12 September 2013

So, I'm A Player

"You're a player," she sneered.

That was the accusation a young female co-worker made about me in mixed company a few weeks ago. Picture her: a snarky, loud-mouthed, fat-arsed little slapper, with bloated self-regard and Bolshevik self-righteousness, a veritable warthog in heels. In other words, a typical American girl.

"Moi?!," I replied in mock indignation. I hadn't considered it before. But I suppose it was true, if by player she meant a chap who likes the company of women. A lot. If so, guilty as charged.

But she explained that by player she meant that I see a lot of women and--here's the rub--that I talk about it. I don't hide the fact I have at times a rather full social calendar. I'm quite open about it, particularly when asked. Which I am, often, usually by ladies themselves. "How was your weekend?" I've nothing to hide.

I'm proud of the women I've managed to drag into my life then and now. Recall my marriage to a Middle Eastern hottie a few years ago, from a wealthy Levantine clan, whose patriarch escaped Germany after the war not because he was Bolshevik but because he was on the losing side. And take my most recent serious girlfriend: a beautiful California beach blonde who turned heads everywhere we went. And don't even get me started on the young Russian beauty straight out of that book by Lermontov.

No, what bothers my co-worker and other young women like her is that chaps can talk about it without stigma. And we do. Calling a man a player is a shaming tactic. For a man with choices, and who happily acts on those choices, is a threat to single women seeking commitment, and an example to young men. That's the danger they see. I get it.

Just the other day, as I strode past a group of senior bankers in conversation, one of the SVPs smiled and gestured towards me. "William, you walk around here like a fucking 27-year old stud."



GSL said...

Warthog in heels? Oh I know the type quite well. Those fat skanks start getting real bitter around 35as romantic prospects diminish and waistline thickens. I have counseled many a young hottie co-worker on how to outmaneuver before she sabotages their career. Keep walking the walk LBF.

Anonymous said...

You libel the proud warthog.

Anonymous said...

Like many depreciating commodities, the majority of women are better leased than purchased; therefore,
my stock answer to, "You're afraid of commitment," is, "No, I'm not afraid, I just don't want it."


NCJack said...

The other stereotypical snark, usually from the distaff divorced, is "All the good men are married". A friend whom NO one suspected of wit heard this once and immediately came back with "And, surprisingly, not to you." We applauded.

w. adam mandelbaum esq. said...

While for many years it was understandable why women were created with mouths, it wasn't until the advent of the 900 number that any sense could be derived from the fact that they were also created with the power of speech. now that the 900 number is rather a thing of the past, why are they still talking?

Anonymous said...

A thought--sexually transmitted diseases--so much action--what if one of those dreadful things were to bite you in the butt or elswhere?! I would assume not so much fun and I have to assume because I've never had one as of yet.
As you may have guessed, I'm a woman. I don't wear uncomfortable high heels or half clothing and yet I get noticed anyway. I'm a treasure. I wouldn't call you a player but rather a male whore who gives his soul away for free and for the fun of it. If I were your coworker, I would never have a comment on your private life because it would be none of my business and you wouldn't get any of my business/attention either.