Admittedly, it's been awhile. Excuse/Non-excuse: I've been REALLY busy. What with meeting producers to adapt my book to a screenplay, working with graphic novel adapters, negotiating publishing rights to my next book, mega-dollar meetings on product placement and tie-ins, Brad Pitt's obvious interest (in my work, dammit!), and my heartfelt commitment to the non-profit "Crustacean's Rights" movement... I've had little time for blogging. However, my agent has helped me find a way to be more timely by enlisting the aid of other writers who, in exchange, promised to give me a good review/blurb I can use with my next book. This month, Rick Trenchant of "Man's Monthly Quarterly" has graciously offered to pitch in with his latest article. I've not had a chance to review it, but my agent assures me that its content is in keeping with the usual quality of my website. See you soon!

FOR MEN
Five Steps to End Your Emasculation
(Note: To fully clarify this article, please feel free to Google the term “emasculation”).
 
By Rick Trenchant "Men's Monthly Quarterly" and for authorwilliammartin.com.
​
            Every man has felt emasculated at some point in their relationships, but it's not feeling that way that defines the man, but how you deal with it! Here are five sure-fire steps to end your emasculation and regain your manship-ness!
 
1. Quit whining about feeling emasculated.
            Just the fact that you clicked on this page/article is evidence that you are a willing participant in your own emasculation. Now, it doesn’t matter if whining about your emasculation is expressed outwardly or if it’s simply a matter of your own inner dialog; what you project is what you get. Let me repeat that: what you project is what you get!  Man up. Choke that shit back. ACT LIKE A MAN AND YOU’LL BE A MAN!
 
           Sub-point: Just the fact that you were drawn to the prefix “sub” means that you may have your work cut out for you.

 2. Quit asking women what they think/feel/want. 
            Hell, women themselves don’t consciously know what they think/feel/want. Asking them only frustrates them and highlights your own feelings of emasculation. Women are creatures of the subconscious. They not only live in the world of the subconscious, they own that shit. They may say they want a salad for dinner, but the truth is they would spit on their mother’s grave to have a ½ pound cheeseburger with extra bacon (Just so long as they can blame someone else for “making them” eat that burger). Order the burger for them and when they blame you, laugh it off…in their face. They may look mad as hell, but subconsciously you will have given them what they want and they’ll “subconsciously” thank you for it.
             This extends to sex. Women may say they want a man who “is in touch with their feelings” or (the phrase that really chaps my ass) who “is man enough to be sensitive,” but the reality is they subconsciously want a man who takes charge, takes what he wants, but then points out that by doing so he was really taking care of her needs. (Hey, ever hear of the “Fifty Shades” thing?) Master this simple concept and you will prove that you can have your cake and eat it too!
 
3. Delete every goddamned slow song from your playlist. 
               I know they might help you express what you can’t express in your own words. I know they might help you get through some rough emotional times. But delete that shit! Playing a slow song does not show your inner complexity. Women know that real men don’t have inner complexity. Hell, they know we don’t even have any outer complexity. What we think of as “complex” women see as a single side of a Rubik’s cube. Play the hard rock/rap track every time. By doing so you’ll be giving women what they subconsciously want. (The only exception to this is Queen – wait…I take that back).
 
4. Quit sculpting that thing you call a beard.
​            Honestly, this is the only way a man can project abject femininity through the guise of masculinity. If it’s obvious that you spend umpteen hours a day clipping, trimming, sculpting, moisturizing, and, overall, primping your beard, you are publicly –and loudly-- proclaiming your emasculation. Women see this as a desperate plea for acceptance and desperation is the conjoined twin of emasculation. It flies in the face of what women subconsciously want. If you choose to grow a beard, make that choice for yourself. And then let it grow long, unkempt, unruly, manly. Then you can truly say that you are giving women what they subconsciously want: an unkempt, unruly man.

5. “To thine ownself be true…” 
​           Shakespeare said it best. I think it was in one of his plays: “Be true to yourself, because then as sure as the world goes ‘round, you can’t be fakey to any woman.” Of course, I’m paraphrasing here (an un-emasculated man doesn’t take time to Google random shit, and if you took the time to Google “emasculate” at the beginning of this article…well, shame upon you friend).
           The point being that, if you want a woman to like you, want you, friggin’ love you…then you’ve got to show your true colors. If she runs away from that, then guess what? It appears that she didn’t want a real man after all (remember that subconscious shit?). Or maybe she did and just got confused. Or maybe she didn’t and was simply looking for someone to dominate.
         
Rappin' It Up: 
            Who knows? But what you do know is that she wasn’t the one for you; otherwise she would have been okay with your uncompromising, un-whining, un-inquisitive, hard-rock playin’, unruly beard growin’, true-blue man of self and other men.
              Go forth, (don’t) proclaim your un-emasculinity, and BE A MAN!

