Are Men Today Pussies?

The art of pussying out.

Nov 07, 2024

There is an unrealistic expectation that men should display millennial vulnerability and medieval valour. At once profoundly sensitive, and capable of biting off a slanderer’s nose at the first sniff of disrespect. The perfect man is a Neanderthalic empath, existing right on the brink of both tears and rage.

Outside of AI-drafted blockbusters, these sensitive savages don’t really exist.

At the risk of satisfying your baited click too early, most men are cautious conscriptions for the pussy brigade. If a pussy is a person who prefers avoiding punch-ups over barroom slightings - then, sign me up.

I don’t start fights. I finish them.

Before they start. When tested, my mettle is pretty malleable. For some reason, nothing inspires diplomacy within me like the immediate threat of violence.

Most of my twenties were wasted in that exhilarating Goldilocks zone between a potential and actual headbutt. I was a virtuoso at winding up flat-nosed strangers exactly to the point of a well-deserved kicking - before, turbo-back-pedalling, and begging their pardon so feebly that they saved face, saving mine in the process.

My ego can take the battering on my behalf. There is a lot made of the fragility of males’ egos. Mine is among the most durable constructs ever pummeled. When you can pussy out of your own birthday party, pulling out of a fistfight is child’s play.

The apologies of a coward are not only the cornerstone of any good sorcerer’s spice rack - they are an essential life skill. Being a pussy saves lives.

Yes, I am a massive pussy, both in my nerves and dimensions. The soul of a wuss trapped in the frame of a mid-ranking village bouncer. The personality of a wedding photographer behind the face of a people smuggler. The hardest pushover to push over. But, honestly, you only had to ask. As one of the world’s softest and most-inviting doormats, too, I would have happily laid down for you and let you walk all over me.

Oddly, I’m not even the soggiest pussyclart on the towel rack. As a rugby player, I was the enforcer responsible for tripping up overgrown farmhands with my face. Within that rule set, I was actually one of North-Hinksey’s hardest and most-impassable doormats. Sorry, the inclusion of this paragraph was the last wish of a trampled body and spirit. I’m not a complete pussy, Ok guys? Ok?

We, the punch-averse pussies of planet earth, are sweet, sensitive and caring. In the shag, marry, kill scenario - which distils life to its very essence - you shag the dick, marry the pussy, and kill the cunt.

33 is the year of the pussy. Men, if you’re not a pussy at my age - you need to grow up.