A Pose By Any Other Name

There is, in my opinion, no better place to observe primal man’s primitive behavior than at the Manhattan gym. Man can adopt, adapt, and showcase the inherent etiquettes at the root of his being here as he snorts, grunts, sweats, spits, scratches and growls in a satisfying coexistence amongst other members of his tribe.

You see, readers, this gentle priss embarks daily on a regimen of toning isometrics. Therefore, weekday mornings are spent in the testosterone-infused New York Sports Club. In this humble domicile I am privy to the secret life of males - the way they act when they can truly unleash the animal within.

The reason that a delicate flower can survive in such a jungle? My training in this world comes through a woman - my sensei a tough, snarling tigress with an unreasonable contention for the male race. Not that this snarling contention was transferred to me, mind you…that would just be uncouth.

Through my initial training with the tigress, I slowly began to learn the behaviors necessary to encroach in male territory: approach slowly and pose no threat. And never, ever, show fear or weakness.

Although the gym is an arena ripe for sexual tension - scantily clad women bouncing away on cardio machines - the training area is different. Even the tightly sheathed posteriors on display in the cardio area do not distract man from his task at hand: pure, unadulterated self-admiration.

Unlike other venues, I enjoy uncomplicated sessions in this virile environment – coexisting among the males gets me ignored rather than ogled (or even noticed!). Miss Priss is unaccustomed to such a lack of attention in a city saturated with attentive males. After careful observation however, I discovered the reason: our subjects are so busy checking out each other that they don’t have time to notice a female in their midst!

They are looking at whose muscles are pulsing the fastest, who is pumping what iron, and how much, who is sweating, who is doing what exercises with whom, and when, and how much weight they’re able to lift without vomiting.

Most of all, though, man is checking out himself in the mirrors, marking his territory with testosterone as he admires his engorged muscles. He grins at himself, struts, and preens in front of the mirror like a peacock at the edge of a lake. Fascinating that we women have the reputation of spending too much time in front of the mirror!

Self-worship isn’t pinned to only the gods of the gym. Apparently man doesn’t have to be an Adonis to adore his figure. The Manhattan men doing the most marveling were, in fact, of the plumper variety. They flaunt and flourish their physiques like their chiseled counterparts, completely unaware that their physique is not one chiseled out of stone, but rather, out of butter.

I am rarely bothered by the other species during my workouts. On the occasion I do get noticed, the outcome is not bad. Man simply scratches his head in confusion at the presence of a woman in his den and continues about his self-glorification.

Once, I happened to see a colleague at the gym. This man had seemingly already dismissed me, and had been ignoring me for weeks. When he noticed me invading his lair, however, he froze in mid bicep-curl, his face taking on a deer-in-the-headlights look. I myself was mid squat, manifesting the learned behaviors of my adopted tribe: my face sweaty yet still sparkling, veins bulging from my delicate neck, and a feminine grunt close to escaping from my lips.

I avoided his shocked gaze in the mirror, neither of us daring to move. After a few seconds, his face relaxed - I was no threat. He sniffed and went along his workout, which, like the rest of the men, consisted of a grand homage to himself.

Was Football Invented By a Woman?

Being of the fairer sex, Football has always confused me. Hence, I am often confused because football has officially become the most watched sport in America.

Synonymous with the changing of the autumn leaves is the changing of man’s demeanor as the onset of football season looms closer. If you thought the men of baseball season were bad, you cannot imagine the horrors evoked within the football fan – he is a snarling ball of fury operating on a cycle not unlike a woman’s.

Man’s PMS is provoked by the game’s stalwartly routine schedule. Unlike the spontaneous game schedule of other sports, football plays at the same time every week, thus provoking predictable and regular symptoms. These symptoms vanish shortly after the game (depending on the outcome), only to reappear within 5-7 days.

On the eve of game day, man begins his werewolfian transformation. A general rowdiness permeates his entire being: his expression glazes over, his eyes grow wild, his hunger for violence increases, and his attention span lengthens to what for a man is monumental - three hours. Be forewarned though - do not try to apply this augmented attention span to anything other than football…your efforts will be in vain.

