how very lucky to be a girl

Jackie Summers was one of the first dating bloggers I ever met.  Somehow I almost feel dirty referring to him as a blogger, despite the fact that he has a blog on which he publishes regularly.  That’s because Jackie is part poet, part dreamer, part philosopher.  He is much, much more than any word that could be used to describe him.  Jackie weaves words together in a kaleidoscopic, candid, funny and sometimes heartbreaking manner.  His narrative is at once poignant, provocative and beautiful.  If you haven’t already made a home for yourself in his digital domicile, you’ll be warmly welcomed when you do, as I was when I first found his words.

I’m lucky to call on Jax as a friend.  I’ve learned a lot from him.  He pointed me to templates when I first began on Blogger.  He taught me some basic code when I didn’t know it.  Directed me to tools and plug-ins that made my life easier and the blog better.  Jackie taught me about life, as well.  And he taught me about myself.  A lot of these lessons have been generously given in person.  But many of them have simply been extracted from his words.  This was one such occasion.

An Imperfect Gentleman (An Excerpt)
by Jackie Summers, of F*cking In Brooklyn

My cultural identity, like most Americans, was in large part forged in front of a television. This didn’t mean Mom used the idiot box as a baby-sitter; we were poor and a single TV had to provide entertainment for the entire family, including Mom. The Matriarch wielded final say on viewing matter: we watched what entertained her, and Mom loved the classics. This meant exposure to ideals that seemed archaic in the post-sexual revolution era I grew up in.

It was in the cinematic culture of yesteryear I first began to formulate my ideas on manhood. I distinctly remember as a child wanting to be Errol Flynn, Clark Gable or Fred Astaire. You can imagine my awkwardness when I played with other children my age who wanted to be Spider-Man, Superman or The Hulk. ‘They can’t fly, they don’t have superpowers or secret identities’ I’d say, ‘but girls sure do like them. A LOT.’

Yes, at six years old I was thinking about what girls liked. Exposure to these archetypes during my formative years provided a study in contrasts that would form the basis of my concepts of male/female relationships.

First and foremost, my heroes were gentlemen. They were well read, well spoken, polite, courteous and impeccably mannered. But there was more.

They were rogues. Rascals, rapscallions, knaves, scamps, scoundrels and scalawags; they made women swoon. Cordiality notwithstanding, nice guys did not win women’s hearts. Nice guys finished last, dead last, every time.

It was a conundrum. How could chivalry and deviltry co-exist? This clear contradiction sent me on a quest to unravel the enigma: How could I be a good guy and a bad boy simultaneously?

A woman, of course, provided the answer. Lana Turner’s seven word summation solved the equation with eloquence. ‘A gentleman‘ she said ‘is simply a patient wolf.’

The answer to why the axiom ‘nice guys finish last’ proves true time after time can be found in the etymology of the word ‘nice.’ It first appears in the English language around the end of the thirteenth century, when it was originally used to describe a dullard. Taken from the Latin word ‘nescius,’ the literal translation for ‘nice’ is ‘not knowing’, or ignorant. ‘Silly, foolish, stupid, and overly careful’ were early synonyms for ‘nice’ before it diffused into the modern meaning of ’something mildly agreeable.’

For centuries, calling a guy ‘nice’ was about the biggest insult you could give. Nice guys were squeamish, effeminate, dainty. Being nice had no correlation with having moral fiber; It was emasculating, a way of saying a man had no balls.

In this light it’s easy to see why nice guys finish last, not only in love but often in life.

The other aspect worthy of consideration is the expectation forced upon women by society to be the bastions of morality. In a pattern dating back to prehistoric times, my Mom was charged with the responsibility of instilling a code of ethics upon her progeny, while her mate went off to procure sustenance for his family. Being forced to bear the burden of virtue, despite being prone to the same longings and desires as any man, creates a feedback loop. A man who offered a chance at unbridled passion broke the cycle of civility; it freed her to express her own wanton lusts in a way that protected her dignity.

The catalyst, is time.

Wolves are patient hunters. Before a woman will be thoroughly indecent with you, she needs to determine that you are essentially decent. I am always amazed at the women who do a double-take when I stand as they leave a table, open a door, or walk on the outside of the street. However once basic decency has been established, she wants to see your canines. She needs to know that you possess a darker side, one that will make her own darkness seem light in comparison. Women will tolerate a level of boorishness in a man; in fact many delight in it. No woman will brook a boring man for long.

I first recalled Jack’s Imperfect Gentleman following a date with Nice Guy Richie.  Those words had entered my mind, strolled through my bloodstream, performed double-back handsprings in my intestines, stopped, circled, tickled my brain and went back to play in my imagination and understanding.  Jack had struck a chord.  He’d made me think.  Something had resonated with me.  Strongly.  Something I didn’t quite understand and still to this day cannot claim to.  At least not yet fully.

Because, you see, I want a nice guy.  Not in the etymological sense.  I’m not looking for a foolish, stupid, apprehensive or reluctant man (silly, at times however, would be on the list).  When I say nice, I mean kind.  Thoughtful.  Virtuous.  Refined.  Amiable.  Pleasing.

But with that, I want edge.  Someone sharp, daring, innovative, confident, unrestricted.  Someone intense and exciting, but who is unquestionably reliable.  Someone who questions societal norms and thinks unconventionally but who can, does and will live within certain convention.  The bad boy.  But the one Mama raised right.  The soft pup unafraid to show his canines and smart enough to know when.

The wolf, Jack points out.  He is both.  His patience, a by-product of being nice.  And the hunter, the dark side of the animal.  The patient hunter is the man that possesses both, and knows the difference and value in that.

I was reminded again of Jack’s piece following my date with Herb.  Here was another nice man, but one whose canines I couldn’t spot.  I thought of all the men I’ve dated over the years.  The hunter with no patience.  The saint with no discernible sins.  The nice guys bored me, the boorish ones broke me.  I have yet to meet a nice bad boy, but that is who I dream of.

And I wonder: Have I been chasing unicorns?

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