BEN CAKE

and those times you're better off alone

Thu, 04 Oct 2012 11:54:00 -0400

An essay, published by fwriction: review, about being down and out in New York. Also, cognac and disqualifying yourself from relationships. Read the full story here or click below.

There I was, twenty-seven and already feeling old, walking the streets in the summer swelter. It was the season of denim skirts and Bloody Mary’s. Girls stood in a line on Eighty-sixth Street, waiting for the Hampton Jitney, dressed like it was Derby Day—sandals, sundresses, floppy hats. I had an ATM balance of $117.

The 6 train delivered me to Astor Place, and I walked to St. Marks, where clusters of pretty interns, yoga mats slung across their bony shoulders, tried on sunglasses, discussed lives very different from my own. A few steps ahead a dark-haired girl walked as if she’d just woken up, as if in nothing but a T-shirt, hair flipped to one side, making a short trip to the kitchen for water. Even from ten yards, her presence was dense and enveloping, like the severe humidity.

Lost in thought, almost fleeing, I continued uptown, to Irving Place, a street named after the author of Rip Van Winkle, a man who knew quite well what it was like to grow old before you knew it.

There was a cafe with unvarnished floors and a dozen small round tables. Cups remained unbused, their sides spotted with dried coffee, like islands on a map. A man sat with a family of legal pads—notated and highlighted with various colors of ink. Two tables over an olive-skinned woman with the face of a Russian boxer complained to her friend about men.

It must have been four or five, but the light was deceiving, strong as midday. A blonde-haired girl in a black cocktail dress entered and sat at the table next to mine. She was perfect in all the ways a person you’ve never met can be.

An older woman who was with her set down her purse, removed her wallet.

—I want to hear all about the reading, she said. But let me get something first.

She moved to the line.

I leaned over and asked the girl what reading she’d gone to.

—No, the girl said. She meant David Sedaris. He spoke at my graduation.

A moment passed, and then she said,

—From Princeton.

—That’s cool, I said. I’ve heard of Princeton.

Then I told her I’d visited the school once to listen to CK Williams. She told me she didn’t read much poetry other than Billy Collins. The conversation opened. A catalog of topics queued up in my mind.

But soon the older woman returned, and I removed an abandoned paper from a nearby table.

Restless, unable to focus, I stood to leave. The blonde girl smiled and said she enjoyed talking to me.

That was my opportunity. But what was the point? I couldn’t even afford to take her to dinner.

In front of the cafe, I stood for a moment, unsure of where to go next, still thinking of the girl. A man approached and asked for a dollar. He wore a plaid shirt—gray and navy and white—with the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms that were thin and hairless and marbled like uncooked sausage. He was black, but the arms made it clear one of his parents was white.

—You have any cigarettes? I asked.

—Maybe.

—If I go in there and buy us a couple of beers, will you float me a few?

He took out his pack and counted.

—Okay, he said.

I walked back into the cafe and bought two Buds. The blonde girl ignored me.

Dee, the man in the plaid shirt, sat waiting on a wooden bench. I handed him a beer and he handed me a cigarette in return: a simple exchange, enough for me to believe he wasn’t crazy.

—I’m trying to get together some cash, he said. I got this girl. If I bring her food, she lets me bang her out.

I drank my beer, listened.

—I gotta come all the way down here to do it, though, he said. Can’t get no money in the Bronx.

A BMW coasted up the street and stopped at a red light.

—Ooooo-weeee, Dee said. Look at that—that’s the new one. I gotta get me one of those.

A father and son sat on the bench next to ours. They smiled at Dee’s enthusiasm. He turned to the boy.

—You gonna drive a car like that one day?

The boy nodded and smiled. He was no older than nine.

—Good, Dee said. Always drive cars, never motorcycles. Motorcycles are dangerous.

He was pandering, hoping the father would toss him a couple bucks. Instead, they endured him. Their smiles and nods were like a plea to stop.

—So, I said. Do you like skinny girls or big girls?

—I need some meat, Dee said. With skinny girls, their hipbones hurt. I mean, that shit’s sharp. The only way you can fuck ’em is by turning ’em round. But with big girls, he said, you can be like…

With his hands he made a series of gestures, punctuating each position with the word bam.

—You can be like, he said, …bam…bam…bam. You see what I mean?

—I get the idea, yeah.

We had two more beers, talked about Mike Tyson and comic books and the world’s water shortage. Then, as our bottles became empty, he told me about a drink I had to try. He called it the Incredible Hulk, and it was made by mixing a bottle of Hennessy with a bottle of something called Hpnotiq. He told me he drank it every day when he lived in Florida.