One perk of man’s cycle is the knowledge of where our football fans will be on Sunday and Monday nights. Those of us not inclined to follow this arresting spectacle can place ourselves elsewhere on these given occasions.

Why the appeal of such a charming diversion? To the educated eye – mainly women and foreigners, in this case– the rules of this jumbled mess of ogres in padding are impenetrable to most. Don’t ask man to explain the rules to you – you will soon see that the cat has his tongue. Most will growl at you to watch the game, a lame attempt to distract you from getting an explanation.

What better way to decipher this mystery than go straight to the aficionado’s mouth? I asked many men to explain to me why they liked football. An unusual number of men gave the same reply as to why they sacrifice time, energy, and their livers for such a debacle: the strategy.

Strategy? Not really the first thing that comes to my mind when thinking of football -for me it’s the phrase, "tight ends". I find the answer of "strategy" to be highly suspicious. Furthermore, I find the nature of the response to be more suspicious: each man answered me with the rapid vigor reminiscent of the “no!” they give when asked the “Do I look fat in this?” question. Both are programmed responses uttered without thought, both intended to placate an annoying woman.

Always more than willing to give men the benefit of the doubt, I journeyed to a sports bar during high football time, where I reasoned I would find the strategists playing chess during commercial breaks. Perhaps I too would join the legions of football fans, astonished by the strategic nuances of this confuddling game. My intent was to absorb the atmosphere of a sports bar on Sunday afternoon, and I looked forward to rhapsodies on strategy, discourses on plays, and a steely admiration of the rules of the game.

And then I arrived.

“Whoa…he’s going to puke!” one gentleman capitulated through a mouthful of hot wings, gesturing with admiration towards a nearby television. Another indignantly slammed his hands down on the table as a player limped off the field: “Oh please, he’s fine…its just his f***ing ankle. I sprained my ankle, like, 1,000 times…”. As a different player was carried off the field on a stretcher, one man triumphantly threw his napkin down: “That’s what you f***ing get…now your quarterback is hurt! Hahaha!”. And finally, after an invigoratingly exciting play, a group of men erupted into raucous laughter at that table next to me: “That was hilarious,” one exclaimed, wiping the tears from his eyes, “That guy could’ve died!” His friends, thankfully, agreed.

Was this a representative sports bar? Perhaps I was in a sadist’s den – but I rechecked the title of the establishment, (Blondie’s Sports Bar) and the waitresses (all blonde), both confirming that this was a sports bar, and these sadists were indeed the strategists!

In fact, Blondie’s is on the Upper West Side of Manhattan – land of high culture and implicitly less violent than artistic. Yet while the rest of the Upper West Side was having tea at 4pm on a Sunday, the crowd at Blondie’s was scarfing wings and yelling at television sets, quite drunk.

Clearly, the tackling, thwomping, and hitting is what appeals to men. As one man gleefully disclosed: “football is the only time when one man can wallop another in public…and he gets away with it!”

Before you get your knickers in a twist, boys, I’m not implying that your precious game is without strategy. I’m simply suggesting that your pants are on fire for referring to strategy as the main reason for your fandom. If you’re that interested in strategy, play Mastermind.

Perhaps because of sentiments such as these, women fit obliquely into man’s football tradition – as adjutants, if anything. A woman who tolerates football is a rare find indeed, evidenced by the number of wedding rings I saw at Blondie’s – apparently sports bars are the only bar where a man willingly wears his wedding ring.

Football appeals to every aspect of man’s hedonistic tendencies, and to such an extent, that one wonders if it were not invented by a woman. After all, the game proves a convenient distraction to free up her time for literary and philosophical pursuits. How perfectly the game appeals to men’s basest desires: drinking beer, yelling, cheerleaders, and violence.

Further proof that football is womankind’s joke on men: the ass slapping between players. This public display of affection provides sexual justification for the fan and therefore more free time for female pursuits – in this case, sleep. Perhaps the greatest justification though, is watching man struggle to explain this particular football tradition. His floundering is hilarious – and we’re still laughing about this one.

