From: [email protected]
Subject: Nurse Jones asks: What's the Difference?
Date: 6 Dec 92 07:48:25 GMT
From Nurse Jones,
averti, in a perfectly serious post, wrote recently:
> Is it that different between little boys and little girls?
(*Snort!*)
I guess it's not safe to quote averti out of context. (Or in context,
for that matter.) Anyway, I think he knows the difference between
little boys and little girls. Although I was half-hoping a newbie
would try to explain things to him. His reaction would be worth the
price.
I could use lessons, though. Men are *so* exasperating. So are women.
Especially Neets. I think life would be much easier for me if there
were a third sex.
Anyway. I wrote this post last Summer after an argument with Jay.
-*-
Mid- Summer, 1992
Men. They'll never understand *anything*. Whenever I'm winning an
argument, Jay always says, "Now wait a minute, lets be logical about
this..."
Well really now, I ask you: what's the *matter* with him? Does he
think I argue because I feel like being *logical*? Are *all* men
complete idiots? Why in *heaven's* name would anyone think I would
want to take time out right in the middle of an argument to be
logical? I mean, let's get serious here. There's a time and place for
everything.
Of course, Jay says a logical discussion is the only way to be fair.
Well now, that's *exactly* the whole *POINT* isn't it?!? Every time we
discuss anything *logically* I *lose*. So I ask him how is *that*
fair, Mr. Smartypants? Logic your way out of that one. If you can. Of
course he couldn't. He just shakes his head. Completely overcome by
the splendor of my reasoning, he was.
I mean, *he's* supposed to be the intelligent one. I'm not supposed to
have to take time out from arguing to patiently explain all this to
him like he was a *child* or something. But I do. And *then*, after
all that, do you know what he says? Do you know the *best* line he can
come up with? That *I'm* being completely irrational. Hah! He's so
childish. He never admits defeat, even when I've got him trapped by
his own logic.
Ooooooo. He can be so infuriating sometimes.
I dunno. Sometimes he just has this rational streak and I can't do a
thing with him. It's hard to see how someone so smart could be so dumb
but there you are. I got so mad I forgot exactly where I was in my
argument and had to start over again and he lost interest.
And that's another thing! We can be arguing and *just* when I'm
hitting my stride and I get to the part where I say, "The trouble with
you is..." it becomes *perfectly* clear he isn't paying the
*slightest* bit of attention -- I mean, he'll turn on the *television*
for crissakes, and it's not like he's *trying* to ignore me, he's just
watching the tube while we argue -- so I ask him is he listening and
he says, "Um hum," without even looking away from the TeeVee so I wait
a few seconds and then I ask him, "Okay, Mr. Smartypants, if you were
listening what did I just say?" and he gives me a word-for-word
instant replay of everything I said. Verbatim. It's like he has this
playback feature. I have *never* caught him. Not once.
But he isn't listening! I KNOW he isn't! And worse: every man I've
ever known can do this. Even my father who can never remember
anything. It's like a secret weapon. Probably the result of millenia
of Natural Selection; all the men who *don't* have this playback
feature have been weeded out. By women like me. Because I would
*murder* him if I could actually catch him.
Women, men, men, women. I don't think this concept is going to work
out.
It's always "you women" this and "you women" that. That's all I ever
hear from you men.
Of course, *he* says "you women" [meaning me] are always wanting to
discuss "our relationships" to death. He says I should ask my "ASB
friends" if they see this tendency in me.
"I certainly will *not*!" I said. (Ahem. Do you?)
Besides, *I* know the *real* problem he has with me is that I always
know where things are. Especially car keys. He can't stand that
(*satisfied smirk*).
I don't think we'll ever understand each other. I have this theory
that it's because we belong to completely, totally, utterly different
sexes.
The problem is that men and women are unable to communicate. Our
brains are wired differently. If it wasn't for the fact that sex works
out like magic and that he comes with such useful accessories... a
penis, a good income, the ability to squash roaches, the ability to
make me laugh... feel special... But when we argue? We can snipe all
day and never understand each other.
I'm telling you, we've exchanged quite a few very frank words in our
respective languages.
Of course, *he* says we can't communicate because men are logical.
*He* says I'm not even domesticable. *He* says he doubts whether I
could even be taught not to talk.
So I said, "Hah!" and tried to think of a comeback that didn't involve
talking. Instead, I said, "Hah!" again and stormed out to mow the
lawn.
So he comes out and watches me. I thought he wanted to learn how come
if I'm so illogical I can start the lawnmower every time when he, even
though he's such a genius, can't. I have a magic touch when it comes
to small engines.
