Understanding male narcissism
He doesn’t simply celebrate his existence; he celebrates how much better his existence is than everyone else’s. No one goes as hard as he does; no one has killed it as he has. He never gets hangovers or takes no for an answer or fucks the ugly friend. He crushes that next-level pussy, bruh, only the finest. He is pinstripes and full Windsor knots, smashing bottles and spiking footballs, things that are irrepressible, things that smack you in the face.
He is a walking scorched-earth policy. He takes what he wants to satisfy some hedonistic impulse, and then he leaves her sobbing in a hallway with her friend on the other line. He wrings every moment of every drop of novelty. He is doing shots and never with a chaser because moderation and restraint are for women and faggots and children. The only way to be a real man is to be a real man as ferociously as humanly possible. He goes all-in; he gets shredded and ripped and defines his life by aggression and competitions. He buys the hamburger that comes with two other hamburgers and a chicken cutlet on top of it. Why? Because it’s three hamburgers with a chicken cutlet on top of it.
He is comfortable. This needs to be understood. He is on a log flume holding a drink with an umbrella in it because ironic homoeroticism is the height of masculinity. This is how he thinks. There is no stress in his life, no obstacles, nothing impeding this path to pussy and alcohol and beige, deep-fried carbohydrates. Not her inhibitions, not her less-attractive, the responsible friend who is telling her to go home, not max capacities, not having to work the next day. In the presence of exposed female skin, he is feral, he is a scavenger, and he will sleep only when he is fed.
It’s a disturbing article — and one as patently irritating to simply read as is actual exposure to the reality of the subject matter it covers. In so many ways, this author gets it — but, there’s a key point he misses:
Then why is simple. This American Bro either grew up without a father or with one who may as well have not been there. Raised by a mother who loved and nurtured (And often engulfed) but who lacked all ability to teach him masculinity, this young man invented his own definition.
It’s a fragile definition and he’s not strong or confident — it’s not the confident men who masturbate before a playboy centrefold or the strong men treat women as objects of contempt. It’s the little boys who have to crush and dominate to scrape together some sense of power in the face of that which they struggle forever to tear away from Woman.
And, the article also does nothing to describe his end. Eventually, he will be too old, too lonely and the desirable women too long married to continue this charade.
His goal never was so much to penetrate all of these women anyway — as much as it was to prove to himself he can pull out, walk away and never look back. The end? That’s where, in his loneliness, he is finally paying a young woman to have sex with him and still does not believe he is paying for sex. No, he believes he is paying the prostitute to walk away and never come back at the end of the sex act.
Why? Because, somewhere, the media maligned, culturally mocked and generally disregarded male who donated sperm to give him life either can not, is not allowed or will not step up and fill the desperately needed role of the father in his life to call him out to be a man.
Increasingly, it’s that he is not allowed — by the boy’s mother. Because, ya, “A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle,” — or something…