Foreplay is a simple and effortless process for me, although it’s unique in the sense that I manage to sidestep most of the familiar clichés that afflict the less imaginative. When me and my barefoot-’n’-pregnant Georgia Peach start dancing the eternal animal jitterbug that inevitably leads to penetration and full-bore orgasm, we don’t rely on standard acts of kinkiness. There are no diapers, vacuum cleaners, or chili-pepper-flavored lollipops involved in our lovemaking. We don’t wear rabbit masks or dress up as Star Wars characters or don cute S&M costumes fashioned of patent leather and chains. We don’t tease each other about how bad and naughty we are. We don’t reenact scenes from our childhoods. I don’t wear fake mustaches or let her paint my fingernails. Bells are not involved, nor are any egg-shaped devices. We don’t place insects on one another’s bodies or recite prayers in Aramaic. We don’t watch Tim Burton movies while sipping absinthe.
No, we get our kicks in ways far more mundane and pedestrian, and all the weirder because of it. Instead of cocaine-laced enemas or Tantric ear-candling exercises, our foreplay involves me performing ordinary household tasks such as heavy yard work or basic auto repair. If I’m out back swinging a rusty scythe through pesky weeds and bramble, or if I’m in out front getting smeared with oil underneath our car, she wants to be peering through the curtains, fingering herself. It’s not technically “role-playing,” because I’m not wearing wacky costumes or fronting as some stupid character; it’s the eroticizing of ordinary dumb-male chores I’d have to do anyway. Sure, I tap into mythical male archetypes such as Paul Bunyan and Mr. Goodwrench, but in the process I don’t have to pretend I’m anything I’m not. And for her, the cumulative effect is as arousing as when I talk about hurting people who’ve done her wrong, or just hurting people in general.
Looking at the defanged, deballed, sorry-assed, concave-chested state of the average American male, especially in places such as the Pacific Northwest, this all makes sense. Although machismo, at least the white kind, has been systematically devalued in our culture, it’s an inescapable evolutionary fact that women lubricate for cavemen. Sensible folks such as myself realize that all the politics, philosophy, and good intentions in the world will never be able to surmount this fact. It has taken millions of years of being protected from wolves, unwanted suitors, and thunderstorms for women to develop an erotic fixation for men who bask in their own maleness, for those take-charge kind of fellows who appear able to grab nature forcefully in both hands and split it in two. The most important thing about being a man, especially these days, is that you have to be a man about it.
Now, I haven’t always been macho. As a kid I was known as a bookworm, but in later years I’ve cultivated a reputation as a loudmouthed asshole douchebag. Despite everything the PC pundits would have you believe about women and sensitive men, the fact is that being perceived as an unfeeling ogre has worked like a charm for me. So long as you don’t hurt their feelings in the process, women prefer for you to be a brute.
My trusty female companion and I enjoy incarnating the polar-opposite gender roles which nature has, in its unflinching wisdom, assigned us. She is a soft lotus flower and I’m a randy bumblebee with well-toned forearms and a large stinger. She doesn’t like emo boys and I don’t like girls who know how to fix cars. She likes when I kill bugs for her, and I suppose I enjoy when she makes me wait for her to finish her eyebrows before we go out. On more than one occasion her vagina has moistened merely by watching me curl a barbell while grunting like an angry pig. Last summer she snapped pictures of me swinging a long axe at a thick tree stump in some woods north of Flagstaff. She found the photographic results to be so innately arousing, she absolutely forbade me from posting the pictures online lest the entire world erupt in a dangerous stampede desperate to have sex with me.
I recently made her endure a vigorous verbal grilling about exactly what she finds so goddamned sexy about me performing menial labor while she watches. We both agreed that part of the appeal is that I’m far more intelligent than the type of dumb hogs who have to change oil or mow lawns for a living. But we also agreed that it’s best to forget I’m actually a writer, because that doesn’t turn me on, either. We also acknowledged the innate theatrical element—when I call her attention to the fact that I’m changing the oil or chopping wood while knowing this will all eventually lead to full-blown penile insertion, there’s an element of deliberateness to it. I’m putting on a show for her almost as if I were a stripper. Still, we both agreed that for the performance to be effective, it also had to be genuine—I had to actually need to change oil or chop wood as part of my routine manly duties. So although in a sense I’m acting, I’m really not, because I’m actually changing the goddamned oil and chopping the motherfucking wood. I’m a self-consciously dimwitted working-class male model performing the sort of acts such people need to perform merely by dint of being stupid and plebeian. But while doing these things for her enjoyment (and knowing it will lead to a round of vicious rutting), I feel as invincible as I imagine a male rhino feels.
Interestingly, not all types of peasant labor are appealing to her. She found absolutely no erotic elements in the idea of me laboring as a dishwasher or an exterminator. She insists she wouldn’t get turned on if I earned my wages as a bellhop, a janitor, a sound technician, or a clerk at an auto-parts store. She found the idea of me toiling as a waiter to be absolutely “disgusting—it’s someone who gets pushed around and yelled at.”
What surprised me the most, though, was my little impenitent Southern girl’s fixation on dirt and odor. Words such as “sweaty” and “stinky” repeatedly emerged in the fantasies she conveyed. “I want you getting really greasy, dirty, and smelly,” she told me. “It’s ’cause you worked for it, not just ’cause you’re smelly. But with your greasy hands…take me…and put grease all over me. I think it’s because I’m clean and girly, and it’s the opposite of what I am.”
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This is all 100% true. Women like em’ manly.
06.20.08 at 1:26 pm
I forget you’re a writer all the time.
06.20.08 at 1:26 pm
“Despite everything the PC pundits would have you believe about women and sensitive men, the fact is that being perceived as an unfeeling ogre has worked like a charm for me. So long as you don’t hurt their feelings in the process, women prefer for you to be a brute.”
