The Daily Minutiae

It seems like I'm sneaking across the front lines in the dead of night every time I do, though.  The conviction!  Sometimes it almost feels like women think men get together and convene about what the next salvo of jerks we're going to send their way will be like.

This article I found today has me convinced that somewhere out there women have a two-word nomenclature for men.  It's probably in feminese or chicklish or some language every man wants to learn.  I just have to look a little harder, I guess.

The Homme Fatale (or grammatically correct, L'homme Fatal) is apparently manhood's answer to the age-old Femme Fatale stereotype.  The writer describes L'homme Fatal as just the opposite to its fatal female counterpart: intellectual, not necessarily attractive, self-effacing, but somehow still confident.  L'homme Fatal plays the emotional game, and rarely pushes for physical relationships, which, coupled with their typically boyish features and voice, makes them seem innocent. Once they're in, they wait a few months and then bail without a word.

The result?  A woman-devastating marvel with effectiveness somewhere between Russia's new conventional "father of all bombs" and a full-on T-850 series Terminator.

These new operatives in The Battle of the Sexes are reportedly very hard to detect.  They are normally flanked by a posse of women that would otherwise be out of their league, which can be mistaken for almost anything.  A relative, a gay friend, a boss, or even a sugar daddy.

You know, I don't think this is anything new.  We skinny runts have been around for ages.  I hate to say it, but women are finally just catching on.  First to go was the spousal abuser, and we can all agree that was for the better.  Then they went after the one-night stander.  And now the average dude looking for a pretty lady is under the gun.  [Enemy code name: emosogynist]

For L'homme, it is all looking very fatal.  Who knows?  Maybe one-night stands will be fairy tales for our grandchildren, which isn't a bad thing, only a sign of the times.

Yes, very fatal.

-Alexei Barrionuevo

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/09/13/world/americas/13chile.html

Chile's Sexual Awakening

-photos by Tomas Munita

http://www.nytimes.com/slideshow/2008/09/09/world/20080913CHILE_index.html?ref=americas

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For me, this article echoes memories of Craig.  "Craig" was the name we had given to the Chilean exchange student our senior year, for what reason, I'm not sure.  He just looked like a Craig, though I argued Kenneth.

Before Craig's suave, misogynist aura offended his first host family the last time, the predominately-female household ate him up.  He was everything a small-town Ohio girl would want from a South American exchange student: ever-bronze skin, good eyes, kind of tall, aloof most of the time.  Him and I had grown close and he confided that his father back home owned a perfume store so he always smelled as some put it "scrumptious."

For an exchange student, Craig was a young gun.  If I remember, we took him out for wings for his birthday, and I'm pretty sure he turned 17 then.

His age wasn't flushed out until he started talking to my alumnus friend Mara.  At the time Mara was 19 and took Craig to be like the rest of the exchange students and out of high school already.

Craig thought he was really bad:

She walked away.  "I've got her in ...  hmm ... how is said ... ah, bolsillo?"

"Pocket, Craig?" I asked.

"Yeeah.  I've got her in my pahkett," and he punctuated with a smirk.

"You like how that sounds, huh?"

"Yeeah," he belched.

He went with her after whatever function it was we were at and I let him go.  In the week that followed, I had to cover for Craig because his family had a grudge with Mara and wouldn't let their supposed young love blossom.

Then by the next weekend Mara had some words for me.  Craig was starting to creep her out and "court" her.  Yes, she used "court."  He would kiss her hand and try numb-nuttedly to smooch her.  She wasn't very happy about not mentioning how young he was.

Reading this article and looking at those pictures, I can't help but wonder where Craig is and what kind of obscene shock he's gone through.  It wouldn't take much to get ahold him --just a few clicks and a Facebook message-- but I can't help but wonder what he would say if I said I wanted to visit sometime. 

I can see the response now, just like the one my Bolivian friend's already given me, "You need to get your butt down here.  I can get you all the girls and ... you can't believe it, man!"

"That's what I should do, Mitchell," I confided to one of my new Scripps friends at dinner, "I should be a sex critic.  Do those even exist?"