Oh Do Evolve

I'm small. And I am weak. If you are stupid, I am your target. The last one of you who tried one of your tricks on me got it in the woods round here. I was taking an evening stroll, after work, with my girl - yes, there are a few who don't mind small, weak, men. She is plain which doubtless has something to do with, what must seem to you, her extraordinary magnanimity. And yes, I have heard your thoughts before. Many times. Expressed, out loud, by countless women over countless years - "Oh, you should build yourself up. I could never fancy a feeble man .  .  .  of course power isn't everything, but .  .  ."

Ah. That word 'but'. It's those little prepositions isn't it. It's those that betray your type of woman. The little 'but' word that brings to a stop your expressed words, yet reveals your fears of criticism from (strong) men you wish to bed, strong men who should be indifferent to your ape views on weak men, but who are incomprehensibly not. The little preposition that betrays the small smothered voice still there inside that says: "We've moved on, see. You primitive women should be an irrelevance by now." And what if the-love-of-your-life, your protector, your lifestyle provider, should actually be listening himself to that same smothered voice; and believe it, and turn to you, any moment now, and show you the disgust that's in his eyes. That little voice had better be kept silent lest it become a clamour and force your man to move on. And we men? Are we any further developed than you? Do I ever fall in love with a girl who dwells in a body that leaves me unaroused?

The last one of you to try your tricks on me, got it in the knees, down the woods, round here. Me with the accommodating girl, see. There's been progress, see. Because in this time, in this place, I'm the one with the gun, see. The gun. The Great Leveller. So this time, when the muscle-head strides towards us, me and the girl in the woods, the muscle-head intent on impressing the girl no doubt and possibly wanting her for himself (we'll never know now, will we) this time I'm a lethal danger to him though he has no idea of it. The muscle-head changes course, deliberately changes course, on the forest path and heads towards us. He's wearing one of those white t-shirts, short in the arm, where the fabric grips where the arm protrudes; and pants with tight legs which he proceeds to throw left and right as he swaggers towards us. He puts on his mask face as he stares straight at me, not blinking, not glancing to the side. Mask face, see - learned it in the play-ground, see; especially when there's a girl about; the girls see, they hate male aggression, that's true, but also they can't help themselves being revolted by a show of timidity in their boy either, see; then you make your move on the girl, or not, just as you wish. Bull-confidence, that's the important thing.  

I waited until he got close. Let's not be coy with one another - after all we're almost acquaintances already, aren't we. To be frank, and perhaps I'm not proud of it, I wanted to see whether the mask-face would flicker just before I fired. And afterwards! Oh where was the mask then? Ooooooo how he did complain? What a lot of fuss! Quite a surprising transformation really. 'Not fair' was the first moan. Seemed to have some set of baby-rules you were supposed to play by. 'What had he done after all? You musn't retaliate until you're touched' - I think was the gist of it. And there was more. 'The reaction was way out of proportion to his crime.' Apparently. Seemed to think that we (by now he was confusing me with the authorities) could only punish him within some limits he obviously had clear in his head. Oh, and there was a bit of complaining - 'Should defend yourself like a Man. Typical of a wimp like you. Fists or even a knife if you have one; of course I can beat anyone, but I wouldn't have done you too much damage, I'm not unreasonable .  .  .'

I walked away from the crippled lug after a while. He bored me. He bored me because he is, objectively, boring. But the thing that sticks in my mind and makes me put this account down, is the look in my girl's eye. As old lug-head was coming for me there was a brief sparkle in her eye, see. She could not hide it. Even now she thinks I never caught her at it, but I did. 

I know what you're going to say, you with your contemptuous looks, when you think of it. Really I do. And I know what she'll say as soon as she sees me again. And so I'll say it before you. "BOO!" There. That's done. Very clever of you, darlings.