It was handed to me as a welcome to the man club, where my only expectations were to have no self-control, no sense of responsibility, no respect for anyone but other card-carrying men, where I was expected to have a cave where I would be free of responsibility and integrity, where I would care more about sports than my family, and where I was to despise all things healthy and beautiful and uplifting, except when it came to women, where I was to be obsessed with the healthy ones, the beautiful ones, and the lifted breasts. It’s so great to be expected to be an entitled self-centered misogynist with zero self-control and accountability. It’s so easy to live up to.
And it’s so dehumanizing.
I’m not interested in being a card-carrying man, defined by privileged and entitled men who want to perpetuate the debasing objectification, harassment and use of women; by men who want to keep women enslaved to their supposed inability to think of women as anything but creatures here to satisfy every sexual impulse a man has, impulses which are blown out of proportion by egos and a fear of appearing weak, which are then accepted as normal “man” behavior. So much so-called normal behaviors observed today are presented as an acceptable norm, a base-line by which to measure how you compare to everyone else, and so being normal is good. Is our culture obsessed with looks? Then it is good to be obsessed with looks, for it is normal. Do men routinely objectify women in their thoughts and in their conversation? Then it is good, for it is normal. Please excuse my language, for I feel quite strongly about this, but to hell with normal. To hell with man cards.
I guess I’m just not man enough.
Being man isn’t enough for me.
I want to be human, on equal footing with all other humans, male and female both.
Let’s make a bonfire and burn all man cards. Let us grow and change and lift each other up with respect as equals and not be satisfied until each person is rehumanized.
We can influence the culture around us. We can change it for the better. Our friends, our neighbors, our family – I sure hope being human is contagious.
Start with you.
I’ll start with me.
I am done being “man.”
I simply want to be human.