We sat in silence for a moment, watched the wealthy walk their dogs.

—Yep, he said. Some Hulk sure would be nice around now. It’s perfect on a warm night.

Frank’s Liquor sat at the northeast corner of Union Square. As far as I know, it still exists and still sells the ingredients to the Incredible Hulk. I bought the two bottles, and Dee said,

—All right, here’s what we do: We go to Starbucks, and we get two of those big cups, and then we mix this up.

Minutes later, we stood on the subway steps and emptied the contents into the cups. Dee poured the liquid back and forth from one to the other, mixing them and making sure we had an equal amount.

—Good, he said when he’d finished.

I saw why they named it the Hulk: The brown of the Hennessy turned the neon blue of the Hpnotiq a pale, sickly green.

—What do you think? Dee asked.

It was like the drinking equivalent of huffing paint.

—Good, I said.

—Told you.

—Now what?

—Let’s head over to Webster Hall and meet some ladies.

—How’re we doing on cigarettes? I asked.

He removed the pack and counted.

—Some musta fallen out or something.

We stopped at a magazine shop, and I bought a pack for him and a pack for myself. Dee asked if he could have the change, and I handed him a couple of ones.

We walked down Fourth Avenue, turned onto 13th, passed the #2 Firehouse. We’d been silent for several minutes, content with our Hulks and our smokes, when Dee asked,

—You ever have sex with another man?

—No, I said. That’s not something I would enjoy.

Dee nodded.

—Me, he said. I don’t have a problem with it, but there’s nothing better than getting my mandingo in some cooch.

I kept quiet, drank my Hulk.

At Third Avenue, we turned south, and even though it was only two blocks to Webster Hall, it took forever. Dee ran into some other men whom he spoke with and gave cigarettes. He told them about a new Wayanes-brothers movie in which a midget pretends to be a baby. He said,

—That shit was out of control. You gotta see it.

He gave one of the men a dollar.

I never knew what a scene Webster Hall was on a Saturday. A line stretched halfway down the block. Women who looked like dancers from rap videos exited limos and giant SUVs.

—Oh, Dee said, I’d like to get my mandingo in her.

With the rest of his money, he bought six Glo-Stick necklaces. He put one around his neck and then laced one around mine.

—That’s for you, he said. Yeah, you’re all-right-looking for a white guy.

—Thank you, I said. What are you going to do with the others?

—These, he said, holding up the four strings of plastic, are going to some ladies.

Almost every woman who passed seemed to be his type. He joked and flirted and made inappropriate comments, and as soon as one got far enough away, he started over with another. There was a certain charm that came with watching someone with so little discretion. I found myself thinking, This is what complete freedom looks like.

One of his favorite things to do when a woman walked by was howl. It’s a tactic I’d never really thought of, but it proved successful in getting attention. Once, when he did it to two plump, haggard women in their late forties, they turned around and thought it’d been me.

—Do you think we’re MILFs? the heavier of the two asked.

—You’re gonna have to ask him, I said.

They looked over at Dee and he grabbed a handful of cloth in the front of his pants and said,

—Come here, and I’ll tell you.

The two women—probably just bored housewives from Jersey—looked horrified. With a little bit of luck, they’d never return to the city again.

I bought six more necklaces, then six more after that. By the end of the night, I’d spent close to eighty of my remaining dollars. That might’ve been enough to take the blonde girl from the cafe out to dinner. But I’d already been on enough dinner dates, and I almost always knew how they turned out: more dinner dates. With Dee, he lived as though he’d just won the lottery, and I was eager to see what would happen next.

As the night grew later, though, I started receiving messages on my phone:

—Where are you? one said.

Then another:

—What are you up to?

They were from a girl I’d met at the gym. She was sweet and open and forgiving of my many flaws, but I also knew there was a level of affection I’d never conjure for her. And yet when her next message invited me over, I found myself typing:

—Will you buy me breakfast tomorrow?

Almost as soon as I sent it, a response returned:

—Depends.

I told Dee I was leaving, and he hugged me and said,

—Anytime you want to drink Hulk, find me. I’m around.

I walked to Union Square, descended the steps toward the train. After a moment, I realized I stood on the wrong platform: heading uptown rather than downtown, to her place.

I like to think I made a choice that night, that as the subway wind swirled and the uptown train came into view, it was more than just the weary weight of the Hulk keeping me in place. I like to think that when the doors opened and I entered the car, it was with the pure heart of someone wanting to be delivered home, where I could rise up tomorrow and start again.

