Woman was put here on this earth to castrate man. Now understand I don’t mean this in the literal sense. The actual act of a woman taking a sharp object and whacking off a man’s penis is an aberration and rarely happens. Thankfully. I use the word to refer specifically to symbolic castration. By definition it means to emasculate, to make a person weaker or less effective, to deprive a man of his male role or identity. I’m adding to cut off, to cut down, to cut up, to cut a man away from an abject of his love, or desire.
Any man that has been, while speaking, verbally cut off, any man that has been severely castigated and yelled at and cursed by a woman has, in fact, been cut down. Any man that has been berated and insulted has been cut up and rendered into pieces. And if these acts have taken place in public then he has been publicly castrated.
The weapons that a woman has to carry out the acts of castration are manifold and quite effective. The man that walks across the room, extends his hand and requests a dance only to be rejected has just had his hand cut off and because he is then stabbed in the leg he is made to limp back to his seat until he heals enough to try again. I’ve seen some men move to the first woman’s friend take another whack and move on down the line. Having finally obtained a dance he can eventually walk back to his place with some vestige of pride and not have to crawl. This may seem like a trivial example but men understand and deep down inside women know exactly what has transpired.
In the early 1980s I was living in Atlanta, Georgia and I frequented one of the more popular clubs there. On this particular night I drank a couple large glasses of Courage with a double shot of Bravery and took my customary prowl through the club. I was looking for a woman to approach. A woman that inspired me to action. And there she was! She was sitting near the isle in a booth with her girlfriends. I eased up and introduced myself and using what could be considered a weak line but was actually the truth, which was a mistake, I explained that I came to the club quite often and had never seen her there before and I asked her if she lived in Atlanta. She said no she was from a little place further south and I forget the name now so let’s call it Hell. I responded, “Oh really, born and raised in Hell?” The knife she had concealed in her throat jumped onto her tongue and turning she looked at me with daggers shooting from her eyes and raising her voice she said, “No, born and reared in Hell. Animals are raised, people are reared.” She then sucked on the straw in her drink. Bleeding profusely I immediately staggered from the club and going home I threw myself across the bed and lying there I waited until the blood ceased to flow.
In the mid 1980s I was living in Los Angeles, California. I was in Chicago, Illinois with several co-workers on business. We had completed our assignment and while getting ready to hit the club I heard on the television how it was unseasonably warm for the middle of March and how more normal cold temperatures were on the way back. At the club I saw a woman sitting at the bar who appealed to me. I went to the bar and while standing next to her I ordered a drink. After receiving my order I turned to her and explained that I was visiting from Los Angeles. I asked her if she thought it would snow while I was there. When she turned directly towards me I recognized the danger and shifted to avoid the full brunt of the attack. She said, “Who do I look like to you, the weatherman?” I almost laughed but she wasn’t making a joke and I had to get to the bathroom to check the wounds. I put cold compresses on my eyes and when I was able to see again I went back out and continued the night.
Now I know, some may wonder if on these occasions I had been obnoxious. I categorically deny this. I was then and still am a rather nice man. Others may wonder if perhaps I was offensive to look at and we’ll have to come back to that. Let me say that in those days, if I chose to, I could go into a club, embark upon the hunt with the goal being a capture, wearing a four-hundred dollar suit with a thousand dollars worth of jewelry on and stepping in two hundred dollar shoes. None of that matters. When a woman goes to a club she puts on a beautiful dress, erotic shoes, enticing lipstick, seductive perfume and packs every sharp weapon in her arsenal. She prepares for battle with her goal being a clean and deft evisceration. The only time a woman is not fully armed is at work, the grocery store and in church.
What I wear affords no protection. Once I remove that armor and it’s thrown across the chair and my golden protective ornaments and diamond lucky charms have been taken off and stashed in my shoes under the bed, I’m naked and defenseless. Then I’m in woman’s world. Where once I was hard, proud and erect I become soft, flaccid and shriveled. And when I come to my senses, weakened and spent, having once looked down upon a woman I believed I had subdued and mastered I discover the woman looking down on me. My manhood and strength having been drained from my body.
In the mid 1990s I was living in Tobaccoville, North Carolina. One afternoon I was at work sitting in the lunchroom watching a woman that was watching a man replenish the candy and snacks in the machine. She stared at him and I shuddered because I had seen that look before. She asked him if he was married and he said he was and added that he was happily married. She went after him and cut him down. Eight months later he was getting a divorce and the woman had the Mailman up against the wall with a knife against his groin. Of course I mean that symbolically.
So, returning to the question of my looks. It really doesn’t matter in the end which is more important than the beginning. If that were the case the handsome movie stars would be spared their end. Nothing can save the rich, handsome, virile athlete from castration. No man gets a reprieve. My stature doesn’t matter. From the candy man to the sanitation worker to the truck driver to the doctor, lawyer, mayor, congressman, senator, presidential hopeful, president, king and emperor each at one time or another has been cut down and then cut up. A woman can skillfully slice the money from a man’s pocket and chop up his houses and cars and then divide his finances and cut away her fifty percent or more, with the precision of a surgeon.
Today a man can meet a woman and pat her down and peer into her purse and run his fingers through her hair in search of razor blades but it’ll do no good. If he doesn’t find the weapons on her then believe me when I say they are definitely in her. In the most dangerous of places.
The ability to castrate is inherited having obviously been handed down throughout time. It started with Eve didn’t it? Delilah didn’t cut off the hair on Samson’s head. It was his pubic hair with a slight mishap in the process.
Women are the most powerful creatures on the face of this earth. It could also be argued that they are the most mysterious and confusing. A renowned doctor, the father of Psychoanalysis, a man that could read minds and look deep into the souls of humans once famously asked, “What does a woman want?” Even he was bewildered. Well I’m here to tell you the answer. It’s simple. A woman wants to castrate a man. That’s what she wants.