Males can change. There’s a television show dedicated to it.
Men changing men.
Men that like men changing men that like to be “men”.
There is a difference. It might be in the jacket or the day bed that graces a spacious living room. It could be in the fragrance that is chosen to represent “you” on a certain day. It could be the magazine that defines your every pore.
Surfaces speak to us. We brush up against them everyday in the vivid dream that implies a symbolism, a meaning but gives so little in either.
Brands do it for us. They spend millions on defining themselves and us along with them, and males have become a massive market for self reconstruction. Brands sub contracting the individual to make themselves over, to refurbish and refit. To go retro or to go punk, to see themselves as children that can start anew.
Live out the new romances. Be the poster child. Be the new male. Be all you can be. Spending lots of money, all of a sudden, is patriotism. Coal to burn the economy, Credit card incendiaries.
I just hope that females see past the façade. That the new male doesn’t exist, that he’s a species photographed in some hyper-virtual-reality where David Attenborough can’t classify the species because they don’t exist. A plain inhabited by animals created in Madison Avenue think tanks, fragrance factories, offices of the new Jardine de Babylon.
Don’t be tricked. We are just as vicious, cunning and morally deficient as ever.
We just have a better hair stylist. It’s easy to get a better one when you used to go to a barber.
We have been tricked before. Metrosexuality is not a new phenomenon. You can trace it back to the 18th century French. Men of power were distinguished as such by their face powder, wigs, stockings and fragrances.
Dandy-ed up as they were they still had no hesitation in waging wars of conquest and bitter rivalry throughout Europe and, indeed, the rest of the known world.
The British were also guilty of an illusionary male femininity while brutalising an empire that reigned behind a sun that never set.
Because we males all of a sudden don’t want to get dirty fingernails doesn’t mean that we object to the blood spattering our butcher’s aprons.
Our most recent encounter with the new male was with the male of the new left during the cultural revolutions of the 60’s and 70’s.
Germaine Greer and others were more than happy to meet him until he used honeyed words and flaming eyes to fuck them silly while building a new and improved world for men, with women liberated for all, sluts for the new emperors.
History, as always, gives us precedent and lesson for a thing we consider being novel and welcome.
I can only say this.
Don’t trust us. We’ll fuck you over again and again. We just smell nicer doing it.