It’s difficult to deny the escape offered by someone’s company, the brief reprieve from one’s humbling circumstances.

I’m proud I made it by accident.

seven scenes that prove i'm human

Fri, 20 Jul 2012 12:33:00 -0400

A short story published by Monkeybicycle. Read the full story here or click below.

A few days before Noreen arrives, our manager, Matt, calls a meeting to explain: She’ll be in the office, he says, consulting. He mentions she’s from McSkinsey. As soon as I hear the word, I look around and notice everyone else is scanning the room, too, wondering if we’ll get picked off one at a time or all go in a major wave.

Matt senses the tension and continues. She might ask a few questions, he says, but she’s not there to make any big decisions, so we shouldn’t be worried.

As soon as I get back to my desk, I erase my Internet history, my bookmarks, my cookies. I trash seven years’ worth of stored-up stuff: memos from bosses long gone, archived files. I realize a pilfering problem: My drawers store more than fourteen notepads, seven boxes of pens, cases of paper clips. I haven’t used a paper clip in years.

All of it goes back to the supply closet, and I return with a foamy spray, lay it on a little too thick, swab the desk like a punished pirate till sweat beads on my brow.

I stand back, wonder if it looks too clean, if it makes me look compulsive. The space needs something, I decide. Something that makes me seem human.

It hits me: Ginny, Ed’s assistant, never returned from maternity leave. Her area was like a Hallmark store: Beanie Babies, American Idol posters—ephemera of arrested development.

I make a move to loot her cube, but all that’s left is a picture frame with a black-and-white photograph of a lab sitting on a porch, its head between its paws, looking earnest and loyal.

It’ll do.

Noreen’s a heavy breather, carries most of her bulk up front. Since starting at the office, I have the habit of freezing whenever a superior swaggers by—hold my breath and wait. In her case, it takes forever. She spots something and stops.

—Wait a minute, she says. Who’s that guy?

Dear lord, she’s hovering over me. She smells like a combination of camphor and Angostura bitters.

—Is he yours?

She’s pointing to the picture of the lab.

—Me? Eh.

It’s all I can muster.

—He’s so sweet. What’s his name?

—Voltron, comes out of my mouth.

She gives me a funny look.

—I let my nephew name him, I say.

—I have to get to a meeting, she says. But we’ll talk more later. I have a five-year-old Jack Russell. Named Coaster.

After it’s over, Alex, the girl who sits next to me, pops her head over the divider.

—Voltron? she says.

—Don’t, I say.

—You don’t even have a nephew.

—I’m busy.

She looks to my computer and sees the screensaver in full swing.

—I’m busy, too, she says. I have this Princemore project and could use some help.

—Sorry, I say.

—How long do you think you can get away with this? she says. You’re an only child for christ’s sake.

Over the next few weeks, Noreen keeps her word and provides daily updates on Coaster. Most of them begin,

—You’ll never believe what he got into this time…

Soon, though, she senses her monopoly and asks,

—What does Voltron do?

—What do you mean? I ask.

—Does he do anything…funny?

I point at the picture.

—You know, he more or less does that.

She looks at the picture and back at me.

—He’s getting pretty old, I say, but when he was a puppy….

I trail off.

Aware of the awkwardness, Alex stands and says,

—Luther, here are those Princemore files I was talking about. Thanks for helping me with this. You’re a lifesaver.

Noreen, remembering this is an office, says,

—I’ll let you get back to work.

When she’s out of range, I mumble,

—You’re a lifesaver.

Alex says,

—I’ll need those files back by noon tomorrow.

A few days later, there’s an encounter in the kitchen. Noreen’s over by a vending machine with a floppy dollar gripped in her fist.

—Do you know how this works? she says.

—Sure, I say. Let me help.

—See, I’m not sure if the numbers refer to the item to the left or right.

—Left, I say. Which item do you want?

—C-6

—Cookies? You sure?

—What do you mean am I sure?

—I…I meant…I was just confirming C-6. I didn’t mean anything about the…you know.

I make the mistake of nodding toward her stomach.

—I have it from here, she says.

The updates about Coaster stop. After a week of silence, I ask in passing, trying to open things up. She says she’ll come by, and then never does.

This is the recession we’re talking about, so no action is too extreme. I go to a rescue shelter, select a sad-looking Boston terrier, bring it to the office on the pretense of a vet visit.

Noreen wants to be curt, but when she sees the ugly pup, she can’t help but melt.

—What’s his name?

—Ernest, I say. Because he looks like Ernest Borgnine.

—How’s he getting along with the lab? she asks.

I take a deep breath and then stare down at my belt buckle.

