The Savage Gentleman

by Harlan, Christopher

  The only catch? It isn’t published yet, but don’t worry, I have a pitch meeting tomorrow at my dream publishing company. If all goes well—and how could it not when they read my insights into the male sex—you’ll be able to order your very own copy of Fuckboys: an Analysis of Men’s Sexual Habits on Amazon, or maybe even see me at your local Barnes & Noble, signing copies on my sold out book tour—I can’t wait to meet you, btw, and I thank you in advance for supporting my career!

  But before taking our epic selfies in front of my signing table (please use the hashtags #torikleinisawesome #shessoapproachable #myfavoriteauthor #fuckboys), we do need to clarify a few things, because there’s some misinformation floating out there about me and my beliefs.

  1.)What I’m not: the radical feminist, man-hating bitch I’ve been accused of being more times than I can count—mostly by my white privileged cis male academic colleagues.

  2.)What I am: a strong, ambitious, intellectual woman who isn’t afraid to tell it like it is. If that offends you, then maybe we won’t be seeing each outer at your local Barnes & Noble after all. No selfie for you. It’s okay—my views aren’t for everyone. Like my mom used to say, I’m like Swiss cheese—an acquired taste—but once you get used to me I’ll be your favorite flavor.

  Now, just because my views have been horribly misrepresented doesn’t mean that reasonable people don’t disagree with me. Even my best friend in this world, Jenny, shares almost none of my opinions when it comes to men.

  We’re opposites in that way—and almost every other way. Whereas I’m intense, pensive, and distrustful until I get to know you, Jenny is trusting, outgoing, and happy go lucky. And when it comes to guys, we exist on opposite sides of the universe. I see men for the stray dogs that they are, whereas Jenny is willfully blind because she thinks he needs one in her life.

  Maybe I’m being unfair to her—the truth is that she believes in the inherent goodness of men, no matter how many times she’s been screwed over by them. We have this debate at least once a week, and neither of us ever gives an inch. I know that sounds exhausting, and you’re probably wondering why we’re even friends given our differences. But to address that I’ll defer to the great philosopher, Paula Abdul, when I say that opposites attract. She’s the light that balances my darkness.

  This is how our last conversation on the subject went:

  “You can’t call all men pigs.” She told me.

  “I don’t know how you can sit there, sipping your skinny vanilla latte—kudos for succumbing to those societal body standards by the way—and disagree with me.”

  “Because, unlike my latte hater of a best friend, I’m not a bitter old lady with a dried up vagina full of dead spiders.”

  “Jesus, Jenny, that was really graphic, even for you.”

  “Well, in my head I was imagining your pussy as either a desert or a frozen Siberian tundra—I just couldn’t decide which geographical metaphor was more appropriate—so I went with spiders and cobwebs.”

  “You realize that you just made my nether region into a B-horror movie troupe.”

  “I just worry about you.”

  “Well I appreciate that you put such mental energy into the state of my vagina. I really, really do. Do you think about it often?”

  “Your pussy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, duh, who doesn’t? The guy across from us is probably thinking about it right now.”

  “Ewww.” I said, without even turning around.

  “No, it’s not gross, he’s a cutie. Want me to wave him over. Maybe he knows how to get rid of spiders.”

  She went to put her hand up and I grabbed it. “Don’t you dare wave at some strange guy.”

  “Well, he wouldn’t be strange if I waved him over and he introduced himself, would he? God, Tori, I thought you Ph.D.’s were supposed to be smart.”

  “We are. And thanks but no thanks. I don’t need some weirdo to chase away anything in my pants, thank you very much.”

  “Okay, that’s not even what I said, but whatever. And fine, I won’t wave the hot guy over. You win. Congratulations.”

  “Look, I don’t want to be unappreciative, I love the concern, but just so you can sleep at night, all’s good down below. You don’t have to worry. And I’m not an old lady, either.”

  “Not literally. But inside you’re like a bitter divorcee who hates all men.”