Well, *everybody* in Indiana has some kind of small tractor. This is a
little John Deere riding mower. I don't even know what all the bits
are, but I know how to wiggle them to make it work. He can't *stand*
the fact that *I* can start it whenever I want and he has to fiddle
for hours and flood it and run the battery down. And he *still* won't
ask how I do it.
I'd be perfectly happy to tell him. If he would ask. Nicely. Heh.
But will he? Of course not.
And that's *another* thing! Men have this childlike faith in the idea
that they can prove their superiority by not asking for help.
Especially by not asking for directions. You should watch him. He
unfolds the map and nods wisely and tries to tell me one inch equals
one mile. Right.
It's a wonder he even manages to feed himself.
Have you read about the 5000 year old caveman they found frozen under
a Swiss glacier? The *men* are all wondering how he came to be lost up
there. "We women" all know that if he'd brought his wife along *she*
would have asked for directions.
And then they wonder why we live longer. I mean, just *what* is so
*hard* about asking for directions?
One inch equals one mile.
I mean, really.
And he thinks *I* have no grasp of logic.
Anyway. He came out to watch me mow the lawn.
*I* thought he wanted to learn the Secret Ritual of the Butterfly
Valve or maybe take a short course in Throttle Massage but that wasn't
why he came out at all.
Oh, no.
*He* just wanted to watch me bounce over the lawn without a bra on.
And while I'm on the subject of men, that's another thing: what
exactly is so special about breasts? Why is it that men are so
obsessed with them?
And that's a perfect example of what I mean when I say "See what I
mean?" Whenever I'm winning an argument they change the subject. Have
you ever noticed that?
Anyway, breasts had absolutely *nothing* to do with whatever we were
arguing about.
Besides, I guess I can mow the lawn dressed any way I want. It's not
like we had neighbors or anything. He forgot we were arguing and
wanted to reschedule the mowing in favor of other non- yardwork-
related activities.
He could have had a very nasty accident climbing on the back of the
mower like that and grabbing me. Especially there. Anyway, since he
admitted I have *always* been *completely* right about *everything* I
decided maybe the mowing could wait. And that *he* could finish it. If
he can ever start the mower.
That was kind of a nice touch, I thought, winning several years' worth
of arguments retroactively. Hah. Read my tits.
I want you to know that was completely unintentional, but I *do*
sometimes take advantage of the fact that I have breasts. I mean, what
else are they good for? I tried belly dancing once -- not seriously --
but I can do this little sort of circular wiggle with my shoulders
that makes them do, well, interesting things, and Jay is instantly
transformed into a steaming tower of lycanthropic DNA. His blood
rushes out of his brain and takes the elevator down to sporting goods.
But even though these tricks work like clockwork, it's still a
mystery, isn't it? All this biology stuff?
I mean, breasts are nice, and soft, and yes, I love the feel of Neets'
against mine, but really, most of the time they are just sort of ...
there. That's really the only way to describe how I feel about them. I
mean when you think about it, what's the big deal?
Yes, yes, of course they are erogenous zones, but I don't think men
are interested in them as erogenous zones. I mean, they aren't
motivated by what my breasts do for *me*. They are motivated by what
my breasts do for *them*. Breasts are things to hold and fondle and
play with and look at. Like a new car or a computer.
Well, that might be an overstatement. Jay pays a lot of attention to
my feelings and sensations. He says that the feeling of a nipple
becoming erect against the palm of his hand while he's holding me is a
major turn-on. He's right, come to think. I have felt that feeling and
never thought much about it. It kind of tickles; it doesn't really
matter if it's my own breast or Neets', either. Jay's nipples dont
become erect. On the other hand...
Now that I think about it, it's *nothing* like feeling him become hard
under his jeans. Now *that's* comes under the heading of Major Turn-
On. Okay, yes, I'm a prick tease sometimes. It gives me a sense of
power. I especially like it when he's wearing his neatly pressed white
pants...
Ahem. Sorry, got sidetracked.
But *besides* Jay. When *other* men look at me they aren't interested
in my feelings except to the extent that most of them are discreet
about ogling.
And I suspect the real reason for their discretion is that they are
being careful not to get caught ogling. Not because they really care
about how I might feel.
I suppose I might as well ask why I am a bun conoisseur. I don't know
the answer to that, either. Fortunately buns are on the other side so
I get to ogle from behind without getting caught. This is a handy
feature.
Except at the fitness center where there are mirrors. One guy with a
perfect ass caught Neets and me making fools of ourselves behind him
once in the mirror. Talk about blushing. But that's another story.