—What? she says.

—He was old, I say, with a shrug.

—Oh, she says, placing a hand on her chest.

—I haven’t been sleeping. Just missing the little things. Like the sound of his paws on the wood floor.

—Oh, she says again, begins fanning herself like she’s hot.

I’m owning it. Alex, unable to keep her face straight, stands and abandons her neighboring cube.

Noreen bends down and introduces herself to Ernie. He rises to meet her, quivering with goodwill. It’s like we’re already a team. In that moment, I grow fond of him, maybe even proud.

Noreen removes her phone and says,

—Let me get a picture of you two.

For the rest of the week things go great. She stops by to ask about Ernie, keeps mentioning how she’ll get me a copy of the picture.

—Just e-mail it, I say.

—No, she says. I’m going to Kinkos anyway.

Noreen arrives at my desk. I can tell by her expression something’s happened. The corners of her mouth are anchored with disappointment. She holds out a small frame still wrapped in its thin skin of plastic. Inside is the picture of the lab on the porch, same as the one on my desk. Filler.

She says nothing, just walks away.

The past four months haven’t been easy. Jobs scarce, money tight. Probably couldn’t get through it if it weren’t for Ernie. It’s nice not to go it alone.

what a man can learn from getting hit on by men

Mon, 21 May 2012 13:05:00 -0400

An essay published by Nerve. Read the full story here or click below.

One: Don’t Skip Courtship

A man, we’ll call him Vincent, turned to me in the Barnes & Noble on Fifty-fourth Street. Late forties, a deep tan, silver hair greased straight back. He held out his iPhone and asked if I knew how to get to Greenwich, Connecticut, explained he was from Brazil and had a business meeting.

I helped him as best I could—which amounted to giving the cross streets for Grand Central—and then fell into the basic conversation one has with someone from out of town. After a few minutes, he asked my name, claiming he wanted to read something I’d written. Our talk didn’t last much longer, but later that afternoon he connected with me through a social network.

A few days later, I saw him again. Same bookstore café, around the same time. I asked if he made it to Greenwich, and then, in intervals between reading the newspaper, we discussed soccer and the economy. After one of the lulls, he looked up from his work and asked if I’d like to spend a week with him at his home in São Paulo.

The question made me nervous. I thanked him but explained that my recent marriage and honeymoon had taken all my vacation days. He returned to his stack of papers, and I returned to the headlines. Soon after, he left, but not before letting me know the offer stood.

There is no way I can know the extent of Vincent’s intentions. Perhaps Brazilian and American cultures are different. Perhaps in Brazil straight men ask each other on international sleepovers all the time. But the ambiguity behind his offer, the leap from five-minute conversation to crashing at his place, struck me as strange—even if, on some scale, it’s a frequent move men make.

Enter a Manhattan bar in May and there’s a good chance you’ll witness some guy—some pinstriped financier playing game-show host to the world—invite a woman he just met to his share in the Hamptons.

One’s mind can jump-cut to the moment she boards the Jitney. Sundress, Longchamp weekender, cell phone tucked between her shoulder and ear as she asks her friend,

—Should I be doing this?

The answer is no. Because a man should never make that kind of invite in the first place.

The root of this behavior is cowardice. No one likes the vulnerability that comes with taking an interest in another. No one likes to offer themselves up for rejection. And so we hedge our bets, hiding behind a vague gesture. Come visit me in Brazil. Come out to my share in the Hamptons. Come hear my band play. Regardless the size of the invite, the idea is to manufacture an ambiguous condition in which, with a few drinks and the inertia of the night, one can end up in bed without ever having to state his intentions or make any real investment.

So often this works, which is less a sign of its validity as it is a reason why so many people are single.

Courtship exists so that two people can learn each other over time and escalate their commitment through a set of gradual stages. Without these steps, without any tangible investment in the relationship, people are given the license to act irresponsibly. And when given the license, they often take it.

Two: Never Rely on Explicit Pictures

At one of the offices where I worked, I fell into a conversation with a colleague about magazines. It started with the obvious—GQ, Esquire—and then veered to artier fare: Monocle, V, Fantastic Man, Purple. He said he had some things he thought I’d like, and the next day he handed me a small stack of magazines the size of literary quarterlies, all of them filled with guy-on-guy porn. Just handed them over in full view of the rest of the office. Even a mere shuffling of the covers provided a significant glimpse of stroked boners.

His message was obvious, but the way he delivered it touched on something more interesting and complex: Whether it’s a magazine passed between colleagues or a provocative self-portrait texted late at night, sexual imagery has become a common prop in our social interactions.

