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Nurse Jones asks: What's The Difference?
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Subject: ARCHIVE: nj.men.Z
Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage
From: [email protected]
Subject: Nurse Jones asks: What's the Difference?
>From Nurse Jones,
averti, in a perfectly serious post, wrote recently:
> Is it that different between little boys and little girls?
(*Snort!*)
I guess it's not safe to quote averti out of context. (Or in
context, for that matter.) Anyway, I think he knows the difference
between little boys and little girls. Although I was half-hoping
a newbie would try to explain things to him. His reaction would be
worth the price.
I could use lessons, though. Men are *so* exasperating. So are
women. Especially Neets. I think life would be much easier for me
if there were a third sex.
Anyway. I wrote this post last Summer after an argument with
Jay.
-*-
Mid- Summer, 1992
Men. They'll never understand *anything*. Whenever I'm winning an
argument, Jay always says, "Now wait a minute, lets be logical
about this..."
Well really now, I ask you: what's the *matter* with him? Does he
think I argue because I feel like being *logical*? Are *all* men
complete idiots? Why in *heaven's* name would anyone think I
would want to take time out right in the middle of an argument to
be logical? I mean, let's get serious here. There's a time and
place for everything.
Of course, Jay says a logical discussion is the only way to be fair.
Well now, that's *exactly* the whole *POINT* isn't it?!? Every
time we discuss anything *logically* I *lose*. So I ask him how
is *that* fair, Mr. Smartypants? Logic your way out of that one.
If you can. Of course he couldn't. He just shakes his head.
Completely overcome by the splendor of my reasoning, he was.
I mean, *he's* supposed to be the intelligent one. I'm not
supposed to have to take time out from arguing to patiently
explain all this to him like he was a *child* or something. But
I do. And *then*, after all that, do you know what he says? Do
you know the *best* line he can come up with? That *I'm* being
completely irrational. Hah! He's so childish. He never admits
defeat, even when I've got him trapped by his own logic.
Ooooooo. He can be so infuriating sometimes.
I dunno. Sometimes he just has this rational streak and I can't
do a thing with him. It's hard to see how someone so smart could
be so dumb but there you are. I got so mad I forgot exactly where
I was in my argument and had to start over again and he lost
interest.
And that's another thing! We can be arguing and *just* when I'm
hitting my stride and I get to the part where I say, "The trouble
with you is..." it becomes *perfectly* clear he isn't paying the
*slightest* bit of attention -- I mean, he'll turn on the
*television* for crissakes, and it's not like he's *trying* to
ignore me, he's just watching the tube while we argue -- so I ask
him is he listening and he says, "Um hum," without even looking
away from the TeeVee so I wait a few seconds and then I ask him,
"Okay, Mr. Smartypants, if you were listening what did I just
say?" and he gives me a word-for-word instant replay of
everything I said. Verbatim. It's like he has this playback
feature. I have *never* caught him. Not once.
But he isn't listening! I KNOW he isn't! And worse: every man
I've ever known can do this. Even my father who can never
remember anything. It's like a secret weapon. Probably the result
of millenia of Natural Selection; all the men who *don't* have
this playback feature have been weeded out. By women like me.
Because I would *murder* him if I could actually catch him.
Women, men, men, women. I don't think this concept is going to
work out.
It's always "you women" this and "you women" that. That's all I
ever hear from you men.
Of course, *he* says "you women" [meaning me] are always wanting
to discuss "our relationships" to death. He says I should ask my
"ASB friends" if they see this tendency in me.
"I certainly will *not*!" I said. (Ahem. Do you?)
Besides, *I* know the *real* problem he has with me is that I
always know where things are. Especially car keys. He can't stand
that (*satisfied smirk*).
I don't think we'll ever understand each other. I have this
theory that it's because we belong to completely, totally,
utterly different sexes.
The problem is that men and women are unable to communicate. Our
brains are wired differently. If it wasn't for the fact that sex
works out like magic and that he comes with such useful
accessories... a penis, a good income, the ability to squash roaches,
the ability to make me laugh... feel special... But when we argue?
We can snipe all day and never understand each other.
I'm telling you, we've exchanged quite a few very frank words in
our respective languages.
Of course, *he* says we can't communicate because men are
logical. *He* says I'm not even domesticable. *He* says he doubts
whether I could even be taught not to talk.
So I said, "Hah!" and tried to think of a comeback that didn't
involve talking. Instead, I said, "Hah!" again and stormed out to
mow the lawn.
So he comes out and watches me. I thought he wanted to learn how
come if I'm so illogical I can start the lawnmower every time
when he, even though he's such a genius, can't. I have a magic
touch when it comes to small engines.
