Metrosexuals are for Venus

I was enjoying a pitcher of Hamms at the only bar that really matters, reading the Onion and plotting the death of the world when I overheard the following conversation:

“So what am I doing wrong, you're a girl right? Help me out here, what do you find attractive in a guy?” He begins, unfolding an accoutrement in a way made more comfortable after several glasses of beer.

“I don’t know,” she says, fidgeting with the straw in her drink. The straws is bent over the top where she holds it while taking sips. “I guess if they smell nice, they dress good, if they have confidence.”

He sinks a little lower in his seat, taking aim at her with his cigarette, “Whaddya mean? Like give me an example.”

She stirs her drink a little then says somebody’s name.

He takes a sip off of his accoutrement, exhaling like he is in a movie. “Really? But he looks like a woman. I mean he’s got a huge forehead and a piss poor sense of humor. I thought that most women like a guy who is funny?”

She takes too long of a sip off of her drink, but he doesn’t pick up on it. She continues “We only tell that to guys to make them feel better. It’s kind of like when we tell a guy that their dick is the biggest one that we’ve ever seen.”

He’s taken aback at this and waves the waitress over for another beer. She begins again with “It’s like how most guys only know that they have to wear a brown belt with brown shoes and how black doesn’t go with blue; to guys that’s any black with any blue. Most guys don’t know that there are many different types of blue and most of them, outside of a navy blue actually do go with black.”

“It’s like my entire world is crumbling in on me.” he says in a way meant to change the subject.

She wants none of it, the great train of woman has finally begun to roll and for one shiny moment a poor bastard is cornered and will have to learn the means of fashion. Her diarrhea of the mouth centers on attention to detail; there might be a need to establish a base color within a wardrobe followed by how nobody in their right mind should ever wear a one color shirt and for heaven’s sake do try and wear a decent pair of shoes.

He fires up another cigarette, “But he’s an asshole. All he cares about is himself?”

I considered buying him a drink, trying to ease his pain but his ego is far too fragile and a drink, however much to sympathize with him could be misconstrued. Instead I call up my faithful slave Pedro. Despite his feline handicap he begrudgingly picks up the phone and listens to my instructions on inventorying my wardrobe and then taking a quick polling of all of the women in my cell phone.

I quicken my pace through the rest of my pitcher and head home where Pedro is pleased with the polling results and the rudimentary graphs that he’s made. I quickly tear them up demanding just the facts!

With 7.5% of all the women in my phone accepting polling (that’s two out of fifteen), a number that was higher than anticipated, Pedro discovered that my overall sense of fashion has gone from Hangover Chic to Simply Sympathetic. After I stared at him blankly, he explained in cat tongue that this was a good thing. Showing me, via evolution chart, that I had matured, that I had gone beyond drunken and loose women and onto the level of woman that would now like me out of sympathy.

He reiterated that this is a good thing, I’m making positive steps in life.

He’s a good cat.