The Compromise,” is part 2 of my series titled The Male Perspective,  a monologue that I wrote long ago about the complex relationship between a guy and his girlfriend. Usually, we hear this type of subject matter from a female perspective, so I thought why not look at things from the male perspective for a change. What makes this monologue fun is that it’s written by me, so inadvertently it’s about how I perceive men in relationships. It’s split into small little chapters only a page long, usually, which makes for a quick, fun read. How does this connect with The Diary of a Wrinkle? Well, it still involves women’s issues that we can easily relate to.

THE MALE PERSPECTIVE

     Part 2

“The Compromise”

I needed that rest; gotta rest up a bit before the next sleepless night.

How do I know that I’m going to have another sleepless night?

What was I talking about last time? Oh yeah, the landscaping issue.

You’d think that she’d be receptive to it, willing to give it a try,

at least once.

It’s erotic, some might say kinky, and almost every woman I know does it.

But no—not her. She likes it natural! Huh? No, no, she does shave her

legs. Come to think of it, she’s a hypocrite. The armpits? I can’t remember

her pits. They’re probably fine, otherwise I’d remember.

And this is what she had to say on the subject matter: she told me that

animals emit certain scents in order to attract the other sex, and that

humans do the same. Except that in our society, we stupidly obsess over

these natural scents, and go out of our way to eliminate them.

Hold on, I know that it’s all common knowledge, but she continued to

preach, telling me the reason that women have pubic hair is that it

could absorb and trap the scent even better! For me that tidbit of

information was a complete revelation. I told her that someone’s been

misleading her all these years, because where I come from it’s not

considered a scent—it’s noxious, and more like . . . well there’re plenty

of adjectives to describe what it’s like.

She steamed with rage, definitely infuriated by my casual response.

“You pervert,” she said, “d’you want me to look like a five-year-old”?

I certainly didn’t expect this sort of reaction, so I suggested a

compromise instead. I asked whether she’d agree to trim it a bit on

top, and only shave the bottom.

“And make a little Hitler?” she screeched. “The little bit of hair

above—it looks just like Hitler’s mustache,” she attempted to explain

her outburst. But I didn’t see her point, I thought she was ridiculous.

I admit that I have very specific grooming needs, but those didn’t warrant

a distorted interpretation of my request.

She seethed with anger, her face turned red, and it took her a few

seconds to compose herself and speak again—actually yell. “You

have the nerve to nickname my vagina after Hitler, when you’ve

always known that some of my relatives had actually perished

in the Holocaust?”

It never ends—the constant arguing and bickering over every single

thing. And I’m so tired. But no, it didn’t end there either. She said

that the only way she’d consider a compromise was if I were to

compromise as well. Naturally, I thought, wasn’t that

the nature of a compromise in the first place? She’d give in to some of

my needs, and I’d agree to some of her needs, but I had no

clue of what she had in mind.

You really want to know what she had in store for me?

She said that she would trim, a little, nothing that would

resemble Hitler, or any other dictator for that matter, only

if I’d shave my balls, regularly. I said no! And she explained

that many men engage in body grooming—that hairy men

were not in vogue any longer—that she too preferred the

smoother look.

I thought about it, after all she did have a point there.

However, the squatting with a raiser pointed to my

nether regions coupled with the delicate nature of

that area, and possible injuries conjured up a very

disturbing image in my mind. Not to mention the

constant dedication to my groin, and not the kind

of dedication I’d be proud of.  I decided against it

and she didn’t take my decision lightly. She couldn’t

understand my reasons for not doing it, and why my

body should get preferential treatment, while she was

subjected to constant demands.

“What demands”? I pondered, when in fact I was merely

trying to suggest something that would benefit

her mostly. She dragged this one out for a long time,

and I completely lost interest in the entire topic of conversation.

But thinking about it now, had she only heeded my advice,

sure, I’d be a happier man, but she too would’ve looked

so much better in a bathing suit, and felt more confident

without that offensive bikini-puff between her legs,

don’t you think?

THE END