Well, *everybody* in Indiana has some kind of small
tractor. This is a little John Deere riding mower. I don't even
know what all the bits are, but I know how to wiggle them to make
it work. He can't *stand* the fact that *I* can start it whenever
I want and he has to fiddle for hours and flood it and run the
battery down. And he *still* won't ask how I do it.
I'd be perfectly happy to tell him. If he would ask. Nicely. Heh.
But will he? Of course not.
And that's *another* thing! Men have this childlike faith in the
idea that they can prove their superiority by not asking for
help. Especially by not asking for directions. You should watch
him. He unfolds the map and nods wisely and tries to tell me one
inch equals one mile. Right.
It's a wonder he even manages to feed himself.
Have you read about the 5000 year old caveman they found frozen
under a Swiss glacier? The *men* are all wondering how he came to
be lost up there. "We women" all know that if he'd brought his
wife along *she* would have asked for directions.
And then they wonder why we live longer. I mean, just *what* is
so *hard* about asking for directions?
One inch equals one mile.
I mean, really.
And he thinks *I* have no grasp of logic.
Anyway. He came out to watch me mow the lawn.
*I* thought he wanted to learn the Secret Ritual of the Butterfly
Valve or maybe take a short course in Throttle Massage but that
wasn't why he came out at all.
Oh, no.
*He* just wanted to watch me bounce over the lawn without a bra
on.
And while I'm on the subject of men, that's another thing: what
exactly is so special about breasts? Why is it that men are so
obsessed with them?
And that's a perfect example of what I mean when I say "See what
I mean?" Whenever I'm winning an argument they change the
subject. Have you ever noticed that?
Anyway, breasts had absolutely *nothing* to do with whatever we
were arguing about.
Besides, I guess I can mow the lawn dressed any way I want. It's
not like we had neighbors or anything. He forgot we were arguing
and wanted to reschedule the mowing in favor of other non-
yardwork-related activities.
He could have had a very nasty accident climbing on the back of
the mower like that and grabbing me. Especially there. Anyway,
since he admitted I have *always* been *completely* right about
*everything* I decided maybe the mowing could wait. And that *he*
could finish it. If he can ever start the mower.
That was kind of a nice touch, I thought, winning several years'
worth of arguments retroactively. Hah. Read my tits.
I want you to know that was completely unintentional, but I *do*
sometimes take advantage of the fact that I have breasts. I mean,
what else are they good for? I tried belly dancing once -- not
seriously -- but I can do this little sort of circular wiggle
with my shoulders that makes them do, well, interesting things,
and Jay is instantly transformed into a steaming tower of
lycanthropic DNA. His blood rushes out of his brain and takes the
elevator down to sporting goods.
But even though these tricks work like clockwork, it's still a
mystery, isn't it? All this biology stuff?
I mean, breasts are nice, and soft, and yes, I love the feel of
Neets' against mine, but really, most of the time they are just
sort of ... there. That's really the only way to describe how I
feel about them. I mean when you think about it, what's the big
deal?
Yes, yes, of course they are erogenous zones, but I don't think
men are interested in them as erogenous zones. I mean, they
aren't motivated by what my breasts do for *me*. They are
motivated by what my breasts do for *them*. Breasts are things to
hold and fondle and play with and look at. Like a new car or a
computer.
Well, that might be an overstatement. Jay pays a lot of attention
to my feelings and sensations. He says that the feeling of a
nipple becoming erect against the palm of his hand while he's
holding me is a major turn-on. He's right, come to think. I have
felt that feeling and never thought much about it. It kind of
tickles; it doesn't really matter if it's my own breast or
Neets', either. Jay's nipples dont become erect. On the other
hand...
Now that I think about it, it's *nothing* like feeling him
become hard under his jeans. Now *that's* comes under the heading
of Major Turn-On. Okay, yes, I'm a prick tease sometimes. It
gives me a sense of power. I especially like it when he's wearing
his neatly pressed white pants...
Ahem. Sorry, got sidetracked.
But *besides* Jay. When *other* men look at me they aren't
interested in my feelings except to the extent that most of them
are discreet about ogling.
And I suspect the real reason for their discretion is that they
are being careful not to get caught ogling. Not because they
really care about how I might feel.
I suppose I might as well ask why I am a bun conoisseur. I don't
know the answer to that, either. Fortunately buns are on the
other side so I get to ogle from behind without getting caught.
This is a handy feature.
Except at the fitness center where there are mirrors. One guy
with a perfect ass caught Neets and me making fools of ourselves
behind him once in the mirror. Talk about blushing. But that's
another story.
