Fungibility

                A friend of mine got me to thinkin’.  (NOTE TO GUYS: When a woman gets to thinkin’ as opposed to merely thinking, this is always trouble for you.  NOTE TO GALS: it’s a man’s lack of thinkin’ that leads to trouble.)

                After giving The Girls a slow once-over, my friend sweetly exploded, counting on his fingers.  “God, you are cute, and smart, and gorgeous, and sexy—“

                I shouldn’t have interrupted him, but there it is: I did.  Yeah, stupid, I know. Go figure.  “Then why don’t I have a regular gig?”

                He winced.  “Who the hell cares, darlin’?  You’re cute, and smart, and gorgeous, and sexy. And, good God! ”

                But, at that point on that particular night, I cared, quite frankly.  I’d had it up to here with the fish/bicycle analogy.  Yes, I have my shit together and no, I don’t need a man to validate my existence, complete me, and tell me I’m pretty/smart/funny/sexy (nevertheless, it is very, very nice when a man does just that).  All high ideals and the various leather-vs.-flannel-clad schools of feminism aside (except stiletto feminism), I was missing the sensation of being the inside spoon and feeling someone comfortable, familiar, warm and hairy against my back and something equally familiar and always exciting poking my butt at 3 a.m.  But I acknowledged almost immediately that not just any familiar, warm, hairy body and exciting poke will do in the long run. 

                Aye, therein lies the rub.

                And this got me to thinkin’.

                I remembered a conversation I’d had a few weeks back with a young man about fungible goods.  He was intrigued by the term.

                “Men see women as fungible.  Women see men as fungible.”  I said, acknowledging this statement was a gross generalization but, in my experience, true 90 percent of the time.

                This led to the dictionary being retrieved from behind the bar.  (Yes, they have a big, thick, well-used one handy at my favorite establishment.)  The young man and a friend looked up fungible and noted it was a legal term.  Fungible goods are those goods easily exchanged.  Like money, for instance:  you can put a $20 bill in your bank account, then go withdraw $20 from an ATM and have the same thing in the eyes of the law, even though it is not the same $20 bill.  You can dump a bushel of wheat in California, travel to Connecticut, get another bushel of wheat and have the same thing (assuming it is the same strain, grade, etc.).  Money, grain: they’re fungible goods.

                He was intrigued.  “Fungible?  How so?  How do men treat women as fungible?”

                I explained and I was brutally honest, though I tried to be sweetly brutal.

                A very wise woman once used the analogy that most men are like drivers of taxi cabs: they pick up women and drop them off, pick up women and drop them off, though some rides are longer than others.  These fares/women may or may not have similar goals, values and lifestyles, but that doesn’t really matter.  Why? Because, for the most part, men don’t think of women as people: they only actively listen to women when they (men) think it will get them access to the Lady Garden of Earthly Delights – just like a cabbie makes small talk hoping for that big tip.  To most men we’re walking pussies with the annoying habit of talking about feelings and wanting things – like nonsexual attention and one of those gosh-darned careers.  A taxi-cab man goes through life doing this exact same thing over and over until a little light on the dashboard goes on.  The light’s timing varies from individual to individual.  When that light goes on, cabbies start to think about permanence and – PRESTO – the ring (or its equivalent) makes its appearance in the cabbie’s life.  The next woman who steps into the cab after the light goes on gets the ring.  Period.  No thinking about common values or compatibility.  No stopping to consider whether she is a good match or even an approximation of his particular vision/version of the perfect woman.  None of that matters to him in the moment because she is A Woman and the timing is right for him.  One woman is pretty much the same as the next:  all cats are gray in the dark.   This is the Dashboard Light Syndrome: he just needs A Woman who will feed him, fuck him and leave him alone.

            The young man didn’t ask about women seeing men as fungible. (Telling, no? Walking pussies, perhaps? To be fair, I think I scared the shit out of him.) In the interest of accepting half of the responsibility for why things is so fucked up, I’ll share the woman side of the equation, as well.  Ahem.

                Women, on the other hand, accept the offer of the ring for two different reasons: one, they are under the widespread delusion that men willingly and completely change when involved with the right woman.  Women are generally more cognizant of values, compatibility, and all the et ceteras.  But, two, all that knowledge tends to get lost because women view men as fashion accessories – like a Coach purse or Gucci shoes – no ensemble or female persona is complete without a man.  Women are programmed into this absurd way of thinking by (most, albeit earlier) Disney movies, literature, popular culture and each other. (E.g., when I left my ex, a woman I work with made the asinine remark, “What’s the matter, can’t keep a man?”  Didn’t matter that I left because my ex couldn’t keep up with me in second gear, much less overdrive – in her eyes, I had failed because I had the vagina and was now without a man.)  So when the cabbie’s dashboard light goes on, the next woman in the cab accepts the offer of the ring to complete her ensemble and enhance/complete her personal image.  The man can be molded given time, proper instruction and perseverance.  A man is merely the raw material from which a woman makes her ideal.  See, it doesn’t matter that he’s more into fly fishin’ than French cooking: he’ll change.  Prince Charming is not born, he is made – and made by Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty or Snow White. So here is the Compatibility After the Fact Syndrome:  a woman just needs A Man to be a complete woman in her own mind, the eyes of society and particularly in the eyes of other women – and she doesn’t mind taking on A Project as part of the deal.  (Note how incompatible this is with the cabbie’s needs, above.  Good luck being left alone, dude.)

                Hence, both sexes treat each other as fungible: one will do as well as another.  This is why so many committed heterosexual relationships fail.   Each partner needs a member of the other sex, rather than desiring one very unique and compatible member of the opposite sex.

                So why am I not in a long-term relationship?  Because I want that one individual man who is compatible and whose desire for Titania outweighs his need for A Woman.  I want a long-term relationship with a man I see as unique in himself, whom I desire more than any other man, and who sees Titania as Titania and desires her more than any other woman on the planet. 

               Yeah, I know:  it’s a tall order. But I’m a stubborn little cuss.

                Now, before you go all Eminem on my ass, let me tell you this:  I do not see my lovers as fungible.  They are unique individuals who, for one reason or another, are not compatible with me in an out-of-the-bedroom sorta way.  We are like tennis partners who espouse opposing political philosophies:  we can play well together on the court, but must agree not to discuss socialized medicine.  My lovers are each unique (e.g. and to oversimplify, one is more skilled than the others, one is funnier, one is drop-dead gorgeous, one is very well endowed and has an incredible personal scent, etc.).  Once we step outside the boundaries of the tennis court, we are under no obligation to set a date for a rematch, though many have occurred.  So far, this has taken care of my most pressing sexual business and I am grateful to have each and every one of them in my circle of friends.  I learn something from each one of them – though rarely (okay, dammit, never) in the sexual sense.

                So there it is:  I don’t have a regular fellah because I refuse to be fungible and refuse to treat men as fungible fashion accessories.  This means I’m not currently in a regular gig and don’t get a regular 3 a.m. poke that leads to a sleepy fuck.  I can and will wait. The asinine woman at work can suck it.

                Oh, and my friend?  He’s hot as hell, funny, talented, sexy and smart – but entirely off limits.  Although he did introduce me to a rather intriguing cutie Saturday night.  Disappointingly, Mr. Cutie-pants didn’t ask for my phone number, but it’s rather early in the match.

Tennis, anyone?  Pineapple juice after?