Look at Anna Wintour or Condolezza Rice or at me. All owners of their own self, indepentent, articulate. They put the world in their pocket and headed on, on top of their four inch stilettoes. None convey any discouragement, frailty – after all, successful, beautiful (some), what could they complain about? Relationships aren’t a priority in their lives: their personal projects are much more important and grandiose than the perspective of having someone to eat with on a Saturday night. In fact, men are becoming more disposable and boring as we speak. Except for sex, we have in our girlfriends everything we could obtain in a man’s company, with the advantage of not having to leave out spurious and politically incorrect thougths in favor of elegance. The time has come when we suffice ourselves.
The above paragraph is a big lie.
Feminism has certainly been responsible for deep social and behavioral changes. If it wasn’t for the sad girls who burned all of those bras, I would be sitting here, knitting a vest for my fat husband, bordering insanity while taking care of our three fat kids. But the times have changed, society has changed, and women don’t need to show their fangs to do what they want with their lives – they just up and do it. The problem is all this endeavor for liberty left a certain residual bitterness, an insaciable necessity to prove self-sufficiency, a defensive and accusatory behavior towards men. Consequently, a generation of women who wonder around void, incapable of asking for affection, as much powerful as lonely, has been born.
On the eagerness of repelling everything that would mean living the lives of our grandmothers, we throw away an imense part of ourselves - something not even a bonfire of bras could change: our intrinsic need to give and to receive affection, to be allowed to be fragile when life is hard, to lay beside the man we love and, why not, to take care of him when necessary or desired. And as for company, they (some) are still better than a book. The truth is, underneath our implacable armor, our secret desire is to go back to being tender, and loose the fear that this may be used against us. And not feel pathetic if we sometimes want to be covered in chivalry. All we need is for someone to help us out of the tall fortress we built to protect ourselves, because it’s very cold up here.
"Source of an elementary human pleasure: to be guided by someone who knows where he’s going. Maybe our satisfaction on being led is related to a memory deep within us, of being literally carried around by our parents. It’s the pleasure a woman feels when being escorted by an expert dancer, abandoning every feeling of resistance she might have, leaving the work to be done by another.
Don Juan gave women the supreme fantasy. He became irresistible in the Romantic age, when the female voice began to assert itself. He attracted by the focused, individual attention he gave. While he twirled around her, he dedicated his every moment. When in his presence, she felt a change: time had a different rhythm, the feeling that everything stops for her, in the way that normal activities halt during a holiday. Nothing in a young man’s life is as important and useful as being well criticized by women. He who can't surround a woman in a way which she looses sight of everything he doesn’t want her to see, he who cannot create a poetic figure inside a woman’s mind is a klutz. Poeticism is an art. Empires have been torn down, elections have been won and great minds conquered.
Don Juan today, is the essence of the female fantasy of the perfect lover: fugitive, infatuated, daring. He gives them the unforgetable moment, the exaltation of the flesh, he desires in each woman all of womanhood. The reaction to this colossal passion beautifies. To be the fatal Don Juan may be the dream of many men. But to meet him, is the dream of every woman." Robert Greene
photo wonderbra
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