On Being a “Dude”

Twice in two days I’ve now been grouped with the stereotypical male population by people who don’t know me. The first was a suggestion – let me get the quotation right – that I “think most things girls say are dumb.” That one was a bit humorous, if flagrantly incorrect. The second was the suggestion that I must find it impossible to be platonic friends with a woman because I am a “dude.” These comments (and some others – notably a teacher in Florida who met me and thought I must be a player because I was dressed in a nice shirt and had stylish glasses) have given me pause.

The implication is that my penis defines me. Hmmmm.

Well, I am a dude. I certainly enjoy seeing scantily clad beautiful women. I like to fantasize about the kinds of women that Hollywood and Madison Avenue have taught me to fantasize about. I drank the Kool-Aid when it comes to sexual desire. I prefer women who have smarts, but as a young woman told me the other night, smarts look really good in a school girl skirt. Still, liking smarts doesn’t make me special; most dudes like smart women, especially smart, sexy women in school girl skirts (or sexy shoes or nice lingerie or whatever). In fact, I would say that I like women just as much as the next guy.

Actually, I would say that I appreciate women as people more than the next guy (at least the stereotypical next guy). Still, I don’t mean to imply that these other guys are lacking. In fact, I don’t think it is at all normal for me to think the way I think about gender. It’s difficult, and often it isn’t very rewarding.

Let me explain:

At a certain point in my life, for what I thought at the time were very good reasons, I sacrificed being a sexual being so that I could become the best empathetic support a certain someone could possibly have. This is the same move that nuns make when they swear themselves to the church. The difference is that I made this move so that I could support the person in this world I most desired at the time. To be clear: I did not simply stop having sex – many of us do that regularly (and find it quite irritating, to be sure). I eliminated my sexual desire. It had to cease to be.

By the time it was safe to become a sexual being again (which is a conversation for a different time), I had become a real feminist, a supporter of BUFFY and the Call to Men foundation, a gender-studies-kinda-person. I learned how to be the person I wanted to be. I spent years – basically the same amount of time it takes to get an MD – studying and experiencing and learning and growing in my approach to gender. I now see women as people, primarily, even when they (and most men) still see me primarily as a person with a penis.

But what does it mean to see women as people, primarily?

• It means developing the ability to empathize deeply with experiences that I cannot physically share with women.
• It means to be “in touch” with myself in ways Hollywood denies for men (and therefore to have the ability to be “in touch” with the feelings of others).
• It means to ask what a woman needs and actually listen to her tell you – something men are almost never taught to do.
• It also means I get very frustrated when I hear otherwise intelligent women reading from a cliché script which is meant to please stereotypical men (and the fans of Kim Kardashian) – if you watched the interviews with the Victoria Secret Angels, you know exactly what I mean.
• And it means I get very frustrated when I hear women intentionally place women below men (as in the argument that no woman could make a good President).
• It means that a woman is just as safe from prying eyes or wandering hands changing in the room with me as she would be changing with any of her “girl-friends” – but it also means that I understand why she might not feel comfortable changing in the room with a big hairy ball of testosterone standing nearby.
• And it means I get sad when I am only seen as a big hairy ball of testosterone.
• And I get mad when other men make me look bad because I do pack a penis. (Guys, stop being octopi unless a woman asks for all eight of your arms to grab her, and stop seeing women as objects to “hit” rather than as fellow journeyers in this life.)

I could go on, but you get the idea.

And I hope that the above-mentioned people will get to know me, because I’m fabulous (and I’m sure they are fabulous as well).