* I was thinking of my mom today and for some reason vividly recalled this previous posting (btw, that's an artful way of saying that this blog posting is a re-run. An oldie, but a goody. One that stays with you. One that lingers in your thoughts long after...okay, you get the drift.*

Once upon a time, it was okay to smack your kid. In fact it was encouraged. If you didn’t have a kid to smack, you could borrow a relative’s kid to keep up. Sometimes a complete stranger would lend you their kid. People were nicer and more giving in those days.

I’m not saying it’s a good thing or a bad thing and I’m really not into making some kind of social commentary here. That’s not my place and, frankly, I’m not smart enough to take that on. 

But it gives one pause to think: Maybe it just depends on the type of smack. It could be anywhere from a mild swat on the rear, to an open handed slap, to a closed fisted-our-relationship-is-about-done hit. There are varying degrees of smacking, varying degrees of reasons, and varying degrees of if it’s working for you or not.

My mom was big on spanking. She’d use anything from an open hand to a belt. But she was at a huge disadvantage – she had four boys and she only weighed about 110 lbs soaking wet.

She had more credibility when we younger. Swats actually hurt and you didn’t want to push her into the belt range or –the most terrifying of all—the dreaded “wait until your dad gets home” range. But as we grew bigger, her spankings became kind of a running joke among the siblings. She would spank while we were standing up and wear herself to a frazzle and we hardly noticed she was there.

It would often get to the point where we’d ask her to please stop because we feared she’d hurt herself. She was a belt-wielding tempest in a thimble.

Until she discovered “Mom’s Helping Hand.”
 

     But if her living conditions had no effect on her narcissistic personality, one would think that her boyfriend would. We weren’t sure what his name was, but we assumed he was of the same privileged background because of his pricey car and clothing, but more because of his nose which was raised so high that he risked drowning in a hard rain. Since we had no name to refer to him by, we gave him a Native American name based upon his visits to Julia’s apartment: Screwemandrun. The name was not without merit. His typical visit went something like this: Show up. Engage in limited chit-chat. Engage in very quick sex. Run down the stairs to his car and be gone, gone, gone. We could tell all this because when you’re “making do” you generally have to do it in a place with walls and ceilings made of construction paper and Elmer’s.

     We were impressed by his agility in navigating the stairs, but even more impressed by his speed in…other areas. Although we were impressed, we also thought his routine might be a bit unfair to young Julia. I didn’t plan the next part out per se. It just kind of happened organically.

     I slowed Screwemandrun down. 

     My wife and I retired early. As we settled in, books in hand, we heard Screwemandrun ascend the stairs and knock on Julia’s door. My wife and I exchanged looks, knowing the great auditory treat we were in for.

     We heard the door shut and muffled conversation –which lasted all of about ten minutes. Then there was a momentary silence before the sound that can only come from a very weary mattress with aging springs.

     It sounded like something between a squeak and an over-weary Wal-Mart greeter sighing between “Welcomes.” And it was rhythmic. And it was growing faster.

     That’s when the idea hit me.

     I jumped from bed, raced for the phone and phone book and called Julia Snobdeface.

     Here’s the best part: the squeaking noise stopped and she answered the phone! Of course, when she answered I hung up and laughed maniacally at my successful prank.

     Within three minutes they started again…and again I jumped out of bed and called her…and again she answered!

     This went on a total of four times. You can’t make stuff like this up. The last time I tried to call she didn’t answer. I should point out that she also wasn’t able to connect the dots and realize it was someone calling who could hear them and their mouse-like noises. They lasted another two minutes, we heard muffled talk, and then he scrambled down the stairs and jetted away again.

     Did I feel bad? Did a little guilt creep in because of my behavior?

     Not a drop.

     I looked upon it as a favor to Julia. She ended up with almost 20 minutes of sex instead of the usual five. Although it was interrupted sex, it was a longer session than we’d ever heard before.

     Perhaps it left her wanting. After a couple of weeks and a few more visits Screwemandrun stopped coming over. We’d heard that she’d broken it off with him. We felt a sense of relief at not having to endure the Screwemandrun cycle anymore.

     But then the regular slumber parties with about 12 teenaged girls began.

      Julia Snobdeface apparently became celibate, but she did so in a 14-year-old girl way.

     To be honest, I began to miss Screwemandrun and his speedy rituals. They weren’t any less annoying, but they ended much, much quicker.

     Maybe I should have gotten to know his name so I could have helped those two lovebirds get back together.

     Live and learn.



     Please, be considerate of your neighbors, but more importantly…

     Be well,

            William