Perhaps it is a by-product of how television and the Internet have made us all more visual, but a more convincing explanation is that it gives people a way to talk without actually having to talk.

Because, yeah, conversations can be awkward and uncomfortable. Expressing interest in someone involves submitting to their judgment. And when the response isn’t favorable, it can be harsh. At worst, it can feel like they’re saying,

—As a person, you have no value to me. I’d rather watch reruns of Whitney than look at your face.

Sending someone a picture of yourself, however—working with a medium that is tactile and separate—creates enough distance for a person to believe they can step away from the mess it might cause. In the case of porn, it offers oneself as a mere set of preferences. With the self-portrait, it is just an object, a collection of lines and parts, rather than a complete individual. This is to say, being rejected sexually seems to have become easier to handle than being rejected as a person.

But that’s insane. Because, in truth, expressing interest always reflects back on the person, and simply telling someone you like them has far fewer pitfalls than the blurry JPEG that can be forwarded ad infinitum.

Three: If You Don’t Want to be Friends, Don’t Pretend to be Friends

A fellow writer—let’s call him Nelson—once got in touch, complimented my work, asked to get a drink. He was older, accomplished, at a stage in which his encouragement meant something.

Over the course of the year, we met several times to drink bourbon and discuss books. Each time he would bring me things to read. He introduced me to the work of Barry Hannah, Don DeLillo. It seemed like I’d stumbled upon a much-needed mentor.

But over time, silences emerged in which Nelson assumed a certain posture, one of someone waiting, one of someone whose patience was on the wane. The tang of resentment began to work its way into his tone. And after a couple more meetings, I realized his generosity came with the expectation that I reciprocate in a specific way. I ignored it, hoping the value of our interactions would prevail.

Then one night, a phone call, his speech slurry: He suggested a trip out to Lake George. When I refused, he called me ungrateful. The curtain was pulled back. I would need to do more than just write, he said, if I ever wanted to get anywhere.

The sense of betrayal was acute. A valuable friendship had been nothing more than a slow-played manipulation, and in the following days I reviewed the signs I should have never overlooked. I felt weak and foolish and angry at my lack of scrutiny. And then angry at how much I let it bother me. This seemed like the stuff of a Lifetime movie, like the stuff women deal with on a daily basis, year after year, as they move forward in a landscape of leering elders. But it was new to me.

Four: Accept the Reality of the Situation

During a late night at the Mercer bar, after a second hug that lingered too long, a friend of a friend—we’ll call him Connor—asked,

—Are you sure you’re not gay?

I assured him I wasn’t, but a few minutes later, he stopped me mid-sentence to ask again,

—Really, though. Are you sure?

—Yes.

—How do you know?

—I just…I know.

—If you gave me, like, five minutes with your asshole, I’m sure you’d like it.

Although requesting a one-on-one with someone’s rectum might seem extreme, by degrees Connor’s gambit struck me as altogether common. When one’s interest is rebuffed, one invents ways to rationalize it. Rather than lacking interest, the person must be confused about their sexuality, or shy. There must be some other issue. Some game being played. Some reason beyond the most apparent truth. And so the pursuit continues, and everyone’s time gets wasted.

Ask a person out once. If they say no, just let it go. Move on. Because even though life is confusing, the average person has a much better idea of who they are and what they want than you do. It’s important to respect that.

Five: Be Funny

My wife and I were walking home from a party and passed a gay bar on Fifty-eighth Street. At the foot of its steps stood a well-dressed black man smoking a cigarette. When we got within range, he fondled his genitalia and said,

—Party favors.

We smiled out of surprise, taken by the playful stretch and swerve of his syllables.

As we passed him, he continued.

—And I make deliveries.

Over the course of the next block, the elevator ride to our floor, the following week, my wife and I took turns repeating the line, trying to re-create the jabbing paw that began the first word—paw-tay—and the linger of the last, which, if spelled, would have at least seven Ss. Duh-liv-ah-raysssssss.

The man’s gesture was less of a come-on and more of an expression of who he was. There was no desperation. No fear. No hidden trick. Just a here-I-am quality that we both admired.

Even now, a year later, one of us will smile and repeat the line.

Six: What We All Deal With

My father tells a story about the first time he was hit on by a man. It was the late sixties and he was backpacking. Sometimes the details change. Sometimes it was sixty-six, other times sixty-seven. Sometimes he was hitchhiking, other times traveling by train. But the ending is always the there:

—I punched him square between the eyes and ran like hell.

Forty-five years ago, his role was limited to a simpler set of expectations, and any situation that deviated from how he was supposed to interact with the world was considered a threat.

