Women.
At times I wonder what the average female of the species is actually thinking as she parades by what she perceives to be a dozen-or-so hungry males ogling her at any bus stop. Does she think most men are jackals, gleefully fulfilling a thousand-and-one fantasies with every step she takes?
Possibly. (This is my corporate reply).
Or, as the Tasmanian Devil inside of me, would say, "Yeah-yeah-yeah!"
Are there two sides to every male?
Heh-heh. Try three. Think of sly dog, Wile E. Coyote, Precious, the dog, and you'll be in the ball park of figuring out that third side of us.
Perhaps this femme parfaite -- perfect woman -- cringes in fear, as genetic memories of cavemen dragging their women to their caves, comes to light. Is this how most women view men? I mean, really?
As buzzards on a fence with smut magazines stapled to our foreheads? Or are we considered males whom will one day belong to some futuristic society where woman shall pick and choose men as they see fit, toss them to the wayside once they're through with them? Are women that heavily engrossed in such brain wave delusions of their eventual domination over their male counterparts? Anything to get even for what the average female thinks we males contemplate at the mere sight of one of them?
Again, possibly.
Or, as Peter Sellers as the famed Inspector Clouseau would have put it, "But... of course!"
Are you sure? Really sure?
Anything goes, right? This is the Nineties. It is a time not to reflect but to move progressively forward. Again I ask, what does a whoa-mun think of all the men they've stereotyped as two-legged wolves out there in the real world? The ones they swear stare her down, drool whenever she passes. What does she think is going on behind the scenes of all those appreciative smiles?
Perhaps, men are raping her with their eyes, judging her inner character by her style of dress, or sampling a hundred what-ifs about what it would be like to take her out on a date?
Guess again all you sweethearts of the rodeo out there. Some of us men may be actually thinking of our day head. A good many of us are already considering the ball game on tv tonight or other sport delights that will have us glued to the sets. Then again, there are just as many of us comparing you in a small way to the valentines we already have at home. You're okay, but you just don't measure up enough to fill her shoes. You simply don't fit the bill, sweetheart." (Humphrey Bogarte or Peter Lorre -- you pick this time). Sorry. Don't pass Go or turn your chin up toward the sky. You're nuttin' honey. A sight for sore eyes but our eyes aren't sore.
That's our reply. Truth or fiction? Corporate, or fact?
Got you wondering now, don't I? Cracking an ankle as your high-heeled shoes slip from under you. Heh-heh.
Heh-heh.
Maybe your blushing. Could you be wrong about men? After all this time? We're already acutely aware of your plans for the Nineties. You want to continue to be as independent as hell. Business all the way. Go double-dutch as you walk through the doors of a theatre. Demand separate checks at the dinner table. Sigh a contract as to amount of foreplay to be allowed before engaging in hot and steamy bedroom antics. No? Are you disagreeing with me? Take another look, dah-ling. You're already buying and keeping a fresh supply of condoms in your purse. Ones with bumps and pre-greased. If I'm wrong, tell me what kind of party blows balloons up like that. Hmmmmmm?
Getting back to the main topic of this essay, a lot of women shudder when they openly talk about walking by a crowd of men. If you listen in, you're apt to hear all kinds of lewd comments escaping a suspicious female's lips. "Pigs," one woman may snort. "Chauvinistic Neanderthals," might be another comment worth logging away. "Is that all they think of -- look at?" A number of them cry out in unison.
The truth of the matter is, as women, you don't really know what most men are thinking behind closed minds at all, do you? All you see is a number of watery-eyed males with impish grins on their faces, and you automatically think the worst. Or, for some of you, the best.
From a male perspective and if we decided to give such a consideration any thought at all, we might wonder why you doll yourself up so much, or don skintight slacks or wear short dresses to begin with. We think you want us to look at you, make comments, ribald or complimentary, and that you enjoy being admired no matter how often you outwardly complain about it. Otherwise, why do you go through all the trouble of knocking yourself out for us in the first place? To satisfy your own sweltering ego? Perhaps you only color your face, paint your lips, and wear expensive and revealing clothes because it is a nice day? Hmmm? Maybe.
Heh-heh.
Believe me. We males don't mind what you think of us. Or, what you think we might be thinking. We'll let you get away with whatever train of thought you happen to amuse yourself with. Just as long as you realize that it's men who know the real truth about all of this. Which is: that you enjoy the shrill whistles, the googly-eyed stares, the open-mouthed grins, and the occasional gasps of astonishment.
Otherwise, why are you here? Why are you there? To compete, I guess. See who gets that available top-dog seat in the Company, first.
Ladies. Lay-deeees, pleeeeeeese! Spare me. Let's face it. You broads look at men the same way we look at women, don't you? Sizing us up. Checking our shoe size. Raising an appreciate eyebrow whenever we flicker a tongue at an itchy spot on our noses. Who you kiddin' here?
As a youngster, I thought of entering the priesthood. That is, until I found out that women differed from men. It had nothing to do with the proverbial race up the corporate ladder of success, either. But don't put words in my mouth, or plant provocative scenes away in your mind. You're not sure. Not one of us has really ever told it all. Oh, yeah, we've hinted at things, breathed a few nonsensical considerations your way. An appertif of thought, something to wile away a lazy afternoon. But you're not totally convinced we are the porkers of the farmyard, you? Of anything about us? Of men?
We are predictably unpredictable. Yes?
"Oh, those beastly things!" (Zsa-Zsa or Tanya Harding? Your choice again. Your inference is as good as any.)
As women, you'll never really know what most men might be thinking when you saunter by with that Cleopatra grin of dominance splattered all over your face. Not really. You can ramble off all sorts of would-be scenarios to yourself, to the world if you must. Put dozens of your own versions of our thoughts or intentions down in front of us to claw at or barter over. But you'll never really know, will you, what ...men ...think.
And I, being one of them, will never tell, either.
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