  “God, we’ve been through this, Jenny, I don’t hate men, how many times do I have to tell you?”

  “As many times for it to sound convincing. So, like, a bazillion or so.”

  “I do not hate men, I just. . .have some strong opinions on them. And those opinions are based on some real experiences. You know what I’m talking about.”

  “Of course I know what you’re talking about. I was there.”

  “I really don’t understand how you feel any differently than I do. I don’t have much experience in this area, but you have enough for both of us. You should know how treacherous they are.”

  “Hold on, did you just call me a slut?”

  “I didn’t think you’d catch that.”

  “So I’m a stupid slut? Look, I may not have gotten a 1575 on my SAT’s and been accepted to four Ivy League schools like some people, but I’m hardly an idiot.”

  I laugh so hard. “You’re anything but an idiot. And it should have been five but, you know, Stanford.”

  “I actually have no idea what you just said.”

  “Doesn’t matter, we’re getting off track here, let’s get focused. I mean, look at your last four—that’s four—boyfriends.”

  “What about them?”

  “I think you’d agree that they were shitheads, one and all, and each one was worse than the next, if I’m keeping my douche bags in order.”

  “You’re not totally wrong there. Do you know I have them all in my phone as ‘Ex-Dicks #’s 1-4’. But yeah, it’s true, I’ve had some bad luck with the XY’s”

  “Four bad guys in a row isn’t bad luck, Jenny, it’s evidence of why women need my book. In my qualitative research I interviewed about twenty women in our age range and they all had the same experiences.”

  “Bad boyfriends, you mean?”

  “That’s an understatement. There are levels of bad. You should hear some of the shit they told me about their relationships.”

  “Oooh, spill the tea—anonymously, of course, I know you can’t tell me their names.”

  “No, but I’ll give you the blurbs—he cheated on me, he slept with my sister, he gave me two different std’s from all the prostitutes he was sleeping with, he left me after I wouldn’t have sex with him four times a week. . .and on and on they went. There was literally not a single woman who didn’t have something bad to say about more than one of their exes.”

  “And you think that means that all men are like that?”

  “No, it doesn’t mean that at all, but it definitely means that there’s something to the points I make in my book. I’m not totally crazy.”

  “No one’s totally crazy, Tor. I mean, maybe like, Charles Manson or something, he was pretty batshit, but when it comes to someone like you, I’d say you’re only like. . .maybe sixty five percent crazy. That’s not bad at all. The national average is probably higher.”

  “It’s not my fault that all my female subjects want to talk about is how the men in their lives—brothers, friends, boyfriends, husbands, fathers and yes, wait for it—even grandfathers, are running around twenty four seven trying to stick their little dicks into everything?”

  “Don’t say that, Tori, that’s not fair. Some of them have pretty substantial dicks.”

  “I’m sure they do. I wouldn’t know.”

  “Wait, how big was. . .He-Who-Shall-Remain-Nameless’ dick? Like, I know you didn’t measure it or anything. Unless you did, which would be some kinky shit for you—but forget that, just give me an approximation? Was it like a pencil—long and thin? Or was it more cucumberish?”

  “
Jenny, stop it. . .”

  “Wait, don’t tell me he was packing a full eggplant down there?”

  “Jenny!”

  “Sorry. Sorry. I got carried away with thoughts of. . .”

  “I don’t want to talk about him—ever, really, but especially not right now.”

  The him in question is my ex boyfriend from college—really the only boyfriend I ever had. I’m not going to mention his name because I might speak his evil into existence. If I stood in front of a mirror and invoked his stupid name three times I’m sure he’d appear behind me with a full hard on, ready to stick it into the first willing woman he found.

  I wouldn’t call myself bitter, but that whole experience changed my opinions on guys. That was a few years ago, and I’ve basically been as celibate as a Tibetan monk ever since. That’s by choice, mind you. If there’s a universal truth that every one of us XX’s knows, it’s that no matter who you are, what you look like, or where you live, there’s never a shortage of men willing to fuck you if given half a chance.

