Men and Women, Mostly Young

Today I watched to confirm my observations, at Café D (I will scrupulously avoid names of places and people, including), where I visit every day for an espresso. The (young) men opened the door for the (young) women. Nothing has changed. I watched one woman sitting in a chair near the door. He watched as a young fellow came from the coffee bar, both hands holding items bought there. He opened the door with his foot. She watched. Her chair prevented the door from opening fully. He squeezed through. The place was filled, as usual. The loud voices were women's voices. Where were the boisterous, aggressive males? The men occupied their space at a table, alert to help someone plug in a computer, move a chair. Three women had spread out, each using two tables. These were American women. The women serving at the coffee bar are European. They are feminine. They work hard. They flirt with the male customers. They are subjects. They enjoy being looked at. The American women sit, horrified to think of themselves as objects to be looked at, reading about the objectification of women by men. They are insulted by the glance a man gives them. And so the men have learned not to look, not to flirt. The women's hair is long, designed to appear casual. It occupies space around them. They seem not to know where their bodies are in space. Nothing has changed. The men--what are they writing about, sketching? Inhibited from looking at the women by the politics of feminism, they no longer initiate conversation. The women? Not a word spoken to a man. They talk to each other. How does this differ from a back yard, talking over laundry hung out to dry? He must open the door for me. (Am I too weak?) He must start the conversation. (How dare he impose himself on me? This is aggressiveness. Call the "safe space" guards.) How do they feel? Independent? Autonomous? Are they lonely? OK. Perhaps (she thinks) I'll look at him. He has dark hair, a two-day growth of beard, strong eyes. His legs are drawn up, knees touching the table holding his computer. He looks like a hawk. Wing-span, low-rise jeans, a heavy belt. There's that hint of vascularity on his upper arm, his forearm. Shall I (she wonders) look at him? He looks a bit like MP, the French actor. Lean, no: gaunt. Serious. Reflective. Beautiful. Yes. (She thinks: What if I were to say something to him? What if I were to say: You have beautiful eyes. You look like a hawk hovering over your *** [computer].) No. She will NEVER say that. Why? This is how nothing has changed.

What We Can Say

Men are supposed to say the loving words to women. They are to make love. Let us reverse that. This would be equivalence between the sexes. And as for love, men should be able to say anything loving to another man that they say to a woman, except "Will you be the mother of my child." But, for the rest? Every tenderness. And what about things physical--what we call sex? That can be meaningful only when referring to male-female intercourse. Erotics? Anything may go, between two men, two women, a man and women enjoying each other's body.

Men Are More Beautiful Than Women

There are more beautiful men than beautiful women. Yes, yes. Most of us are plain, ageing. But look around you. Let’s look at some young ones among us, males and females eighteen years of age or older. Beauty is effortless. Its essence is simplicity and restraint. What could be more effortless than a weekly haircut, coloring and a blow-dry, daily refinements of the hair-do, application of make-up several times a day, and several times a week shaving leg hair and shopping for clothing that will exaggerate certain parts of the body and hide others, going for bright colors, bangles, and shoes. Diversions from looking at the body. These are our paragons of beauty? And, of course, every woman is beautiful—she must be, because she is a woman. Yes, I’m being ironic—very ironic. The real result? An entirely artificial creature, an image, a model. Now think about the young man you’ve seen recently with one of their badges of heterosexuality. Has he had a haircut recently? Maybe. Has he shaved? Maybe. Showered? Yes, because it feels good and releases the pheromones. How often does he shop for clothing? Only when necessary. Mail order is best, and so is cheap. The colors: blue, white, and black. Shoes? Whatever is comfortable. He does not smile extravagantly. No. He smiles rarely, only when he is amused, not to show his dental work. Is the t-shirt designer? Today it is three days worn, inside-out, too small or too big. He will pull it up for you now and then to show his body architecture. It is a long-sleeve shirt? Then partially unbuttoned it reveals his upper chest, a bit of hair or a lot. Or none. Look at the neck. Muscles, tendons, veins, larynx. Are the pants baggy and low-slung? All the better, but not necessary. Tight? Some are. A funky belly hair pattern is revealed now and then. Briefs exposed at the back? Fine. Small hips and the outline of his butt. Boyish. But he is modest. The cleavage is covered. The package? Considering it is the taboo area like no other, it remains shrouded in mystery. The thinnest guy has that vein running along the underside of his forearms onto his hands. Is there is a hint of biceps, pecs? OK. Thin means that the abs are just barely visible even if he does not do much except run, ride a bicycle, play a little basketball, throw a frisbee. And what about the little tummy that is now just fine. Gym time? Come on. He might do that at some point, but that would change the quality of his beauty. Body-building? There’s no need to build anything. It’s there already. The male body, just at it is. Moving from the coffee shop where I’m sitting into an office. Working women—serious working women—may take less time creating the artifact, but the result is a very plain figure indeed. She will eat little, spend a lot of money on her office uniform, so that it will blend in with the office furniture. Please, don’t forget that this was the intention. A man looking at a woman in the workplace was bad manners. Worse, it was objectifying and offensive. The clean Scandinavian furniture look runs smoothly from upholstery to the female executive’s body and clothing. It’s all about efficiency, business. Oddly, though, the male over there in his uniform shirt, trousers, suit jacket and tie shines through. Why, he is more visible! Where had he been all those years? True. He is thinner. He may have a shadow of facial hair, a shaved head or a just-trimmed look above the brow. He opens the jacket and a new world opens to view. A dark belt and a simple buckle. Oh, and, yes, he likes being looked at, certainly by women but also now by men. It doesn’t really make any difference if they are presumed to be gay—whatever that means now. He rolls up the sleeves of his shirt—one, two, three folds. Large, useful hands. A bit of hair runs up from the little finger. A fringe of hair reaches down from the wrist. Everyone wants to count them. Sinews, vascularity. His eyes? Serious, less of the whites showing than in his boss’s eyes (a woman), but more to look for. The lips? Without glosses, they are brick-red, or if the guy is very young, a deep, bright red. He doesn’t call attention to them or to his teeth, which make rare appearances. Are there here and there metrosexuals? Fewer and fewer. They were never needed except to sell clothing and accessories and grooming products when gay men and straight were becoming indistinguishable n appearance. Or go outside. There are a few women working in the heat—on a few. Look at these men. Jeans and a t-shirt. The poses are more sensual. It’s like being at a playing field—soccer or softball. Women are looking at these men a lot and the men enjoy it. Here the package is visible, but even men who work at construction sites are modest. They are a bit less comfortable about being looked at by other men. But it’s less and less of an issue. So, here we are. Young men. Absence of artifice, your name is man. What could be more natural. Who believes that women are more beautiful than men?