Men's Health Magazine
Turning us into a metrosexual wimps…

A couple of years back, a college-age African American girl showed up at my doorstep. She had the kind of look on her face that told me that she was in "foreign territory" and perhaps needed my help. As it turned out, she was not in any kind of danger. I was.

She immediately launched into a rap about selling magazines to earn money for college so she could get out of the ghetto and away from a neighborhood of drugs and crime. Now, as Eugene only has a population of about 5% blacks, and no discernable ghetto, I was confused. However, she quickly explained that she was from Chicago, and was here as part of a team gaining experience in different cities across the country. After learning more about her life, her goals (she wanted to go to nursing school) and realizing that no matter how much of her story was true, she had guts to be pitching her magazines to a 50-plus-year-old guy after dark, in the cold and wet of February. So I decided to buy a magazine from her. Gumption gets rewarded in my book.

The list of magazines offered was narrow, and really slanted toward women. The only things I could find on the list that appealed to me whatsoever was "Rolling Stone," (to which I already subscribed) and something called "Men's Health," which promised to change my life by sculpting my body and mind for success in a Men's World! How could I go wrong? I was a man. I was at the age of needing some sculpting. So I filled out the form and wrote a check for $48.

Two years later, I am still getting Men's Health. I don't remember how many issues I bought, but it would appear that this will be part of my life of years to come. Has it changed my life? You bet!

I now realize that I am not a "real man," unless I shave my body hair, get my body fat down to less than 12%, and finally admit that I know nothing about making a woman happy in bed.

That last one seems to be the most important aspect of being "healthy" as a modern man. In any given issue, between articles like "30 minutes for great abs, as you are waiting for your power lunch with your broker" (real men like to multi-task), you will find at least one, and usually two to three articles about figuring out how to find, conquer and please a woman sexually. In almost every case, I am left with the feeling that men are simple "dumb-sticks" with no emotion, no compassion, and absolutely no concept of female anatomy.

The first tip-off that the editors and writers of "Men's Health" don't have a freakin' clue about what makes women tick, is that every article about "pleasing a woman" has huge lead-in headlines and captions printed under pictures of excruciatingly gorgeous, early-twenties, almost naked women.

Here's a clue, guys…if a woman, especially a woman who you might be trying to impress, finds you reading a magazine article with a half-naked picture flying off of the page into her face, you are toast. You are not getting laid. Do not pass go. Do not collect your box of lubricated- ribbed (for her enjoyment) condoms.

Second, if she finds your magazine with that article dog-eared, and then you DON'T actually take the time to rub her back, caress her legs and arms, and worship her erogenous zones the way you would fifty-yard line tickets for the Super Bowl, then she will think you are either a REALLY slow learner, or the most selfish assclown to ever don a pair of bikini Calvin Kline's in history…and you will never see her again.

What in the name of God has happened to "real men?"

According to "Men's Health," I must now either trim or shave "down there," as well as wax or shave the rest of my body. I must get facials, exfoliate my feet, elbows and knees, as well as make the decision to dye or go natural when the gray hair starts showing up (I won't have to worry about chest hair or "down there" because the gray will have been whisked away). I will have to understand dressing casual, while making sure my jeans are pressed and wearing my Gucci loafers without sox. I must wear clothes that make sure she knows I am sporting a six-pack of abs, have well-defined lats and bi/triceps without ruining the effect by being "too muscle-bound." I must whiten my teeth, including the possibility of porcelain caps if my teeth are showing wear from 50 years of eating. And I should learn to carry myself with an air of confidence while seeming to be vulnerable whenever she asks personal questions. I am not to push my ideas or opinions upon her, while not appearing to be disingenuous or indecisive. But most of all, I am supposed to know the perfect minute to lean into her with the kind of first kiss that will melt her heart along with her will, so I can whisk her off to bed for hours, and hours, and hours of incredible sex.

Holy, freakin' Cripes! No wonder men join fantasy sports leagues. Juggling 250 fantasy baseball teams is a hell of a lot easier than getting laid!

I am so very, very happy that I have been happily married for a quarter of a century. I am REALLY happy that my wife likes my big, hairy, graying, and far more than 12% body fat, body. I am equally happy that after all of that time, I know just which buttons to push, and that sex is not only regular, but also incredibly efficient. We know each other well enough sexually, that several hours of our brand of sex would be lethal!

I don't want to be a metrosexual. I don't want to shave and wax. After more than twenty five years of being together, (3-5 times a week times 1,300 weeks) I am pretty damn satisfied sexually, and don't really worry about "that secret thing you can do with your tongue that will drive her wild," because my tongue has already been-there, done-that, moved on to something that doesn't make her giggle.

I mostly shop at Target, Shopko and Men's Warehouse, because they have clothes that fit me and my aging, former football player's huge thighs and barrel-chested, with now expanding waistline of a body. I shower every day. I use "Irish Spring" soap, "Old Spice" deodorant, and I can't remember the last time I used cologne. I pluck the weird hairs out of my ears and nose, and even the occasional strange face-hair on my cheek (the escape eye-lash turned whisker-hair- those suckers have deep roots!) and am careful to clip any "Andy Rooney's" from my eyebrows. I need reading glasses to perform these tasks.

Every time I get an issue of "Men's Health" I read less and less of it, realizing that the "men" that they are targeting are younger, and a hell of a lot less secure about themselves than I am. And I chuckle to myself that "real men" don't have to read about how to please a woman…they just ask "what would you like me to do to make you feel great…" and they do it. Even if it means making dinner, doing the dishes, and letting her sleep. However, THAT'S the kind of "foreplay" that is almost guaranteed to get you some "lovin' tween the sheets," later that night.

I also wonder if that nice girl ever became a nurse…and if she is into giving sponge baths to hairy old guy.