The Truth

donkey

Here I am, a little past 2, bladdered on cheap Mexican beer. I’ve just gotten off the phone with a beautiful woman who’s triggered a pixilated argument over male sensitivity and transparency/honesty. Under these inebriate circumstances, my ability to rant swings to women or real-life in general (the life on Facebook and Twitter doesn’t count).

But, wait, I think of women twenty four seven irrespective of cheap Mexican beer or not. Who am I kidding? This one, like everything else I write, has sex all over it. In fact, I can’t fall asleep without fantasizing about beautiful women. They tickle and trigger my adolescence-like boy-with-peanut-butter sandwich mind.

I am an honest man or at the least I would like to picture it in that fashion. This, arguably underestimated, truth doesn’t go down well with the balloon people. In other words, the folks who live in, beautiful yet wee, bubbles or those who should be crowned frog princes in their perpetual wells of delusion. They find the very idea to be a canon ball full of sand and downright impenetrable.

Like the guys in movies who’ll pee in their pants at the very thought of doing something criminal. Yep, those buggers!

What if I told you women like a cocky man? The kind of man who can be found in a club with a woman perched on his lap; he usually spanks a girl’s ass in public; has made out in the backseat of a car; has the balls to kiss her in view of public; and never steps, even for a moment, in the “best friends” trap; can be often found with one hand in her panties without hyperventilated into a sweaty towel.

We, under our very skin, like the blanket of generalization because it protects us from evil boogers and ghosts that haunt our egos. Whoever wants to openly talk about sex, booze, drugs and condoms – (put the name of any lead rock band vocalist here) doesn’t count or me for that matter.

While others zip up their beliefs, I believe that the riddle i.e. fear can be solved by unzipping the mind and the pants too. I also think the world bifurcates on the river of balls.

Men from all age groups think about it all the time, they fantasize like little boys in adolescence (that reminds me, I don’t think we, men, ever grow up). We often fall short and shy of expressing our feelings towards the opposite sex.

On another important yet pointless note, leching on gorgeous women and their assets is downright perverted and disgusting. Its sick yet so exhilarating, a social evil yet heavenly, disrespectful but the light in the dark tunnel – one that’s littered with pornography-induced ideas of legendary orgasms – a ventilation for all the anxiety hidden between our legs.

As a sensible man of society, I think of sex, more sex and lots more – like breathing air. There. So? I love a firm ass. They are so sexy, however, I could never work my kink towards boobs. I find women to be so fascinating that I can’t imagine an un-horny world.

By being an expressive man, a woman sees you as a confident boy, aware of his desires and “feelings” or in other words, a guy with Superman’s balls. Sex sells. Period. Women are no longer afraid to talk about it so why should you?

Now, you can blame the media or the Mexican-beer-drinking-moustache-brandishing-pornstar for polluting the society at large or you can follow the animal that lives within – both these roads lead to sex.

Why question nature then?

Point is, women love men who love women and sex. And that, my friend with one hand occupied, is the truth. The next time you meet her, for just this once, think from your better brain.

Published originally on GQ.