The one with first love

So you happen to be this total badass when it comes to screwing things up. You simply own the game. You may suck as long as all works out but as soon as the things go south, you just nail it like a real pro. Indeed, Joe Rogan could make a ten hours podcast about your unequaled ability to ruin everything. You could be the subject matter for some weepy song by Taylor Swift. When a guy wants to break up with a girl, he should just call you asking for some advice: dude, will you please screw that up for me? Because you know it all, you’ve been there, you’ve seen the shit go down, you’re a veteran, you’re a Navy Seal in the field of rotten relationships, for you’ve been in a fucking Vietnam of dying love. Hell yeah, mum and dad have taught you well.

But things were not always like this.

There is no such thing as a beginner level in love. You don’t just show up at the gym as some clumsy rookie looking up to those shredded guys with some real experience. Though it may seem like it because of your undeveloped mental warfare (which doesn’t improve much with time anyway). But generally, the less you know, the harder you love. For knowledge kills all the beauty and grace. Each and every one of us has some basic inner set of skills when it comes to love, those love skills we develop until one day we learn that love kills.

It all starts with the guts. Don’t be delusional. All the bees and flowers, all the singing birds from Disney’s atelier, all the squirrels and hedgehogs messing around in the enchanted forest, all the horny rabbits, every damn living creature, from a tiny grasshopper to a big old tree, all them lesbian fairies and gay little hobbits, all the nasty Santa’s helpers, they all know it’s about chemistry, it takes some hormones to do the love thing. Physiology, not philosophy. Such is the right of Spring: guts come first.

Remember those days when your guts were about to explode every damn time you merely thought of a female’s body? You were so unprepared. One might say: you didn’t see that  coming. At that time it didn’t take much to turn you on: a young girl’s face, neck, collarbone, wrists, forearms, knees, calves or ankles, exposed for a short glance, were to your imagination like a real life soft porn. Tight dress or miniskirt, sleeveless or t-shirt, even jeans and grandma’s sweater, it all used to set fire to your brain, boil the blood in your veins, make you helplessly shiver from lust.

And then one day she enters your life and you know that this is it, you’re done for good, there is no going back. She is your destiny, your doom, a heaven-sent angel of perdition, the cutest thing you’re about to see in this peculiar circus of dust and sorrow.

Now, stay tuned, you’re in for a big show.

The beast within you has awaken. You’re fourteen or so and you don’t know shit about life. All you have is your instinct telling you to have your sting in. No strategies, no tricks. Which makes it all real, sincere, authentic. You’re crazy about her both physically and intellectually. You could listen to her talking all day. And you both love Led Zeppelin. Then again you say stupid things and you act like a stoned monkey with a permanent boner. But it works. So you wrap your arm around the waist of your innocent prey, you hold her hand, you caress her, you cherish her hair, you scan her girly moves, you inhale her every breath, you worship the funny smell of her sweat. And you want things to stay that way forever.

What some stubborn adversaries of Schopenhauer, their empty skulls contaminated with common sense, tend to call the “external world” does not concern you, it’s out of question, it’s simply out of joint. They say that what you experience is an illusion, that it will pass, that there’ll be others. They are right, but they’re wrong.

The first time is clumsy and unofficial. You had seen people do that in movies but no further details have been revealed to you. And then there’s this whole machinery, the finest, the most achieved of Nature’s work, her magnum opus: a woman. You look at all those switches and buttons, all those valves and engines, all that complex gear with no manual attached, and you try to work things out. There is not any unique procedure to be applied. Though they are all alike, no two of them girls are the same.

And then, all of a sudden, you just both know what to do. And you keep doing it. You do that anytime and anywhere. You do that in her fancy schoolgirl’s room, you do that in yours, with  Kurt Cobain, Queen and Metallica watching you from your posters. You do that in the park or on the boulevard. You do that on the railway bridge. You do that under the bridge. You do that before and after school. You do that during concerts. You skip classes to do that. You make out at school. You do that in the toilets of the only pubs that sell beer to underage kids. You do that on the windy hill near the train station. You do that on the telephone. You do that to the extreme point of becoming two little virtuosos of the sacred art.

