Sure as Clockwork, Another Random Plankton Rant
December 7, 2011 § 85 Comments
Some people are going to remonstrate with me today I am sure but I am going to say it as it is. I like to say it as it is.
I was out last night and heard about the friend of a friend of a friend, a man who is forty and who has declared to his circle that he has decided never to get married. No great loss to the ranks of womankind by the sounds. He apparently thinks of women as either lovely and clever but unfuckable, or fuckable but disposable. Attractive character he must be.
The ones with whom he has sex he comes to despise before the seeping spunk has had a chance to cool and ingratiate itself into the weave of his souless sheets. Virgin/Whore syndrome? Whatever it is, there is some major fuck up going on in his head, obviously, and I asked the friend of my friend what had happened to him to turn him into such a quasi-psycho. “Very repressed military background,” came the reply. But though his misogynistic stance is extreme, it is not unheard of, military background or no military background. In the course of our painfully fruitless quest, plankton come across many a man who has, to a greater or lesser degree, a similarly scewed (is that the word? It doesn’t look right. Scewered? Stop press: got it! Skewed!) regard to women.
I met a male therapist a few years ago who said he was counselling three such single men. He said that each of them appeared to all intents and purposes to be normal middle-aged, middle-class fellows, full of charm and social ease; ordinary-seeming blokes, bright, friendly, successful. But he knew them well, and he knew differently. He had to respect their anonymity, obviously, so couldn’t tell me their names, but he prayed I never came across them and fell into their snare because they had a way of eviscerating women and vulnerable middle-aged ones more than most.
I don’t care what anyone says, but this is what plankton are up against. Men with out of control fantasies for whom real women are such a disappointing blow that they actively hate us. As I say, this repressed friend of a friend of a friend is educated, sociable, probably an academic or lawyer or something, and yet when it comes to his relationships with women, he is a callous nutter. Clearly, he is an outlandish example and close to the far right of the SFAR spectrum. But there are low-key commitment-phobes everywhere we turn. I read a piece the other day by a man of thirty – handsome picture accompanying the text, natch – saying why he and his mates didn’t want to get married. Why would they when they have been weaned on computer games and internet porn and novelty is all and they can plunder through women with the wanton vibrations of a road drill relentlessly and unstoppably ploughing and tearing its way up whole networks of roads?
Or you get the slow-burn narcissicists of this world who may occasionally ponder the notion of dipping into the sweet crevice of a willing and open pair of shapely legs, if it happens to serve itself up on a platter with flourishes of parsley or the more fashionable rocket with barrel-aged balsamic, or not, as the case may be. When the time comes, chances are he may not rise to the occasion, not because he hates women particularly but because he does so love himself and because his solitude is one big wank and why would he jeopardise it for the sake of proper and long-term and vexing engagement with someone else?
Or you get the tossers and losers I have heard about on various shite sites who blob and stink and letch and think they are doing you a favour, babe, by even considering you, and think that you should be so lucky to have the roving attention of their balti breath and acorn cocks, it’s your fucking lucky day, lady.
Or you get the occasional nice enough one who is really keen on you (once in a blue fucking moon) and you try your best to think yourself with him and you say to yourself, he’d be a kind enough fellow to go to the movies with and have pasta, interesting and mild. And you will yourself to think thoughts of sex with him because he is there and, as I say, kind and interesting and good enough, but the thought of getting naked with him would be like picking up a spider, or letting a snake slither round your neck or having a juddering pigeon flapping its windy wings right by your ear. And you don’t know why this is, and it feels so unfair because he’s so nice and because he’s so there, but you just can’t get yourself to relish the very concept of his bare skin and bits coming into contact with and indeed searching their way across and into yours.
Or you get the lovely ones who are genuinely so lovely that they have chain girlfriends, one after the other, never a breather, or breather only enough to signal that they are lovely enough not actually to be adulterers but not so long as any of the rest of us looking on with shock and awe can so much as sigh.
I could go on. Yesterday I told Mrs Standard Bearer that planktonhood is in some ways more hopeless and worse than not having a job (not that I have a real one of those, either, but that’s another story). Jobs are headline scarce but decent men are tantamount to extinct. I have less chance of falling in love with a man who falls in love with me at the same time and actually wants to be with me than a twenty year old graduate from GobShite Tech with a third in Toenail Art has of becoming the right-hand woman of Alan Fucking Sugar.
This is the reality. No men to speak of. No men. No men.