Are All Men Really Created Equal?

Yet another woman pondering the circumstances of life, love, and the pursuit thereof. 


Are all men alike? The few men I’ve been seriously close to have had a knack for keeping me hanging on. And I, stupidly, let it happen. Thus, the curse of a woman. Even the Bible claims it, “and a woman’s desire will be unto her husband.” I think that is the curse of women, not necessarily only the painful childbirth. The man we choose to give our hearts to will forever want something more, something different. You’ll never be good enough. The Bible commands women to “respect your husband” and men to “love thy wife”. Know why? Because the farther along we get into the relationship, the man’s eyes and dick wander… and the woman looses all respect for him. She gave her heart, and he threw it away. They don’t love us, and we don’t respect them. Aaahh, what a wonderful relationship. Yet we keep hanging on, hoping one day we’ll be enough.

Sadly, the men are the intelligent ones. If the circumstances are right, they never promise anything. They tell you not to expect anything. Yet they keep talking. Keep delving little by little back through those walls you’ve painstakingly erected, only to once again leave you hanging. Will the women of our species ever learn? Namely, ME? Lol, sometimes I crack myself up. Oh, the heart is a time bomb; exploding with love, exploding with pain, exploding with indignity, exploding with rage, exploding with joy. 

Perhaps it’s truly time to dismount, hang up the chaps and spurs, and forget men for a while. I had though I’d already done that. But apparently that little horse of hope somehow managed to get me to climb back on board. And he threw me, hard. I had a helmet on; but apparently not enough padding. The bruises will heal and hopefully teach me the lesson I seem determined to repeat. 

Hope is a dangerous thing. Even when you think you have all the cards, he somehow slips an ace on you; blind sights you when you least expect it. You’re left picking your stupid ass off the arena ground, and that little pony bounds away bucking and nickering in mocking laughter. All you can do is stare after him and dust yourself off. 

Next time he comes around, you’ll know. 

Next time he bounds up to you with those soft eyes and silky coat, you hope you’ll be able to throw the lariat at him and drive him away instead of holding out a carrot to lure him in closer… out of hope. 

Next time, next time. 

Because there’s always a next time, isn’t there?