I'm not Henry Cavill
Because people mistake me for him all the ****ing time. Which is weird, because people mistake me for Idris Elba too, and Idris and Henry look nothing alike. Yet I can't walk down the street without ...........without exactly no one mistaking me for either of those men. And that means something. I'm not sure what it means, but it can't be anything good, can it? So if you've read this far, GTFO now while you can. There are things once seen you can't un-see, once known you can't un- know, and once experienced you can't un- experience. Warned you.
So it seems that not looking like Henry Cavill has consequences. He and I are apparently the same height. There the similarities don't just end, they stop like an egg hitting concrete. I still cut a decent figure and did so especially when younger, but an almost adolescent skinny figure. Women who noticed most often said they couldn't sleep with me for reasons like I'd make them look fat, or they'd break me. Six women I can think of, because I keep a list, have offered unsolicited comments along those lines. One who weighed maybe 120 and who didn't break me when we did sleep together..... and look at me, I'm in here dropping censored f bombs and then going all "sleep together". Hands over your ears and eyes 13 yr olds, we didn't actually sleep.
So anyway the woman who risked harming me or her self esteem by sleeping with me said, you guessed it, she had been afraid she'd break me until we did our sleeping and she was able to see and feel that I wasn't all that spindly and looked kinda buff naked. Floating on a balmy breeze of that awful external validation, I tried going to work shirtless for a couple of weeks. However, I only got cold and a bit rashy from the tweedy office furniture, and then a visit from HR who firmly intoned that I was no Henry Cavill, and so please conform to the dress code in the future. Balmy breeze my a$$.
This silliness is inspired by two threads on the forum here, one in "psychology" and one in "relationships". The one in psychology is about how women struggle with their appearance, and I have no ****ing idea what the other is about, but a comment or 3 mentioned ol Henry. Actually Jason Momoa was getting more love, but he's not even real I can't think about him so I won't you can't make me.
The thread in psychology was filled with sweet, vulnerable accounts of women struggling to see their beauty. And I wanted to say something, but what could I say? That I understand? That I can relate? We all know that can't be true. I'm a dude. But it felt true, like spring time.
I thought of starting a thread about men's insecurities, but it felt like appropriation, and besides, men wouldn't likely have much to say. The first ****ing rule of fight club, and all that. But I've never known a man really well who wasn't afraid that in some important way he wasn't enough, or who didn't look at me at some point with a look that spoke the unspoken. Then some quick small talk in case he'd crossed a line. By admitting, mutely, that he was afraid.
A very kind woman on the forum summed up her feelings as a fear that she'd disappoint. That word, disappoint. Like longing or hope, it covers so much ground. I read it and spoke it aloud and it resonated for me like the bee loud glade. Disappoint.
Do I disappoint the woman I love? Does she, me? Are we what's left of our longing, our hope? Are we bound together in our slow dripping dread that we're not enough? Is our love more than the cover we've pulled over our head when the floor creaks at night, or the collar we turn against the wind and rain? I wonder. I hope. I so long to know.
And I'm not Henry Cavill.
So it seems that not looking like Henry Cavill has consequences. He and I are apparently the same height. There the similarities don't just end, they stop like an egg hitting concrete. I still cut a decent figure and did so especially when younger, but an almost adolescent skinny figure. Women who noticed most often said they couldn't sleep with me for reasons like I'd make them look fat, or they'd break me. Six women I can think of, because I keep a list, have offered unsolicited comments along those lines. One who weighed maybe 120 and who didn't break me when we did sleep together..... and look at me, I'm in here dropping censored f bombs and then going all "sleep together". Hands over your ears and eyes 13 yr olds, we didn't actually sleep.
So anyway the woman who risked harming me or her self esteem by sleeping with me said, you guessed it, she had been afraid she'd break me until we did our sleeping and she was able to see and feel that I wasn't all that spindly and looked kinda buff naked. Floating on a balmy breeze of that awful external validation, I tried going to work shirtless for a couple of weeks. However, I only got cold and a bit rashy from the tweedy office furniture, and then a visit from HR who firmly intoned that I was no Henry Cavill, and so please conform to the dress code in the future. Balmy breeze my a$$.
This silliness is inspired by two threads on the forum here, one in "psychology" and one in "relationships". The one in psychology is about how women struggle with their appearance, and I have no ****ing idea what the other is about, but a comment or 3 mentioned ol Henry. Actually Jason Momoa was getting more love, but he's not even real I can't think about him so I won't you can't make me.
The thread in psychology was filled with sweet, vulnerable accounts of women struggling to see their beauty. And I wanted to say something, but what could I say? That I understand? That I can relate? We all know that can't be true. I'm a dude. But it felt true, like spring time.
I thought of starting a thread about men's insecurities, but it felt like appropriation, and besides, men wouldn't likely have much to say. The first ****ing rule of fight club, and all that. But I've never known a man really well who wasn't afraid that in some important way he wasn't enough, or who didn't look at me at some point with a look that spoke the unspoken. Then some quick small talk in case he'd crossed a line. By admitting, mutely, that he was afraid.
A very kind woman on the forum summed up her feelings as a fear that she'd disappoint. That word, disappoint. Like longing or hope, it covers so much ground. I read it and spoke it aloud and it resonated for me like the bee loud glade. Disappoint.
Do I disappoint the woman I love? Does she, me? Are we what's left of our longing, our hope? Are we bound together in our slow dripping dread that we're not enough? Is our love more than the cover we've pulled over our head when the floor creaks at night, or the collar we turn against the wind and rain? I wonder. I hope. I so long to know.
And I'm not Henry Cavill.
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