The Sexual Male Eunuch.

We’re supposed to be getting in touch with ourselves—not touching ourselves. So many of us get this wrong.

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Courtesy of Dreamstime

I practice alone a lot.” Woody Allen

A reader sent me an old Vonnegut quote after reading my article on men not being quite men anymore. I’d forgotten how similar Vonnegut and Woody Allen are (or were in Vonnegut’s case). Vonnegut once wrote: “The only person I ever helped to a first orgasm was little old me.” That must have sent Allen straight to the sock drawer.

Why are men practising alone a lot these days? Did we confuse “getting in touch with ourselves” with actually touching ourselves?

Or is gender equality causing more anxiety than we realize? We can’t wrap our heads around it, so we wrap our hands around — well, you know. It’s the only thing reminding us that we’re still “masters of our domain,” which isn’t much if you’ve seen our domains.

A male friend remembered Greer setting her hair on fire at a party. She was a strong advocate for change, revolution and possibly self incineration.

In Germaine Greer’s 1970s book, “The Female Eunuch,” she told women they need to be in touch with their own sexuality, since everything men do, and have done, and all the trappings of a male-dominated society, have served to “devitalize” women.

“The world has lost its soul,” she wrote, “and I my sex.”

Greer called on women to find the “freedom to run, shout, talk loudly and sit with your knees apart.” A male friend remembered Greer setting her hair on fire at a party one time. She was a strong advocate for change, revolution and possibly self incineration.

She also started what might now be called male Eunuchation. I know it’s not a word, but it should be. At least it’s more realistic than “the new masculinity.” That sounds like we’re being gently coaxed into maid’s uniforms.

In reality, it looks like men are the ones losing “their souls and their sex.” We search the sock drawer for new vixens, while women roam in angry mobs, taking up the banner Greer advocated nearly half a century ago.

They never should have gone to his room in the first place, but Hollywood’s not for timid sorts who think before they drink.

It’s not a bad banner as banners go, and probably long overdue, but obviously this has widened the gender gap. We’re being pulled apart, separated by our sex. We’re told men and women aren’t so much enemies as incompatible contemporaries.

Greer wanted revolution. She claimed men hate women and, as a result, women end up hating themselves. Somehow it went on a weird trajectory. Now men are hating themselves.

We’ve all “sinned in our minds,” as Jimmy Carter once said, which makes us low-scope versions of Harvey Weinstein. Recent reports allege he preyed on over 60 aspiring actresses. They never should have gone to his room in the first place, but Hollywood’s not for timid sorts who think before they drink.

Once the victims came forward, Harvey fled, and justice was served by bankrupting one of the few remaining independent studios. Revenge is sweet, especially for actresses like Rose McGowan, who videotaped herself wishing Harvey Weinstein a happy birthday with an eerie additional note.

It’s one of Rose’s better performances, and it’s enough to make all men “go turtle.”

“I told you we’d be coming,” she said. “I told you twenty years ago if I heard of you doing this to another girl or woman, we would come for you. I would come for you.” Then she whispers: “We win.”

It’s one of Rose’s better performances, and enough to make all men “go turtle.” We’re not sure what she means by “We win,” but it certainly raised her popularity. She got a publishing contract for her autobiography “Brave,” which should keep her flush until she verbally bitch-slaps Meryl Streep again.

McGowan’s a purist. She hated the idea of women wearing black dresses at the Grammies. Solidarity is all well and good, but fashion isn’t action. She wants a full-blown riot, taking down jerks who think actresses like assuming the doggy position while discussing contractual details.

Extremists aren’t Hollywood favourites, especially ones who shoot videos in what appears to be a washroom cubicle. I’m sure Rose’s birthday message sent a shiver down Harvey’s spine. The rest of us went to the sock drawer.

Why would we rather flagellate than defend ourselves? Because it hardly matters. Nobody’s drawing columns of good guys and bad guys anymore. We’re all in the same pot. That’s why “practising alone a lot” makes more sense than any form of new masculinity.

“I think [masculinity] has been much more deadly to men than it has been to women,” Eve Ensler, once said. “It hasn’t killed our hearts. It’s killed men’s hearts. It’s silenced them; it’s cut them off.”

Better to buck up like Vonnegut and Allen and beat our meat while we’re feeling despicable.

It’s not that we can’t get in touch with ourselves. It just seems forced and a bit too melodramatic for male dispositions. Better to buck up like Vonnegut and Allen and beat our meat while we’re feeling despicable.

Another reader commented on my last post, saying, “It could be a side effect of feminism. It’s made women lose touch with their femininity. Many men have replaced women with computer games and pornography.”

I take some exception to that, since I suck at games, and porn seems more forced than Mr. Rogers saying, “You’re a special person. We love you just the way you are.” You wonder if anyone goes off script anymore.

Well, certainly Rose McGowan went off script. She wanted us to feel shivers, to know there’s a day of reckoning. Maybe that time is now, or maybe there’s someone in the next cubicle saying, “I can’t spare a square.”

At least we know where to go to satisfy ourselves. That may be our future.

Some women taking exception to the “all men are jerks” directive, since they’ve been happily married for years, and if hubby’s a jerk, and two if the kids will be future jerks, what the hell is marriage about anyway?

To Rose they say, “You’re probably right about most men, but not my George. He’s my best friend, father to my children, and good to have around when the barbecue explodes.” This brings rousing cheers from other women who admit their barbecues have exploded a few times, too.

Rose gets a little nervous—and frustrated—around these types. Like I said, she’s a purist, and needs a full commitment. Besides, charred animal—exploded or not—ain’t good for you. Eat meat and you’re just as sick as men.

So scratch a few million mothers from the feminist ranks. They were weak-minded to begin with and deserve hamburger. Rose wants the committed, the angry, the molested. She wants solid haters which, if you believe the #MeToo Movement, represents women on a grand scale.

What does this mean to society in general? Certainly women are “shouting” like Greer advocated, which has a masculine tinge to it, much like us men retreating to the safety of our homes has a certain feminine tinge to it.

Seems the one thing we have in common is drawers. At least we know where to go to satisfy ourselves. That may be our future—if it isn’t already.

Robert Cormack is a novelist, children’s book author and blogger. His first novel “You Can Lead a Horse to Water (But You Can’t Make It Scuba Dive)” is available online and at most major bookstores (now in paperback). Check out Yucca Publishing or Skyhorse Press for more details.

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