On balance, though, I think men are more obsessive over breasts than
women are about anything physical. I think.
Come to think of it, when I was a kid I spent several years obsessing
over my breasts -- sulking around the house waiting for them to grow.
I won't tell you the idiotic things I did to try and hurry the
process; kids fall victim to a lot of folklore.
But I grew out of that; men seem to grow into it. Like two ships
passing in the night.
Maybe it's those pesky hormones. Jungle surplus software, as Jay says.
But Jay is a special case; fond as he is of the twins, he also loves
me for myself. But *other* men. I wonder if they even care who's
attached to them. At parties I often find men talking to my chest
rather than to me. I feel like I have to duck down about a foot to
make eye contact.
"Hey! Up here! Yoo hoo?"
Maybe I need a label. "This End Up." A tattoo would be good.
This is a pretty profound question, when you get right down to it. It
strikes at the very roots of the human psyche. We take these things so
much for granted that the average man is actually taken aback if I ask
him why he likes breasts. The average man is reduced to complete
confusion by that question.
Especially at parties.
8)
I know, I'm awful. The poor man.
Ask Michael Raymond Feely, Romantic, Mystical, Cynical, Rational,
Ideal Sweetypie about that incident. And no, it wasn't Michael.
Michael is a gentleman.
So anyway, why *do* men like breasts?
Not what kind; we already know the answer to that one.
*Why*.
Of course I asked Jay. He Who Knows Everything. The Deep Thinker.
He says it's the way they slope.
Oh, *very* profound, I'm sure. Slope? Slope?!? What the hell does that
mean, slope?
He explains: if I wear a sleveless t-shirt with big arm holes, he
likes the way the sides peek out. If I wear a low neckline it's the
cleavage. If I wear something tight it's the shape. Or my nipples. If
I wear something loose, it's the way they shift around.
I guess this is what passes for male philosophy or something. Nice to
see he's thought this out completely so he can explain it all to me.
Sheesh. If it isn't one thing it's um... the other.
Besides. I do *not* slope. Yet. I'm still this side of thirty.
Men.
If some female philosopher had written "I am my breasts," I bet men
would take her seriously.
We were discussing this very topic once when Neets suggested that we
go out on a foursome wearing huge falsies. Um, I mean Neets and me,
not all four of us, you perverts.
This was a serious suggestion on her part. As though it were some kind
of experiment that would answer the perfectly reasonable question I
was asking, namely What's the big deal with tits. I put my foot down
on that one. I mean, it might have been fun to see the reactions at
the bar, but jeez. Isn't that kind of demeaning? I don't believe Neets
suggested it. It's the kind of thing Jay would think of. Except he
would rather show off the real me. The ways he thinks of to do that
are embarrassing enough...
He bought me a bra last winter that is a perfect example. It reshapes
me into these unbelievable (unnatural) cones. Points, really. He wants
me to wear it in public under a tight sweater.
No way.
He insists he got this marvel of engineering in [a local department
store], but I can't believe they would carry something like this. And
I can't believe he would go into a lingere department and buy it,
either.
But at least *that* would be the real me. Sort of. The substance if
not the form. Aren't philosophers always arguing about Form and
Substance? Probably not in this context... unless they are men.
Maybe it's breast envy. Is there such thing as breast envy? How 'bout
it, fellas?
Okay, admission time: I know it's a cliche, but to be perfectly honest
I can think of several recent occasions when a penis would have come
in handy, so I guess I can admit to occasional penis envy, sort of.
Not that I would want a permanent one, but if I could just sort of
test drive a demo for a few weeks...
But just for a few weeks. In the long run, I think having all that ...
equipment ... dangling there in front of me all the time would take
quite a lot of getting used to. Especially if it's as vulnerable and
sensitive as they say. Isn't it inconvenient sometimes? I mean, of
*course* it's convenient in the sense of being centrally located, but
what about the rest of the time?
I suppose men *do* get to pee from the backs of speeding pickup
trucks. That is an important feature. Which Jay insists is clear proof
of male superiority. Can't argue with that...
Yes, I think I *would* like to try a penis for a week or so if it
could be arranged. Of course, Neets, who will try anything once, would
undoubtedly go along with the idea. Which is important. After all,
it's her pickup.
Anyway, ASB is the perfect place to ask. And where else would I get an
honest answer without getting arrested?
Besides, I'm dying to know: Do men suffer from breast envy?
I need to know this stuff...
Nurse Jones,
a woman
trapped in
a woman's body.
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