MN Manmacker's mansploitation
Raython’s father had a lot of similar rules, different things that made someone a real man or not.
When he touched Desmond’s back, he was reminded he was with a man and was struck with anxiety. Raython’s father used to say it was alright for a man to be “on the downlow” so long as he was always on top. But Raython’s father had a lot of similar rules, different things that made someone a real man or not. Raython was intensely worried he would violate one accidentally.
From Desmond at College
If word got out that nobody was protecting this beach, they would all come do and do the same thing. This area’d be crawling with gropers and rapists. None of the women’d be safe.
If word got out that nobody was protecting this beach, they would all come do and do the same thing. This area’d be crawling with gropers and rapists. None of the women’d be safe.
Dale had the same concern as Poahi — everybody at the beach expected Dale to do something. Authority was a double-edged sword: perks in good times, obligations in bad.
From Poahi the Lackey
American barbecue tasted wrong if cooked by a clean man or any kind of woman.
Big Eddie’s shoulders were soaked in sweat and splattered in grease, his armpits dense with coarse black hairs that seemed ready to — “fittin’ to” — burst out like an untended garden. His arm muscles were massive and both fleshy and firm, and his thigh were as thick as trees. It seemed hardly sanitary for such a man to prepare victuals, but American barbecue tasted wrong if cooked by a clean man or any kind of woman.
T’was Buck’s turn to snort like a jaded pony and make a masturbatory hand gesture.
T’was Buck’s turn to snort like a jaded pony and make a masturbatory hand gesture, which combined to signify his belief in the mutability of socially constructed roles qua the fulfillment of incumbent sociocultural systems and functions, strength and dominance as determiners per se of masculine hierarchies and the civilizational sine qua non of a peremptory conception of so-called manhood to staunch the onslaught of Leviathan.
From Buck the Dumbass
A man shouldn’t drink in a place with a cartoon mascot, Tyrell thought, eyeing the big-eyed giraffe on the wall.
A man shouldn’t drink in a place with a cartoon mascot, Tyrell thought, eyeing the big-eyed giraffe on the wall.
The bartender was an old lady, not even a proper bartender neither, Tyrell thought.
From Tyrell the Mandingo
A real man handled his shit and ain’t avoid a fight from a bigger man, Buck do say. He knew that was easy for him to say, as he was the bigger man in every interaction. But still, a man shouldn’t run.
Buck had no idea that Kareem was avoiding him and Lem — if he knew, he’d have told Kareem that was a rank pussy move.
A real man handled his shit and ain’t avoid a fight from a bigger man, Buck do say.
He knew that was easy for him to say, as he was the bigger man in every interaction. But still, a man shouldn’t run. Kareem should just get tougher, if his bootyhole hurts too bad.
From Buck the Roughneck
Mr. Gregarian wanted Simon to go to church and to learn that pre-marital sex was wrong, and he wanted Simon to believe in all that stuff. But he wanted Simon to fuck a broad.
“But uh, you gotta — you gotta find a female, ya daddy want you to have a girlfriend,” Buck said.
Simon stopped with Buck’s dong throbbing on his face. He looked up at Buck. “What about them? Kendra and Caroline. They’re my friends,” he said.
“Yeah, but they’s rank bitches. They ain’t Armenian. You don’t fuck ’em-“
“I’m not married to them! I’m not supposed to fuck them,” Simon said, blushing. “That’s a sin! I go to church!”
“I know, but…” Buck couldn’t think of how to explain it. Mr. Gregarian wanted Simon to go to church and to learn that pre-marital sex was wrong, and he wanted Simon to believe in all that stuff.
But he wanted Simon to fuck a broad. A man shouldn’t be a virgin on his wedding day. He should be ashamed of himself for it, but he shouldn’t be a virgin anyway.
“Don’t let ya woman control you. She ain’t even ya woman, Smooches. You gettin’ distracted by potential skirt.”
Buck shrugged. “A man oughta choose his own way,” he said. “Don’t let ya woman control you. She ain’t even ya woman, Smooches. You gettin’ distracted by potential skirt.” Buck chuckled. Buck swung his hips left and right to make his foot-long slab slap against his thighs. He laughed like a kid at the slappity-thwack sound it made.
It is that fact that feels raw and acute in women of a certain age.
Women could only provide so much company before one craved the vitality of man.
Family is the agencement that catches communities and saves souls, and it is that fact that feels raw and acute in women of a certain age.
From Sasha & the Filthy Alphas of Texas
Young ladies immanently shrink from the freedom of the future, while youthful men froth forth with the vigors of the eternal now, yet elder women tendrilously transcend their present and old men are bound by their pasts.
Once a woman reaches a respectable age, she craves the witness of one more betrothal, one more marriage, one more childbirth, just one more. She stops at nothing to make it happen, always desperate for one more, then just one additional one, then another, and one more. Her grasping claws seek to fill her own ailing mind with extrapolative imaginings of une belle famille nouvelle. Juste une plus.
Or if, he were to be more charitable, which is a difficult attitude to embody towards one’s own mother, but if he were, he would posit that a woman aging appreciates anew the knots of family life knitting people into populus and proving the value of her oeuvre. Family is the agencement that catches communities and saves souls, and it is that fact that feels raw and acute in women of a certain age.
Young ladies immanently shrink from the freedom of the future, while youthful men froth forth with the vigors of the eternal now, yet elder women tendrilously transcend their present and old men are bound by their pasts.
Sasha’s prospects for near-future matrimony were weakly barren, and perhaps Sasha appreciated, even enjoyed, that. Like a desert craves not a marsh, he had no desire for a wife. They were bugles of demands and desires, like mosquitoes with envy. Interested only in trifles and bêtises, lace-fried fluff and delicate whispers of sotto voce gossip. Must everything be castrated down to parasitic orchids, soft edges and understated wallpaper?