Pimps, Pervs & Sex Pigs: Dancing With A Man-SkankBy Shawn Baker / Monday, September 12th, 2011
Class: you don’t need money, titles, or status symbols to have it, but — but — it’s either in you or it’s not. Some men move through life with a poised, quiet, dignified stoicism that’s magnetic in its gravity. Other guys, well… their big contribution amounts to throwing it around town like paperboys.
There’s countless epithets you can hurl at a woman’s easy virtue, and society tends to bifurcate the female identity into a virgin/whore mirror image, yet I found myself struggling to come up with derogatory terms to classify a less-than-courtly man in my title. We wouldn’t even have gay porn if it weren’t for a certain type of man with boundary issues who says “A daisy chain on top of a bar?! Where to I sign!?” with nary a reservation, and some men are just born with the perfect hustler mentality that allows them to take risks the rest of us would balk at. As bad as the cliche is, I imagine deep down that most of us crave a hot piece who’s a dreamy angel in the kitchen and a heat-seeking whore in the hay.
If all the recent political sex scandals have taught us anything, it’s that hetero men don’t seem to marry the sort of women they find attractive deep-down; the good wife is all for show, and the klieg light blonde side dish (or weirdly, less attractive but more-willing-to-please beta chick) is there to do everything she won’t. Sex for me is often more frustrating than not in that sense. I find that I attract sweet, kindly guys with absolutely no edge whatsoever and utterly contemptible dicks who want to defile me and sell me to human traffickers afterward.
The truth is, I very much want someone in the mid-range: a sexually threatening rebel who’s witty without being pretentious, bristles against the whole corporate gay thing, works with his hands yet reads, and will take charge sexually without making me feel like I just got hit by a mack truck. He looks like he belongs on Hot Chicks With Douchebags, but he listens to Julee Cruise and paints.
I suspect this man only exists on True Blood.
Anyway, there are love dreams and then there are balls-out sexual fantasies, and I have to admit that Prince Charming hardly ever turns up in the latter for me. Seriously, we all have scenarios and players in our heads that make us ashamed. I personally have a motley crew that includes Roger Ward from Mad Max, the dad and the brunet son from American Chopper, juiced-up ass freak Vince McMahon, fuck machine Tommy Gunn, and pretty much the entire cast of Tool Academy on regular rotation, and what ensues is never tasteful or artistic. Yep, some guys are for lovin’ and others are ideal for filling out the wife-beatered cast of your own personal Roughneck Gang Bang 4: The Dickening.
Man-skanks belong frequenting the boulevards, cutting through dance floors like sharks, and standing before neon-lit cheap hotel room windows with guns in their waist bands and bags of purloined loot on the beds. All of them have their price, and each knows he’s got a pre-set expiration date on him.
It’s that used, predatory quality that’s so worryingly enticing with the male skeezer. Somehow, the fact that Tom Hardy, at a mere thirty-three, looks like a walking billboard warning of the dangers of Hep C only makes him that much hotter. Some guys just have a look that conveys their ability to craft a shiv out of a toothbrush or dispose of a corpse on a dime.
‘Tis a pity he’s a whore…
If you project a dewy fresh innocence — and I do! — then you’re essentially catnip to these prowling ne’er-do-wells. I’ve had men whip out their dicks through car windows at me, and I can’t even begin to guess the vast quantities of GHB I’ve successfully avoided ingesting. Most carry some sort of business/calling card that’s designed to veil their dark dealings with some sham legitimacy, and all can estimate your street value on sight. Pigs have reached down the back of my pants and actually snapped my underwear, which I have to admit is a pretty daring gambit. I’ve even been approached on the street by Jersey Shore-bodied types with chinstrap goatees and side-cocked caps who chat me up to get a hit on whether I’m new in town and have ever wanted to be a model.
“Totally! I wanna be in a moo-veeeee!”
Make no mistake: these men will lead you to ruin, so if you get involved with one, make damn certain that you’re the party with the least emotional involvement and always one step ahead of his game. Also, be prepared to take him down and run for your ass. You’re the frog accepting a ride from the scorpion in this dance, and as is the outcome in any noirish dalliance, somebody’s gonna get stung. Don’t be the Yasmine Bleeth to his Richard Grieco.
The lone law etched in stone in the jungle of the Man-Skanks:
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