My response to Stacy's "Metrosexual Man" article
Nothing sexy about metrosexuals
By Stacey Pressman
metrosexual (MET.roh.sek.shoo.ul) n. A dandyish narcissist in love with not only himself, but also his urban lifestyle; a straight man who is in touch with his feminine side. ?metrosexuality n.
My response to Stacy:
Yea, I agree with you on quite a few points there, Stacy. I, too, am a fan of the smell of fresh-pumped gasoline, smelly markers, fresh cotton sheets and, oh yes, autumn. That whole earthy, dry-leaf, acrid, first-fireplace-fire-of-the-season smoky draft, the smell of winter just around the corner (but oh, won't you enjoy these lead-grey skies with dappled streaks of harvest gold sunshine peeping through first?), the smell of pigskin and fresh ripped clods of dirt and man-sweat. I'm not talking rancid teenage gym locker room stench, I'm talking good, clean, guys playing football sweat. Mmmmmm!
Ok, so it's a little gross. I'm not beyond admitting that. In my defense, maybe it's a hardwired thing. No, I'm not a "bull dyke" or anything remotely close. Still, truth be told, if I'd had a choice, I'd have been a boy. I certainly have the competitive spirit; my partner, Sir Rivethead-gothboY, Lord of all the Brats, could tell you that. Unfortunately, my girly-girl body can't keep up with the ass-kicking threats that spew from my ever gabbing mouth. Dammit. If I COULD put my money where my mouth is, there'd be a sorry bunch of nancy-boys in my wake, believe me. How cool is it to be a guy? Very! Until this recent trend anyway
By Stacey Pressman
metrosexual (MET.roh.sek.shoo.ul) n. A dandyish narcissist in love with not only himself, but also his urban lifestyle; a straight man who is in touch with his feminine side. ?metrosexuality n.
My response to Stacy:
Yea, I agree with you on quite a few points there, Stacy. I, too, am a fan of the smell of fresh-pumped gasoline, smelly markers, fresh cotton sheets and, oh yes, autumn. That whole earthy, dry-leaf, acrid, first-fireplace-fire-of-the-season smoky draft, the smell of winter just around the corner (but oh, won't you enjoy these lead-grey skies with dappled streaks of harvest gold sunshine peeping through first?), the smell of pigskin and fresh ripped clods of dirt and man-sweat. I'm not talking rancid teenage gym locker room stench, I'm talking good, clean, guys playing football sweat. Mmmmmm!
Ok, so it's a little gross. I'm not beyond admitting that. In my defense, maybe it's a hardwired thing. No, I'm not a "bull dyke" or anything remotely close. Still, truth be told, if I'd had a choice, I'd have been a boy. I certainly have the competitive spirit; my partner, Sir Rivethead-gothboY, Lord of all the Brats, could tell you that. Unfortunately, my girly-girl body can't keep up with the ass-kicking threats that spew from my ever gabbing mouth. Dammit. If I COULD put my money where my mouth is, there'd be a sorry bunch of nancy-boys in my wake, believe me. How cool is it to be a guy? Very! Until this recent trend anyway