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by: tommoilanen
illustration by: ericjones Jack Sprat would eat no fat; his wife would eat no lean. Remember that little gem from childhood? I don’t recall the entire poem, or the message it was trying to conjure, if there indeed was one. Those ditties generally told a story with a moral attached and often contained lines that have been forever etched into the cultural psyche of more than one generation.
I don’t even know who wrote it.
But somehow that phrase sits in the back of my cavernous cerebrum and makes its way to the front every time I see a fat woman with a skinny guy. My internal curiosity machine kicks in and I wonder certain things that are usually considered off-limits, such as “how” and “why”?
I realize our touchy-feely society has put the kibosh on any frank discussion of reality, which might be a classic example of the impulse behind The Emperor’s New Clothes. We’re not supposed to notice—much less mention—the obvious. If anything, our current mores demand we deny it. But sometimes you just plain can’t.
If you accept the proposition that men are lustful, visually-motivated pigs that wish to spread their pollen to every dainty flower in the garden, you must ask: “He’s not really screwing her, is he?”
That question becomes even more pertinent when both parties are fat. What about the logistics? How does a schwanz that’s hiding under a barrel make its way into a coochie that’s buried between mounds of cottage cheese? Do they have to hire professional movers? A heavy equipment operator?
And what’s going through their minds as this is happening, assuming it can?
 Please don’t try to tell me these people are in the throes of deep sexual passion, so enamored that they simply must tear off one another’s clothes and bang until the cows come home, to use a disgustingly appropriate metaphor. And if they’re not, why are they together?
Call me a shallow, superficial queen if you must, but I have a feeling most of these couples have little sex. They’re in it for companionship, or perhaps more likely, emotional and financial support. As a friend put it, they’re like two brooms (or perhaps two Bissells) leaning up against one another. If one falls, so goes the other.
This may sound bitterly cynical, but it illustrates a deeper message. Or should I say, a wider perspective.
Our culture places such a great deal of emphasis on notions of love and romance through our movies, books and music that there is no way reality could ever measure up. We create impossible scenarios and set outrageous standards, which no one dares question. Then we try to emulate them and, of course, it doesn’t work. Not wanting to admit defeat to others or ourselves, we pretend we’re “in love” and go through the motions.
And inside we’re miserable.
This is one of many reasons why the gay marriage thing has me baffled. Look at our heterosexual counterparts and ask yourself: are they really happy? Or are they trying to live up to someone else’s account of how they should be? And if they are, why are we getting sucked into buying the same sappy concept?
It’s rather common for sexual excitement to wane from a relationship, in both the gay and straight paradigms. Countless pop psychology books have been written on how to keep the flame alive. Yet how can you will yourself into feeling passion for another person? It’s either there or it’s not; and if it’s not, there is little difference between that which we call a “couple” and that which we call “close friends.”
In other words, if you’re not doing the oinky-boinky, you’re not lovers.
Consequently, the Jack Sprat syndrome serves as an ideal perspective from which to view a broad, as it were, problem. I seriously doubt these couples are sending rockets to the moon, and I believe the same is true about gay entanglements. Maybe even more so, as guys are such visual creatures, with a sexual composition that’s heavily weighted—pardon the expression—in favor of variety.
So what’s the point, you ask?
Honesty. Honesty among a culture, honesty between individuals, and more importantly, honesty within yourself.
Quit pretending it’s “love” when you don’t even know what the word means. Quit pretending you want to be like the straight world when it’s in just as big a mess. Quit longing for the man of your dreams when he’s nothing more than a fantasy. Quit pining for a romanticized version of “playing house” when what you’re really dealing with is a house of cards.
Oddly enough, if partnership were your goal, it would be better served by an accurate representation of self that can only come by being genuine, which means dumping the charade and accepting the idea that relationships, for the most part, are dysfunctional. In other words, you have a better shot at finding this elusive dream if you stop trying so damn hard.
And if you have a propensity for produce, for God’s sake, stay away from the bakery. It’s difficult to find the apple of your eye amongst all those biscuits. {EM} |
