Balls and Walnuts
more than you ever wanted to know
Men
In the June 11/18 issue of The New Yorker, Jeffrey Eugenides writes of his reaction to Nicolas Roeg’s 1971 film Walkabout:
Soon the Aborigine and the girl are cavorting naked in an oasis. Later, as they near civilization, the Aborigine performs a mating dance, to which the girl doesn’t respond, and the next morning she finds that he has hanged himself in a tree.
Two suicides. A lengthy montage of Edenic, but full frontal, nudity. And all without my mother putting her hand over my eyes. Beyond the wondrous excitement of all this was the message the film conveyed, and for which there existed no better recipient than a twelve-year-old growing up in the wake of the sixties: civilization was evil, technology deracinating, and the only solution a return to nature.
Through this whole piece, I was so with Eugenides . . . right up until that last sentence; because, at that point, I became convinced that during our most impressionable years, he and I had watched a different movie. He thought the message of Walkabout was that “civilization was evil, technology deracinating.” (Precocious twelve-year-old, eh?) For me, Walkabout confirmed something my nine-year-old brain had known for several years.
Girls will drive you fooking nuts.
In junior high, it’s a damned good thing I had no access to loaded weapons. No, I wouldn’t have been one of those Columbine types. I would have turned it on myself in a heartbeat.
Girls, that was the problem. One girl in particular: tall, with cinnamon brown hair and a Southern California tan, friendly, but friendly in a way which was becoming all too familiar to me. Friendly, as in you’re a friend. A friend. And never forget it.
I used to stare at her across the canteen, wanting her more than life itself, wishing I had some quirky psychokinetic ability which would work for just such occasions. Here! Now! In my lap! And my failure to wish this into existence on a Monday never prevented me from trying on Tuesday, Wednesday . . . Meanwhile, a girl who really was interested in me had to provide incredibly broad hints which soared stratospherically past. A girl who, in retrospect, knowing what I know now about aesthetics and brains, was smarter, prettier, and probably a better match for me anyway.
There was always someone like my Cinnamon Girl. Someone I wanted, couldn’t have, and the sight of her made me believe in spontaneous human combustion. Oh, to burst into flames before her eyes; she might not be impressed with me, but Flaming Me — how could that fail to impress?
***
But I’ve never been an alpha dog.
Watching TV last night, Karen bitched about Bill Clinton, who used to leer openly at women, who at college meet-and-greets would giggle when the co-eds asked, Do you prefer boxers or briefs? Who jogged in tighty tights, who docked his skiff in any warm harbor.
Clinton was an alpha dog. But even if you’re not an alpha dog, you can’t help but leer, can’t help but wish the co-eds would ask you, Boxers or briefs? It’s a guy thing. And I imagine even gay guys do this with every bit as much intensity — they’re leering at different people, that’s all.
A woman comes into my office with fair regularity, and I see her in her workplace, too. She’s my present-day Cinnamon Girl. Another woman used to make sandwiches at our local supermarket. Sandwich Girl, I called her, as in, She Would Make a Great Sandwich. As in, She Has a Way with Salami.
(Yeah, I’m terrible. Thank heavens my office gals put up with me.)
I wonder if these women notice me leering. I wonder if it makes their skin crawl.
One of my patients, an attractive young woman who works with the public, entered my office just as a 90-something-year-old guy was leaving. He looked at her, thunderstruck, and after staring for a long and uncomfortable moment, said, “What a beautiful girl you are!” She thanked him and pushed on into my exam room. I joked with her, “Bet you weren’t expecting to get hit on by a 93-year-old today,” and that got her started. Old men are ALWAYS hitting on her, saying inappropriate things, leering. Her revulsion was palpable.
I feel sorry for women, having to put up with this crap from men, but I feel sorry for us, too. In heaven, we would all be bonobos, fucking at will. But we’re down here in hell where we can’t hit on everything that moves and it’s a bitch.
Is it better or worse, getting older? I don’t feel like blowing my brains out anymore, so that part is better. But the older I get, the more invisible I feel. In junior high school, it was like getting picked last for kick ball. Nowadays, I’m not even in the line-up.
***
It’s all a consequence of us being sexual animals, right? It’s a drive, it’s hardwired, and if it didn’t exist, the species would die out. But knowing that doesn’t make it any easier to bear the frustration.
There’s an oft-told tale of a medical student who couldn’t handle his urges, so he castrated himself. He did a damned good job of it, too, because he only came to medical attention at the second self-operation. You see, after his neutering, he still had urges, and he decided his adrenal glands must be making too much testosterone. So he tried to do an adrenalectomy. He passed out after entering his abdomen and never made it to the adrenals.
I don’t know if that one’s an urban legend. Regardless, I can sympathize with the guy; but I’m not assembling a surgical kit any time soon. As much as these feelings are obnoxious distractors to everyday life, the alternative is unthinkable. I would rather be a lecherous old man, revolting to all the beautiful young women who fall under my gaze, than someone who no longer gives a damn.
D.
That med student who castrated himself must have been hoping to be a surgeon. He could have just taken estrogen or some other testosterone blocking drug. A lot less traumatic.
