Wednesday, August 26, 2009

It's A Rat Race, Kenny

I like men. Let me rephrase that: I like manly men. I do not like skinny jeans wearing, Zac Efron hair flipping, weird, non-prescription glasses sporting, take longer than me to get ready men. Nothing makes me feel more butch than feeling like I’m the guy in our union. And nothing makes me feel more feminine, than being with a man who is just that: a man. There’s something about broad shoulders, a nice suit or regular fitting jeans, maybe some crisp Tims, a few tattoos, those nice cuts along the abs…ok, you get it. If you’re the kind of guy who waxes his eyebrows, you’re out.

Let’s be honest, if you’re too busy at your waxing appointment, you won’t be around to protect me (and maybe you should be protecting Steve instead). I need to feel protected. I need for you to be the dominating animal in our pack. I need to know that if something goes down, you’re on it, or at least we’re in this together. Even my gays can remember they’re men when shit pops off (have you seen those guys fight!), so I know you can do it too, punchanella, punchanella.*

I have a classic manly man test. There are many ways to skin a cat, but if you want this one to purr, you’ll comply as needed.

NYC has 12 rodents for every 1 human being, and in the summer, those suckers are out in droves, searching for hot garbage. You have to bob and weave, dip and dodge to keep them off your path. I am terribly frightened of them. I do not bob, weave, dip or dodge them. I usually scream like I’ve been shot and jump on the nearest table or person. Yes, person. So whenever I’m out with a guy, I let them know up front. “Just so you know. I’m very afraid of rats and mice. If we see any, I’m on your back. Just know that.” They always nod their ascent, I mean, who doesn’t understand a fear of rodents. But the real test comes when we’re out strolling on the street and Fifel shows up in this little American tale. As promised, I scream like I’ve been shot and most likely leap towards him. There are no grades here, just pass/fail, black/white, man/pussy. Passing includes but isn’t limited to: getting me out of harms way by swinging me onto his back caveman style. Failing would be anything else, but especially screaming and running faster than I can say Ratatouille (that has actually happened and I haven’t seen him since he took off down Broadway).

I really feel like I’m onto something. But what do I know? It could be completely bullshit. I will tell you this though: the ones who fail are usually in skinny jeans with waxed eyebrows and have names like Mat with one T. The winners? Well, they don’t wear anything at all in the end…and who doesn’t want to win?

That bitch stole my line,


Blackie Collins

*if you don’t remember this childhood song, that makes no sense. I realize this, but I don’t care

1 comment:

  1. GIRL STOP!! I thought I was the only one deathly afraid of rats & mice! I couldn't even watch the movie Ratatouille . When I tell people I'm afraid they just laugh (well the guys laugh and the native New Yorkers)! ha!