But now, on any given night, we volley from one role to another based on who we are with and what purpose they believe we can serve. That means there’s more to assimilate. It can be awkward and sometimes upsetting, but it also makes us more sophisticated in our understanding.

Each of the occasions I’ve mentioned left me with a chance to ask, Is this what women deal with? Is this what we all deal with?

The answer’s yes. Because as a culture, the conditions of our genders and orientations and races are blurring and leveling in a way that causes us to share the same experiences. To ignore that—to believe that other people don’t have to deal with the same things you do—is to ignore our culture’s natural progress. It is to ignore the chance to expand our understanding and compassion, and, most important, the chance to be more decent to one another. And I’ve heard that being a decent person can actually yield some pretty serious party favors.

What's with all the Ball-Grabbing, Head-Stepping, and Domination?

Thu, 01 Mar 2012 19:58:00 -0500

An essay published by the Good Men Project. Read the full story here or click below.

There’s a scene in the movie This is Spinal Tap that occurs after the band members receive criticism for the cover of their latest album, Smell the Glove. They’re unclear why their rival’s album cover is considered all right when theirs isn’t:

David: Have you seen the cover?

Ian: No, I don’t think I have.

David: It’s a rather lurid cover. I mean, it’s like naked women and…

Nigel: He’s tied down on this table…

Ian: Uh-huh.

Nigel: And they got these whips, and they’re all semi-nude.

David: Knocking on him. It’s, like, much worse.

Ian: What’s the point?

David: The point is, it’s much worse than Smell the Glove.

Ian: Because he’s the victim. Their objections were that she was the victim. You see?

Nigel: Oh.

David: Ah.

Ian: That’s all right if the singer’s the victim. It’s different. It’s not sexist.

Nigel: He did a twist on it.

Ian: We shoulda thought of that.

To enter a conversation about gender roles and advertising with a reference to a farce is fitting, because so much about the advertising industry is absurd. I’d say almost everything, in fact, except for the values that end up getting reflected in our culture.

The scene from this movie, which was released in 1984, conveys the sentiment that still exists today: The abuse of men is acceptable. And the depiction of how the industry arrived at that notion is legitimate as well. It’s as if advertisers got tired of having their hands slapped by decency groups and, lacking the inventiveness to create original content, said,

—Let’s make men the victims. Not only will it avoid the whole sexism thing, but we could act like it’s a call to female empowerment. We can be boosters, and sell more, because women will think we’re on their side.

•••

As someone who worked in advertising for a brief period, I can tell you the most important element among my associates was product. Creatives and brand representatives would huddle over the images and say things like,

—Can we see the product?

—Is there a better shot of the product?

—We need to convey that it’s napa leather?

Moral issues, by comparison, were almost never brought up. A platform heel could be rammed in a rectum, à la Mapplethorpe, but as long as the reader could tell it was made of napa leather, reps would be like,

—Love it!

But an image is given its power by both the creator and the audience. And just because the people who send it into the streets might be oblivious, the person who sees the billboard of a woman, say, stepping on a man’s head can’t help but wonder, What are they trying to tell me here?

That’s easy. Scroll through these images. The claim is clear: Women are meant to dole out abuse, and men are meant to take it, again and again, without complaint.

Begin with the ad from the early nineties: The message can be seen in Michael Bergin’s arch as Kate Moss climbs him. His head is yanked back as if pulled by the hair. He appears a mere prop, a pedestal for her fame.

Move to the Vuitton ads with Jennifer Lopez. She walks all over Andres Segura—covers his mouth to keep him quiet, plants a knee in his back to both surmount and repress—as if broadcasting that men are merely tools to be used, just another accessory, like that prized monogram bag.

And it’s not crazy to think ads like these might run in a magazine a few pages from a story with the title “The End of Men” or “All the Single Ladies.”

•••

Continue on to the series of head-stepping, which I’m not even sure how to approach other than by asking, How did this become an industry convention?

They’re almost too dumb, too awkward, to take offense at—except for the Jimmy Choo ad, which depicts a level of incapacitation and was later protested by a domestic-violence coalition.

Yet even with the backlash, Giuseppe Zanotti thought it wise to continue the meme, believing a woman might look at it and say,

—Look at her mash his face. Kinda looks like it could hurt. Let’s go buy some shoes.

Late last year, an ad by Marc Jacobs featuring Dakota Fanning was pulled from newsstands. In the image, Dakota sat on the ground with a bottle of perfume in her lap. That’s it. Just a girl with a bottle of perfume. Censors called it suggestive, said that it fostered the sexuality of a minor. Perhaps the reaction was because of Juergen Teller’s grainy, Lomo aesthetic. But still, she was by herself, and there’s nothing particularly lurid about it. Creepy maybe. But hard to call sexual.