  But I don’t need actual fuckboys in my life. After college, relationships and men were like that drink you order on your twenty first birthday, drink too much of, and then can never smell again without vomiting on the floor.

  Instead I chose to write about other women’s experiences with their own fuckboys—how they were hurt, what was expected of them, how they were treated. I made it the basis of my Ph.D., and now my first book as well.

  “I get it.” Jenny said. “I know he hurt you bad, but still, you can’t blame all men. . .”

  “Jenny, seriously, I really don’t want to talk about him.”

  “I know, just let me finish. I’m pulling the bestie card. That’s a thing. I know that whole thing back in school didn’t go the way you thought it would, but welcome to the club.”

  “You’re making my points for me.”

  “No, I’m not. You’re missing my point. I’m not even talking about him, I’m talking about you and all of us. There are some things that bind us together as women—the two that pop into my mind are getting our periods and having shitty ex boyfriend horror stories to share with friends—it’s a female universal. Doesn’t mean we all have to become bitter at the ripe old age of twenty eight!”

  “I’m not bitter, and likeI’ve said a million times already, I don’t hate men. I just see them for what they are. There’s a difference.”

  “And what are they?”

  “Penises attached to arms, legs, and the occasional semi-functioning brain. They’re walking hard ons, Jenny, and basically all of their behaviors are focused on one activity and one activity only—screwing as many women as they can before the sun sets, at which time they rest up, so that they can get their fuck energy back for the next day’s hunt. They’re like sexual nomads, wandering the vast plains of American looking for willing vaginas.”

  “Wow.” She said.

  “Wow, what?”

  “My best friend is profoundly messed up.”

  “Your best friend is just fine. I’m not messed up because I speak the truth.”

  “Before I respond, kudos to the expression ‘fuck energy’ right off the top of your head—that was a special moment right there. Now, even you have to admit that there are guys out there Male Land that aren’t what you’re describing. You just haven’t interviewed the women who know those guys, or you only asked them about bad experiences, so those are the stories they told you. Doesn’t that have a name for that in science?”

  “Selection bias.” I told her, angry that she knows terms that can prove me wrong. “That’s called selection bias.”

  “Well, there you go. You selected wrong. Or at least you selected. . .selectively. You know what I’m saying, I hate all that science stuff.”

  She was right, of course, and I know not ALL men are piggish fuckboys, but I haven’t met or heard of ones who aren’t. There has to be something to that.

  “I know that not every single human with a penis and an XY chromosome set exists solely to fuck and screw women over, just like I know some people in prison are wrongfully convicted, but most aren’t.”

  “I think this is the point in the conversation where I need to reintroduce my suggestion that you see a therapist.”

  “I told you the first time—and just about every time after that—I don’t need therapy just cause men are sex crazed pigs. It isn’t me that needs to change. I’m just holding up a mirror to an entire gender, don’t blame the reflection.”

  Jenny tells me I need therapy at least once a month, usually when I’m on an epic rant about men, or discussing my work—which is largely the academic version of ranting about men.

  “I disagree,” she told me for the umpteenth time. “But whatever, do you. I still want you to get that book deal—partially because I love you—like ninety five percent that, but also because I really want to appear in the acknowledgments of a book sometime in my life. So yeah, good luck tomorrow.”

  “Awww,” I said really sarcastically. “You’re so sweet.”

  “I have my moments. “Just consider my point of view. I’m a woman too, you know? I have a vagina just like you, only mine is alive and well.”

  “No spiders in yours?”

  “My exes exterminated them for me. Now it’s like an oasis in there.” At that point she sat up really straight at that point, like a lightbulb had just gone off in her crazy little head. “Wait, maybe that’s it. I never thought of it before.”

  “Though of what?” I asked.

  “The reason why you have such an obsession with men’s sex lives.”

  “Edify me. I’d love to hear this.”