You love the hell out of each other. You drink every drop of your vital juices. You do it in every possible way. You do it until the earth shakes, until the rivers overrun, until heaven and earth find reconciliation in a thunderstorm of ecstasy. And you know you’re doing it right.

But into each life some shit must fall. South is where things go – it is the natural law of entropy. The empires go down, the stars rise and die, the galaxies collapse. After four years of ups and downs, of heated arguments smothered with an even more heated sex, after getting the shit regularly beaten out of your face by this innocent little lady whom you would never dare to hurt, after countless threats, lies and betrayals, after breaking up and getting back together, it is all over. Never will you feel the same again. The whole world, as you knew it, is falling apart. The paradise is lost.

And then, once again, it all comes to guts. Your guts tell you that you are not going to make it. For your guts are still with her. No matter how hard you try, you just cannot feel a thing with other girls. Thus the beginning ends. It will take years to recover but the wounds you have will never heal. They were right, there’ll be others. What they didn’t tell you is that you’re about to enter the path of thorns and splinters.

Now you’ve learned your lesson. And now you’re on your own. There is no cure for that disease in the Ovid’s Remedia amoris. Against that force there is no remedy in our gardens. So you do the only thing that’s left: from now on you’re gonna swim in bitches.

21st century schizoid male

So you suffer from this modern disease of being an average privileged white male. Heir of the western civilization. And you are chronically attracted to women. Well, you’re not so average, you say. Not so privileged as it may seem. And though you’re as white as Columbian coke, you’re certainly not as masculine as some of them cowboys you’ve seen in the movies. As for the civilization thing, you find yourself on the very frontier of the Wild East. But damn sure you’re attracted to women. You like them, you love them, you care about them, and you treat them with respect. As long as they don’t fuck with you. Metaphorically. In fact, you like them both physically and intellectually. You like them rough, you like them soft, you like them red, blond and brown, you like them tall, you like them short, you prefer them slim, but not as much, because fluffy is healthy, and you like them shaved, and you like them hairy, you like them tight, you like them deep, you like them smart but you accept them silly, you like them bitchy and you like them subtle.  You love them at your place, sometimes at theirs, you love them on the couch and in the church, in the kitchen, in the dressing room, in the closet, in the toilet, on the stairs when everyone stares, in rain and on the train, all in vain, over the hills and far away, in the park, why not, damn it, even on the desert. You like their sense and sensibility, their pride and prejudice, their jane ass teen.

You pervert.

Either this is what Mother Nature made you or you just grew up watching too much of James Bond. Nature vs. Culture. But then again it doesn’t really matter for this is what you are. And what you are is not necessarily what women want. You may consider yourself quite male-efficient, however, most of the times, it turns out you’re just maleficent. Now, that’s a killer pun to hit you in the face. You try so hard to fulfill that unattainable ideal of manhood, the knightly phantasm you thought was desirable for it seemed to work out quite well for the special agent 007 so aptly castrating all those impotent mad scientists from the Soviet Union.

So you learn to speak five languages, you play the guitar, you ride a motorbike, you quote Shakespeare, you lift, you practise muay thai, you know how to box, you grapple a bit and, don’t be too modest, you are quite handsome, you dress well, you are one smartass and dude, admit it, you know how to kiss. Besides, you are quite good at hyperbolizing your own qualities.

And you keep saying that sex, as one subversive Victorian dandy would state, is only an excuse for kissing. But it is not. It may be the very essence. This is yet to be explored. So you end up knowing shit. You question your own identity, your blown masculinity. And anything you say – always apologizing, explaining yourself, for you’re an honest man, you say what you think – is offensive, sexist, dirty, childish, foolish, insensitive, evil, and barbaric.

To Whom It May Concern, let us speak up. Let us explain the shit out of manliness.

Let us speak aloud for what we are men-to-be.