One can almost start drafting the dialogue for a new farce. An ad executive slams a magazine down on his desk,

—What were you guys thinking with this fully clothed girl? Pull it. Now. And get me some more of those head-stepping photos.

•••

The last image is for Tom Ford men’s wear. Now Ford is known for provocative ads, once going as far as to be shave the letter G into a woman’s pubic hair (for Gucci). An interpretation of which could be,

—Let me show you how to be sexual…Branding!

In the nutcracker image, however, Ford seems to be equating sexuality with ambivalence. The lust of rough love, maybe even hatred. It seems to advocate attracting a woman that wants to both screw and destroy you. (As if that’s a healthy thing.)

The photographer for the campaign was Terry Richardson, a man for whom much ink has been spilled over his perversity and tendency to take advantage of young women. From his work, a kind of dirty-uncle-in-the-basement style—overexposed, immediate, high flash on the forehead—one gets the impression he lives to mix harsh sexuality with showmanship. Even when he plagiarizes iconic images by artists like Cartier-Bresson, they become gratuitous.

And yet he’s all but replaced Leibovitz as the magazine and advertising world’s most used photographer.

Here, he turns the lens to men. And the best he can offer is well-dressed S&M.

•••

So whose fault is this?

Ours.

The world is not governed by talent and values. People are paid to the extent that they give the world what it wants. This is to say Terry Richardson is successful and popular because, on some level, the majority of Americans want to see things the way he does. That’s a shitty thing to admit, but there’s no other conclusion, no other way of reconciling his ubiquity.

So when pointing a finger, I point it at myself. And at you. And everyone else in the room. Until we make a tangible act of rejecting these images and ideologies, no progress will be made.

The choice is ours, because we have technology on our side. In this age when bloggers command so much clout, we as individuals have the power to effect change. If we don’t, then we know a combination of sexuality and abuse is secretly what we want.

A Sketch: Midtown, Two Corners

Wed, 01 Feb 2012 16:20:00 -0500

From the canopied doorway of Wollensky’s, he entered the April evening. It was just warm enough to leave his topcoat at home, and so he wore a navy three-piece suit, unmistakably bespoke, with lapels unlike any other—neither notch, nor peak—possessing an un-American elegance.

His face was dark and long and lined, with brown eyes set above plump bags of flesh that made one think of oyster meat. Altogether, it was the face of an inventor, of a shipping magnate.

A cab turned up Third, and the man raised the index and middle fingers of his right hand—a composed, minimal effort, no different than if gesturing for a check or bidding at auction.

The cab passed without slowing.

The man said nothing, showed no frustration. His lipless mouth remained in a simple straight line, like a wrinkle. He stood another minute, two, silent and stoic and aware. His manner called to mind the word comportment.

Another car approached, and the man made the same gesture—two fingers raised no higher than his shoulders, like a starting pistol before a race. Again, the car passed him, its lights illuminating the gilded pattern of his pocket square—curved and ornamental, resembling filigree.

One block east and four north, a younger man—a boy, really, just one year out of college—fought his way back into a sweater as he stepped from a bar toward the street, the insistence of music halving as the door closed behind him. He drifted into traffic, waving both hands as if a man lost at sea.

A girl exited after him: thin, heels so high she walked as if descending stairs. Despite the hazards of city sidewalks, she remained fixated on her phone, following it like a compass.

—Hold on, she said. I want to make sure Jill’s all right with that guy.

—Come on, the boy said. I got one.

The girl seemed not to hear him.

—She was fine, the boy said, the moment he told her he worked at Goldman.

He was seated in the back of the car by that point.

—Don’t talk about her like that.

—This guy’s waiting, he said.

—She’s my best friend.

—Then you should know her by now.

—Go without me, the girl said.

—In an hour, she’ll be at his place, with her mouth around his wallet.

The girl said nothing.

—Fine, the boy said, closing the door. Thirty-third and Third, he told the driver.

The car lingered and then pulled away as the girl stood there, almost in awe of her anger, collecting the moment like a currency she would use in a later conversation about bad nights with bad men.

She dialed her phone and held it to her ear. It rang and rang, but her friend—no more than thirty feet away—did not answer. The girl remained on the corner, trapped in that brief moment when she was no one’s priority.

The boy was dropped at the door of his high rise and paid ten dollars on a fare of eight. Then the cab turned up Third, where the old man remained, stranded, refusing to do more than raise his fingers as the empty cabs passed him by.