  “First, answer me something, for my own research purposes. What did you do with the vibrator I got you for your birthday last year?”

  “Jesus, Jenny, lower your voice.”

  We were getting lunch at the time of this discussion—some vegan place that Jenny found right after her conversion to all things non-living. She was flaky like that. I gave her veganism about as long as I gave her whenever she texted me to say that she’d met ‘the perfect guy’—usually at a Walmart, or some other location where no woman has ever met the right guy—about two to four weeks, max.

  Knowing how fickle she was, I assumed our next lunch and debate would probably be at a steakhouse, which was just fine with me.

  “What, now you’re embarrassed?” She asked, taking a bite of her sweet potato. . .something or other. “You didn’t care if anyone heard you declaring the inherent evil of the entire male species, but I mention touching yourself and you get all. . .”

  “Shhh.”

  “Oh, wow.” Jenny said. It was judgmental. It was something I’d do. I did not appreciate it. I can’t take my own medicine. I can’t take just as good as I give. “I just figured you out. Like, a lightbulb just went off. Can you see it?”

  I look over her head and we both laugh. “Nope. Strangely, I can’t.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s there, whether you see it or not. It’s glowing just as bright, regardless. It’s like that thing, when a tree falls in the forest”

  “And what is said lightbulb illuminating for you?”

  “Something I should have realized years ago.” She said. “It’s so simple that I never saw it. You’re afraid of sex.”

  “What? You’re nuts.”

  “Interesting that you bring up nuts, firstly. And secondly, I think I’m onto something here. Let’s examine the evidence, shall we Dr. Tori Klein?”

  “Well, there’s no evidence to explore, so we really can’t do that, can we?”

  “Hear me out. You’re obsessed with men having sex. Or, at least with them trying to have sex all the time, like it’s some global conspiracy to keep women down instead of a natural biological thing. You see men wanting sex as threatening, and you’re uncomfortable talking about masturbation or orgasms.”

  I hate that Jenny has an undergrad degree in psychology. You know what they say about having a little knowledge about so
mething—well, that’s her when it comes to anything psychological. She remembers a few lectures from college and tries to use them to ‘diagnose’ me with whatever she thinks is wrong.

  “I don’t like talking about getting myself off in public with a. . .how would you even classify that thing?

  “As a big fake black cock.” She blurted out. I almost turned the color of my yucky beet salad. “Oh, wait, that’s not totally accurate—A big fake black cock that vibrates at five different speeds.”

  I lowered my voice to practically a whisper. “Right. Thanks for the reminder But not wanting this whole restaurant to hear about my multi vibration black cock doesn’t make me a prude, it just makes me someone with standards.”

  “I have standards, too—I got you the largest size they had! The guy had to go into the back to get it, Ms. Unappreciateive. But I figured, go big or go home. And also, don’t get all high and mighty on me, Tori, we’re just two girls talking. It’s not like I whipped out the little bean tickler right here at the table.”

  I started giggling. “Excuse me? The bean tickler?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “You know? The joystick. The pussy pleaser.”

  “Oh my God, how are we even friends?”

  “Wait, I wasn’t done. The hole pole, Happy Feelmore, BOB.”

  “Excuse me, BOB?”

  “Yeah, Battery-Operated-Boyfrind. BOB. We all know BOB—some of us know him a little better than others. BOB’s not a bad guy—he’s there to help bring us to a higher plane of existence. We love BOB. We need him in our lives.”

  I started cracking up then, and so did Jenny. “Look, I’m not scared of sex, alright, and I’m not an old lady with a cobweb vagina.”

  “Actually, I said that you had cobwebs in your vagina, but whatever.”

  “Well, I’m not that. . . I’m just. . .guarded when it comes to that kind of stuff. He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Mentioned took care of that for me. Now I spend so much time giving men shit for their sex lives that I don’t really have much of a chance to have my own. I mean, what guy would even try to approach me? I scare them away, and I have really high standards. It would take a lot for me to even feel something like that towards a man.”