Turst me, not all women prefer unfeeling ogres. They don’t arouse me at all.
A lot of females want an Atticus Finch.
06.20.08 at 1:35 pm
Who says that being barbaric is manly? Meatheads sound more like adult babies to me.
06.20.08 at 1:36 pm
But Atticus Finch knew how to shoot a gun, and I bet was quite handy teachin’ Jem and Scout how to bust up a chiffarobe if need be.
06.20.08 at 1:58 pm
brilliant – my colleagues and i were humbled by this article. maybe more writers need brain tumors.
06.20.08 at 3:37 pm
This is not unlike what Steve Sailer has been screaming for years. We are attracted to differences. Men can’t grow hair as long as women so we appreciate it when women grow long hair. Stilettos push out her ass (which is much fuller than ours) and elongates her calf (which is already more elongated). Unlike men, women’s lips become redder and fuller when aroused. They exaggerate this difference using a thing called lipstick. Same story with blush. They are mimicing a uniquely female trait where women’s cheeks get redder when aroused. Exaggerate teh differences and you can’t go wrong. The multicultural police want us to think everybody’s teh same but we’re not and we don’t want to be.
06.20.08 at 3:42 pm
maybe portland, seattle, olympia,eugene, and salem are full of wimps but the whole northwest? what about the rest of it? it’s all manly men
06.20.08 at 4:40 pm
Touché, OK?
06.20.08 at 4:51 pm
My wench likes a good tussle now and then. When I mount up I’m like Napoleon pushing a Mack 10 through the Chunnel, and once I hit the Burgundy region, trust me, even Manet’s corpse is screaming Bloody Mary.
06.20.08 at 5:53 pm
Being that today is the first day of summer I compare this article to Groundhog day. You know it’s gonna be a shitty summer when Jim rambles on and on about his true love and streetcarnage slaps a picture of shoes for compliment. We’re all in for some bad weather.
06.20.08 at 6:18 pm
I think you meant “complement,” moron.
06.20.08 at 7:32 pm
the whether has begun
06.20.08 at 8:19 pm
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XFDv3_2kaiY&feature=related
06.21.08 at 12:51 am
Totally! My fantasies have turned drastically more domestic over the past few months. I imagine being touched while vacuuming or getting eaten out while doing the dishes, but only by a manly man. Here’s to my reverting feminism!!
06.21.08 at 12:49 pm
i’m in full support of this! i will cook and clean for my man if he will take out the trash and fix things. in the end we’ll all get laid!
06.21.08 at 2:09 pm
After marriage which should happen around 30 with babies around the same time…
MEN
-provide the lion’s share of the cash
-do the dishes fairly often (this rarely works out)
-takes the laundry down and brings it back up
-puts away his things
-buys / chooses the car
-drives
-fixes shit
-handles getting the Christmas tree and making sure it doesn’t fall
-fixes stuff
-assembles all things she buys including a TV wall mount
-has to eat her out once a month
-in charge of booze, ice, and BBQ at parties
-ensures the stereo works and is set up
-mows the lawn if there is one
-makes sure the car works
-has to punch anyone that threatens his lady in any way
-verbally destroys anyone who insults her
WOMEN
-do most of the cooking
-prepares the laundry
-puts away her things (laundry)
-must provide at least a blow job a month
-gets the comfiest seat in the house
-provides gifts / toys for the kids
-buys bric-a-brac
-keeps the garden nice
06.21.08 at 2:41 pm
your girlfriend sounds like a pussy
anyways she only gets hot and bothered when you do the chores because otherwise the chores wouldn’t get done. i think you have the cause and effect reversed
06.21.08 at 5:49 pm
Hey there, fella, she’s my wife, and she’s as solid as the Stone Mountain she grew up under. She’s also a rollerderby champ, and I have no doubt she could kick your ass all the way back to whatever ferret’s den you crawled out from under. She’s ready to drop our first son any day now. Here’s hoping you don’t get splashed in the face with, say, a gallon of placenta!
http://jimgoad.net/YaBBImages/dahlonegajb.jpg
06.22.08 at 12:25 am
my wife and i are currently splitsville because i absolutely refuse to do any of the things you mention, goad
but she always takes me back- separation makes the heart grow fonder -some of you cromags should try it sometime; works well for the libido, more hers
06.22.08 at 8:21 am
To clarify for both gents whose comments sandwiched my last one: Sorry y’all tend to run across so many shrews, but no one on Earth would ever be able to demand that I do any of that shit. What’s more, she’ve never, ever even ASKED me to do any of it. Take careful note of her comment about vaginal desiccation regarding any male drone who gets “pushed around and yelled at.” I doubt I’d ever get a boner if I obeyed a woman, either. The fact is, pushin’ 50, swinging axes and torquing wrenches keeps me toned and, I daresay, sexy as fuck:
http://jimgoad.net/images/torso1.jpg
06.22.08 at 9:57 am
aahahhhhahahah. not really.
06.22.08 at 11:55 am
Aren’t there a lot of Lumberjacks in the Pacific Northwest? Bunch a pussies they are.
06.22.08 at 5:25 pm
I was with you up until you actually showed us your stomach.
06.22.08 at 5:31 pm
I kind of agree with Goad. I have to play down my brutish manliness which is overbearing and intimidating to the smart people I try to befriend (I’m a veteran and a stonemason, muscular build with a very pronounced chin and lots of tattoos). I know it’s lame but sometimes I wear fake glasses at art parties and such so that people will take me seriously in conversation (it works). Thing is, women seem to dig it. I mean smart women because that’s the only kind I like anyway.
07.31.08 at 11:31 pm
jim very ape and jim very nice
09.09.08 at 3:00 am