Ok, Men, its time to fess up and admit that we have been pulling a gigantic con on the universe. We pretend that we are mature and responsible individuals with reasonable expectations of our women, but we know that in reality, we are the neediest, greediest, lustiest, hungriest creature on the planet. What is worst, most of us try to cover up our insatiable natures. We lie to the women we love about what we want from them, and we do it on a daily basis – because what we want from the women in our lives is everything, and we want it now!
“You don’t want a wife, you want a mistress,” women have said to me. I, of course, always lie and deny it.
“You don’t want a mistress, you want a daughter,” women have said to me. I, as usual, lie and deny it.
“You don’t want a daughter, you want a mother,” women have said to me. I lie and say I don’t.
“You don’t want a wife or a daughter or a mistress or a mother,” women have said to me.” You want something so enveloping, so godlike and feminine and comforting that she could only be called a soul mate.” That, too, I lie about and deny.
Well, I have to lie. You guys understand that. How could I ever admit to the women who were pinning me to the wall that they had it right, that I want them to be all of the above – wife and mother and mistress and daughter and soul mate? That I want them to be masseuse and whore, virgin and nurturer, intellectual and primitive, confidante and advisor, audience and receptacle, lever and friend, child and spirit?
I mean, if I admit to all that, the women in my life will have proof that I am a neurotic, selfish, acquisitive, covetous avaricious, desirous, grabby, grasping, lecherous, yearning, throbbing hunk of lust and greed who wants far more from any one human being than could reasonably be expected and who sets up failure in his relationships before he begins. That couldn’t be me, could it?
It maybe true that I am all of those things, but I sure as hell do not like admitting it. So I lie to the women I know and tell them that I have very few needs and that I am a self-sufficient man. For some reason, they look suspicious when I say that, but what do they know?
“You don’t want a wife, you want a mistress” is usually accompanied by another charge that we have all heard: “All you think about is sex.” This charge is absolutely true, but it is disastrous to admit it. So I respond in a level, deceptive, neutered, logical, chilled-out voice. “That’s not true. I want much more that sex. I want a long-term relationship with one woman I can call my wife, period.” There is a problem after I say this. I want to laugh. At what? At my own hypocrisy. Do you know that yawning is very good way to cover up laughter? So is stretching your arms and looking out the window as if there were a fire next door.
“You don’t want a mistress, you want a daughter” is often accompanied by, “You can’t handle a really mature and independent woman, can you? You have to run away to some obsequious floozy who will obey your every command.” It is true that I can’t handle the frequent fierceness of the independent woman, and it is true that I wish the world were filled with women who obeyed my every command, but I cannot admit all that, not even to myself, so I lie about it. “No,” I say, this time in an angrier voice, which indicates that I’m being treated unjustly, “I love independent women who scold me a lot and kick sand in my face and find fault with everything I do. That’s equally, and that’s what I stand for” usually, when I say this, the lie is so huge that I feel slightly nauseated. I get up and go to the window and stare at the horizon until I feel more stable and steadier. “You don’t want a daughter, you want a mother” is a very often followed by, “You’re a groveling, slimy, dependent, perverted sex addict and hedonist who would like to live his life with a woman’s nipple in his mouth twenty-four hours a day.” No truer words have ever described me, as I well give them the key s to the car and the deed to the condo, so I have a comeback that goes like this: It’s a cliché to suggest that every man wants his mommy back, so please try to say something original.” Experience has taught me that as I say this, I will have an incredible urge to suck my thumb, so I advise you to sit on your hands before speaking. Against the hankering that you will inevitably have to pee in your pants and take a nap immediately thereafter, I have no proven defense. You might try opening the window and breathing fresh air. Or you might cuddle in her lap with your Teddy bear.
“You don’t want a wife or a mother or a mistress or a daughter, you want an impossible creature with supernatural qualities called a soul mate” is always accompanied by, ”Your demands and expectations about women are so unrealistic that I think you should be committed to an insane asylum or shot at dawn.” Whatever you do, don’t respond with a joke such as “Can I choose who I eat before they shoot me?” or “Do they make straight jackets for two?” This will only incite her to deeper and more accurate criticisms of your sensual nature, and unless you’re into pain. . . . OK, I take it back; you’re a man, so of course you’re into pain, so kid her and be done with it.
What we want from women is no mystery. We want salvation and succor, pleasure and immortality, unconditional love and elegant eroticism. Simple needs for simple men, right? So what’s the problem? We want five-sided women with all the qualities we cherish, and we want them to display the side we need at the time we need it. Isn’t it amazing how difficult they can make it seem when we ask for that? You’d think they’d learn how to do what we wanted without so much fuss and bother. God we’re only asking them to be gods.
Pentawench, I call her, the five-sided woman of my dreams. She gyrates in the air like an angel in flames, and she glides across my psyche as cleanly as a Madonna on skates. One day I know I’ll find her – or die trying.
From: Playboy Magazine (Nov. 1989)