Ass You Like It

Most things start at the beginning. This blog, however, will not. I think that we may do better to start at the end. Or, should I say, at the behind.

Male admiration of the female form has been a powerful force in history. Helen of Troy, of course, had the face that launched a thousand ships. But imagine a beauty so powerful, it can stop a man in his tracks, consume his attention, and bring a whole city to a staring standstill. Now imagine that luscious loveliness multiplied by hundreds, by thousands, so that every street of the city is replete with examples of captivating beauty and captivated men…

This beauty that I speak of is glaringly absent from the rhapsodies of history - a backdoor sort of beauty, if you will. Yes my friends, I speak of the booty, and I’ve discovered that the power hidden within this humble mound is staggering. More specifically, its power to affect men’s behavior is staggering. Remember, gentle readers, that I am a midwestern priss at heart, and since moving to the Big Apple I’ve noticed a few trends in the way men look at women which would draw a slap back home.

My interest in this tuchas trend began when I discovered that I myself was ogled. The realization was gradual and came out of nothing more than an inkling – a sixth sense, even - that I was being watched. I was haunted by this peculiar feeling for weeks until the day I caught a causal admirer who sheepishly betrayed that it was, in fact, the back of me that was being watched. This is how I gained enlightenment: men are checking out my keister everywhere.

I must admit, shock took hold first: I had never been exposed to such brazen behavior back home! Perhaps farm boys are more interested in a woman’s heart than in her hiney -we are America’s Heartland, after all- or maybe no one has taught them to check for junk in the trunk. Whatever the case, this male behavior came as a new phenomenon to me, and I’ve taken to researching it like an eager student, to the point where I’m all but(t) obsessed with my latest project.

When watching men throughout New York, one can instantly recognize the difference between a tourist and a New Yorker: the tourist will be gazing upwards, appreciating skyscrapers. New York men admire architecture too, but a more mid-level kind, usually walking right in front of them. Here, everyone is a tourist, but for residents no site is more exquisite than a broad’s backside.

I ditched my reading material on the subway and sat enraptured, following eyeballs slowly sneaking away from the New York Post or Wall Street Journal to follow each rump throughout the car as it stood up, walked, sat down. I studied the policemen in front of Macy’s, swiveling their heads in unison (like the audience at a tennis match) to survey the women walking by. I was bemused to find that construction workers are able to inspect the bum while working - and they say men can’t multi-task! From my third story office window I was knocked breathless by my aerial view of a woman in a tight red dress weaving her way through a sea of oncoming men on the sidewalk below. As she passed through the Neanderthals, each head rotated in turn to pay homage to her caboose, creating a unique and magnificent ripple from above.

All of this, and yet men are instantly sheepish when discovered checking out your boodunka-dunk…how cute! Upon being caught in the act, man turns away with hangdog shame and discovers a violent interest in his iPod or the passing cloud formations.

No doubt by this point you are shocked at the pressure that the New York woman has to go through each day as her seat is speculated on by hundreds of men. Please – save your shock for the fact that men manage to maintain the lifespan that they do. Most New York women are barely scandalized or even bothered by this behavior. As for me, I initially felt flattered, though by now the endearing faux pas of a stranger has melted into a trivial annoyance. Nevertheless, this behavior is considered completely harmless…and completely expected.

These days, the more I study men gawping, the more it moves me. There are so few activities in our modern world that men of all ages, shapes, sizes, creeds, and classes can collectively enjoy. How sweet that the male race can come together, without competition or hate, in one deep and true love for the arse.

In the spirit of “Monkey See, Monkey Do”, my head now turns in unison with theirs to appreciate every passing culo. On the bus, in the deli lines, at the gym, and wherever else I go, I have become a tushie tourist. I too now adopt a look of hangdog shame when a woman catches me ogling her dupka (though I will argue I am slightly more embarrassed than y’all).

So thank you boys, thanks a lot: look at what you’ve done to me!