I think most folks agree the guy was a loon. No sane person self-mutilates (to that degree!) I seem to remember something about men who self-mutilate — that they have this inordinate interest in their genitalia. Surprise surprise.
Taking a testosterone-blocking drug . . . way too sane.
I shall have more to say about this in the future. Hopefully the near future.
Looking forward to it, Dean 🙂
I don’t think it’s usually so clear in real life. Back in my salad days, it never bugged me to be hit on by older guys, unless they acted like my ‘no thanks’ was a personal insult or if they psuehd too much. (hey I was a barmaid. Getting hit on was a way of life.)
I’ve noticed the double standard in romance forever: a guy who is not young/attractive hitting on a female is disgusting and offensive. The author wants us to think that. Same words–or even more obvious–coming out of a stud muffin’s mouth? He’s hawt, baby. Bah.
I don’t think the “it’s so GROSS” thing is clear. The guy chopping at himself? That’s clear. He’s nuts.
PPS I loved Walkabout even though that damned movie made me cry for hours.
For once, I wish the older unattractive man would get the girl . . .
Oh, wait! That’s like every Woody Allan movie.
But he’s, you know, GROSS 😉
I’m with kate – I never minded an honest compliment, no matter how old the giver. I’d rathe r here “You’re beautiful” from a 93-year-old than “Hey, babe! Wanna get lucky?” from a 25-year-old who thinks he’s God’s gift.
Dean – I hope you mean you’ll have more to say about Walkabout or older guys hitting on younger women, not genital mutilation.
i remember reading the book Walkabout. i dont think i ever saw the movie. i liked the book though.
and i agree with sxK- while i wont deny that i wouldnt MIND being told i was pretty by a cute guy my age, i also wouldnt mind being told i’m beautiful by an old dude. old dudes are cool. 😛
Hey, a scarred up, arthritic, cranky old man got the girl in my books. 😉
sxK, I suspect my patient was mostly griping about the “hey babe, wanna get lucky” comments she was getting from her 93-year-old customers.
Shaina, re:
I’ll take that as a complement!
Tam, you’re absolutely right. I hadn’t thought of that. And Dubric doesn’t even have any of Woody Allan’s many annoying traits.
The sad thing is that when you’re in the age range to get hit on and/or leered at it mostly bugs you. Then it stops happening and you realize you kinda’ miss it because that means you’ve passed the stage of being thought of as sexually viable.
It’s that “not even in the line-up” thing rearing its ugly head from the other POV.
That is sad. I hadn’t thought of it from that perspective.
Wouldn’t it be nice to do it all over again?
I miss getting hit on, and I don’t. Sometimes the attention and favors you get are nice (I never paid for a drink when I went out), but now, being a fat, middle-aged lesbian, I can wear whatever comfortable clothes I want and go about my business freely. A certain measure of invisibility feels safe for me, personally.
BTW, you’ve never been a 14 year old girl, Doug, so don’t think the boys don’t drive the girls nuts, too! Or the other girls, for that matter. ;o)
Oh, and Woody Allen? TOTALLY gross.
I used to not mind Woody, back when he wasn’t an uber perv who hit on his teenage adopted daughter (yes, yes, I know she wasn’t HIS daughter, but that’s splitting hairs, IMO). I liked the way this little dweeby guy could score with Mariel Hemingway. Made me feel like there was hope for me. Anyway, I haven’t watched one of his movies in YEARS. Decades, maybe. Annie Hall was his last great movie.
I hear ya about 14-year-old girls. They have hormones, too 😉
I feel weird now…old men don’t hit on men. Old women do though. I get grabbed a lot by old ladies who tell me how beautiful my skin is as they scour my face with their eyes to try and find traces of make-up? Surgery? I don’t know. What I do know is old ladies have vice grips in those boney hands, and once grabbed I’m at their mercy and it makes me scared.
Plus, they have the sexual appetites of male lions. Watch out!
I actually had a young guy flirt with me at a convenience store the other night. He was somewhere between 20-25.
He carded me for cigarettes, which made my night. I’m almost 34 and still getting carded for something you only have to be 18 to buy.
The look on his face when he realized I’m a good ten years older than he is was truly priceless.
🙂
I’ve told this story before, but it’s still a fun one.
In residency, I was pre-opping one of the chairman’s sinus patients. I was 33 at the time. The patient was an older woman, athletic, quite vibrant, a real handsome gal. If I thought about it at all, I figured her for 45, but I was too busy flirting to check her ID plate. And she was flirting back. And then she let slip, “But when you’re my age, etc.” and that’s when I checked her ID plate.
IIRC, she was 64. Plenty old enough to be my mom.
Damn goodlooking 64, though.
[…] 1. Previously, I’ve written about a young man who castrated himself in order to reduce his sex drive, but had problems when he went after his adrenal glands. I had heard this story in med school in a rather third-hand sort of way, so I was never too sure of the factuality (or the details). The book Bodies under Siege: Self-Mutilation and Body Modification in Culture and Psychiatry has the scoop. […]