“Man, she’s like a princess or something,”
are the first words to emerge, with the two men, from muttering shadows beyond
my neighbour’s fence-line. “Guys would treat her like a treasure” (You hear all
kinds of poetry sitting on your balcony at three in the morning).
“Nah,
mate, I treat her like shit, bro”. You’ve seen this guy before: body almost
square; that awkward steroidal gait, arms stuck out forty-five degrees – the
closest his biceps will let them get to his sides; no-neck bucket-head shaved
high and tight, fudged up bristle on top; all chin and forehead. “She’s dying
inside – she tells me all the time”.
It’s
not a drunken confession. This type of guy doesn’t drink much – too many carbs.
No, the behemoth is bragging. He’s proud
of himself.
Why (Not, why is he proud of himself. You can answer that just by looking at him)? The question that screams at many a man and most women is: why would any woman
subject herself to that? What’s the attraction?
My
friend, Parkstreet, has touched on this (Go to www.kentparkstreetblog.com and
type “The Lovable Rogue” into the search field; highly recommended). Despite his
many faults, however, the lovable rogue of my friend’s blog is at least
entertaining. I know: my mother married two of them. But what hold does this brute exercise over a woman – let
alone one with the choices our culture offers to beauty?
It’s
not a rhetorical question; I really want to know. Parkstreet and I aren’t the
only two guys to have racked our brains trying to figure it out. And evidently loverboy’s
companion is struggling with the answer too.
It
can’t be that he’s spectacular in bed. Women in a position to know tell me
juicing gym junkies soon lose the ability, even if they retain the interest.
Some
would say money, but it’s not that either: he’s on foot. Although Hulk isn’t drunk, his mate obviously is. The only drinking holes within walking distance have been
shut for hours, yet they haven’t taken a cab or driven home – whatever money he
has left-over after gym fees went on the brand-name shirt stretched across his
beefy back.
So,
I don’t know. I wouldn’t mind betting who does, though. It’s the guy whose
shoulder the woman probably cries on when He-Man’s not around; maybe the one
who, at present, is trying to talk him into behaving like a human being.
Maybe
she’ll run away with him. Wouldn’t that be lovely? Nice Guy gets his treasure;
the woman gets someone who’ll treat her like a princess; and knucklehead gets
to be with the one he truly loves – his reflection in the gym wall mirror. And they all live happily ever after ...
...
Nah.
Laurel
and Hardy fade beyond the farther fence-line, voices mingling again with the
darkness. I drain my coffee mug and step back into my own shadows. Maybe if I
stare at the ceiling and groan long enough I’ll eventually get some sleep.
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