On balance, though, I think men are more obsessive over breasts
than women are about anything physical. I think.
Come to think of it, when I was a kid I spent several years
obsessing over my breasts -- sulking around the house waiting
for them to grow. I won't tell you the idiotic things I did to
try and hurry the process; kids fall victim to a lot of folklore.
But I grew out of that; men seem to grow into it. Like two ships
passing in the night.
Maybe it's those pesky hormones. Jungle surplus software, as Jay
says.
But Jay is a special case; fond as he is of the twins, he also
loves me for myself. But *other* men. I wonder if they even care
who's attached to them. At parties I often find men talking to my
chest rather than to me. I feel like I have to duck down about a
foot to make eye contact.
"Hey! Up here! Yoo hoo?"
Maybe I need a label. "This End Up." A tattoo would be good.
This is a pretty profound question, when you get right down to
it. It strikes at the very roots of the human psyche. We take
these things so much for granted that the average man is actually
taken aback if I ask him why he likes breasts. The average man is
reduced to complete confusion by that question.
Especially at parties.
8)
I know, I'm awful. The poor man.
Ask Michael Raymond Feely, Romantic, Mystical, Cynical, Rational,
Ideal Sweetypie about that incident. And no, it wasn't Michael.
Michael is a gentleman.
So anyway, why *do* men like breasts?
Not what kind; we already know the answer to that one.
*Why*.
Of course I asked Jay. He Who Knows Everything. The Deep Thinker.
He says it's the way they slope.
Oh, *very* profound, I'm sure. Slope? Slope?!? What the hell does
that mean, slope?
He explains: if I wear a sleveless t-shirt with big arm holes, he
likes the way the sides peek out. If I wear a low neckline it's
the cleavage. If I wear something tight it's the shape. Or my
nipples. If I wear something loose, it's the way they shift
around.
I guess this is what passes for male philosophy or something.
Nice to see he's thought this out completely so he can explain it
all to me.
Sheesh. If it isn't one thing it's um... the other.
Besides. I do *not* slope. Yet. I'm still this side of thirty.
Men.
If some female philosopher had written "I am my breasts," I bet
men would take her seriously.
We were discussing this very topic once when Neets suggested that
we go out on a foursome wearing huge falsies. Um, I mean Neets
and me, not all four of us, you perverts.
This was a serious suggestion on her part. As though it were some
kind of experiment that would answer the perfectly reasonable
question I was asking, namely What's the big deal with tits. I
put my foot down on that one. I mean, it might have been fun to
see the reactions at the bar, but jeez. Isn't that kind of
demeaning? I don't believe Neets suggested it. It's the kind of
thing Jay would think of. Except he would rather show off the
real me. The ways he thinks of to do that are embarrassing
enough...
He bought me a bra last winter that is a perfect example. It
reshapes me into these unbelievable (unnatural) cones. Points,
really. He wants me to wear it in public under a tight sweater.
No way.
He insists he got this marvel of engineering in [a local
department store], but I can't believe they would carry something
like this. And I can't believe he would go into a lingere
department and buy it, either.
But at least *that* would be the real me. Sort of. The substance
if not the form. Aren't philosophers always arguing about Form
and Substance? Probably not in this context... unless they are
men.
Maybe it's breast envy. Is there such thing as breast envy? How
'bout it, fellas?
Okay, admission time: I know it's a cliche, but to be perfectly
honest I can think of several recent occasions when a penis would
have come in handy, so I guess I can admit to occasional penis
envy, sort of. Not that I would want a permanent one, but if I
could just sort of test drive a demo for a few weeks...
But just for a few weeks. In the long run, I think having all
that ... equipment ... dangling there in front of me all the time
would take quite a lot of getting used to. Especially if it's as
vulnerable and sensitive as they say. Isn't it inconvenient
sometimes? I mean, of *course* it's convenient in the sense of
being centrally located, but what about the rest of the time?
I suppose men *do* get to pee from the backs of speeding pickup
trucks. That is an important feature. Which Jay insists is clear
proof of male superiority. Can't argue with that...
Yes, I think I *would* like to try a penis for a week or so if it
could be arranged. Of course, Neets,wwho will try anything once,
would undoubtedly go along with the idea. Which is important.
After all, it's her pickup.
Anyway, ASB is the perfect place to ask. And where else would I
get an honest answer without getting arrested?
Besides, I'm dying to know: Do men suffer from breast envy?
I need to know this stuff...
Nurse Jones,
a woman
trapped in
a woman's body.
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