Free Association: A Love Story (Or, How I Learned to Accept a Myth)

Mon, 30 Jan 2012 11:33:00 -0500

An essay published by the Good Men Project. Read the full story here or click below.

He spots her while backing from his parking space, rushing to catch up with a day he should’ve already started.

She is smiling, waving. Does he know her? Impossible. He would remember a face like that. Her ponytail swings with each step. She is suffused with a confidence that can be construed as warmth.

He waves and continues to back away.

—Wait, she says. Hold on.

He cannot imagine what she wants. His grip on the day’s responsibilities begins to loosen.

There are women out there—women like the one pictured here—who inspire. The Greeks called them muses, and in two thousand years a more thorough word has yet to be created. For muse is also a verb—to wonder, to marvel, to become absorbed in deep, inconclusive thought. And it is this ardent abstraction that drives a man to be more.

She is close now, not as young as he first suspected, but still her skin seems smooth as enamel, as smooth as the bangle on her wrist. Her blouse is thin as gift paper.

His day—the meeting at noon, the calls and e-mails that require responses—will be abandoned if she says the word.

—Coffee, she says.

—What?

—Your coffee. It’s on the roof.

—Oh, he says, sheepish, blindly reaching above himself, grasping. I wanted to get your attention.

Again, she smiles. Nourishing is the only word for its effect.

—My attention, she says. Leave a bottle of wine up there next time.

He is unsure what comes next. He remains suspended in indecision as she ebbs to where she was headed.

—Where are you from? he asks.

—Maine, she says, but continues walking.

At once, he imagines Maine—this vague knuckle of a state—as a trove of women just like her. Thoughts drift to moving there as soon as possible.

You see, once aroused, the male mind—rational, linear, uncouth in its calculations—seeks solace in an explanation. Wanting to understand is the first form of intimacy, and so he finds something on which to fixate. Yes, it could be the breasts. Or the delicate geometry of collar bone and shoulder. The lanky line of her thigh. The casual tousle of her tresses.

But often none of that is enough. There’s the need to go further. He sees something in her conspirator’s smile or in how fast she develops a rapport. He senses the enthusiasm that gusted in her twenties but which over time she has learned to ration.

Yes, from the tasting menu of her youth, she has made discoveries, gained an awareness of herself. He is sure of it. She possesses an unknown power. She can cast off the anxieties and agendas of life at large, and, in so doing, allow him to forget his heap of daily burdens.

Now it is too late. She stands beside her car, selecting the key. She must be thirty, thirty-five, but from the strong sweep of her spine, the discipline of her shoulders, he can tell she studied ballet as a child. He watches in his mirror until it becomes unbearable.

The lust is enough to suffocate on, but it’s also tempered and tamed by a more general fondness. The feeling is tender, akin to nostalgia because it is composed of the same sense of longing. The way some gaze upon a home and imagine a life inside it, so he imagines becoming the man worthy of her.

In this way, she stirs his urge to be virtuous. And never is a man more helpless than when his thoughts turn to virtue as a way to win a woman.

Because, in truth, one never earns anything. Rather it is given in a manner as fickle as fate itself. She simply chooses to smile upon some and never even acknowledge others. It is always her decision, and it is maddening for a man to confront his complete lack of control in the matter. His mind reels for a method to circumvent these limits, and the idea of a new life unfurls before him—retiring early, absconding to some tropical and unfamiliar place. He returns to these thoughts again and again. While walking the dog. In those hazy moments when the mind eddies before releasing into sleep.

He is stopped at a light, turning the moment over, polishing the recollection. He wishes he’d shaved, that he’d been more prepared. He is sure he will see her again. The alternative is unthinkable. He resolves to start jogging again. The car behind him honks. The light is green.

Make no mistake: These reveries are fantasy in its highest form. He first falls in love with an idea, a myth constructed during narcotic bouts of free association. And to that myth, an uncritical devotion is born. But were he to learn the person, she would prove nothing like what he dreamt. She exists in specifics, not hopeful notions. No better or worse. But real. Real in ways he chose never to think about. The hair he imagined smelling of vanilla will ultimately clog his sink.

It is four months later. He has lost ten pounds, sold his business. In the backseat of his car rests a sixty-dollar bottle of wine—been there for weeks—for when she sees her again. He will reach back and then place it on the hood and wait. Wait for as long as it takes. Until she notices. He has already thought it dozens of times.

No, a woman can never be a man’s salvation. But her myth, the dream of her, can be the force that drives him to save himself.