LinkedIn and then some
It’s very strange to be a male. We live in two distinct worlds. One where we are who we are and a distinctly different one when our penis begins becomes engorged. Nowhere is that more apparent than when I’m scrolling down the list of people I might want to connect with on the LinkedIn site. For those of you who haven’t completely embraced the social networking part of the internet you might not be familiar with it but most of the rest of us have spent hours wrestling with the big decisions of how to best describe ourselves so that the people reading our profiles would in no way confuse us with who we really are.
As a writer I try and pretend that I’m a big-time author with a legion of fans. To that end I list my books and where I’ve contributed stories and what I’m working on now and a picture that will best express to the literary world that I am nobody to trifle with.
At least that’s the basic idea behind the site.
The reality is as soon as I see pictures next to the names of women on the site it immediately becomes a dating site.
I’m literally trying to connect with all the cute girls. It’s sad and pathetic and goes against every strategic boner in my body but there you have it. I’m feverishly scrolling down past old publishing executives and overweight literary agents in the hopes I’ll see some girl fresh out of college looking to be exploited by a golden-tongued self-publisher.
Yes, I understand that if I spent a few months connecting with those decrepit hags who actually make decisions and can influence my career than I might possibly get signed to a lucrative deal that would afford me the opportunity to actually have sex with beautiful women and I agree whole-heartedly right now but you don’t understand how my body works.
Right now I understand that clearly. I get it.
Because I’m not looking at any pictures of women. My blood is in my head. Put me in front of a list of people with their pictures next to them and all of the important decisions I’ll make in the next 20 minutes will originate from below the waist.
It’s fucking pathetic. I’m like a dumb animal. I will literally start deleting women who have been in the industry for decades and who could impact my future with the slightest waggle of their finger and instead I’m inviting the waitress trainee at Applebee’s because she looks hot in her hair net. What’s worse, I actually try and rationalize the decision to myself. That I want to be a ‘writer of the people’. And by ‘people’ I mean young women. I don’t think I’ve asked a man to connect in a month. My damned account started off like a sausagefest because I didn’t know how to see the list of people to invite. Now I know.
In my head all I see are dozens of possible vaginas.
I know, I know! Before you recoil in horror that I actually typed that just know that I’m not happy about it either!
And every girl that accepts my request then has their profile looked at with an avarice that would make a silverback gorilla queasy. I figure out in my head how we could meet, where we could meet and how long it would take me before I was plowing away.
I look at the pic and try to picture what her breasts look like. I swear that I can tell from a headshot which girls like to do it in the men’s room of a jazz club.
And then I try to convince myself that I’m a serious writer looking to build a career and that my time online is critical to my eventual success or failure.
I’m scrolling down until I finally hit the girl that has me clicking out of the LinkedIn site and heading full steam to a porn site where I can relieve myself of that salty burden.
I know, I know!
I fucking know.
Every site is a dating site to a man. Don’t kid yourself. If there is a cute female in the picture I will whack it to a crime scene photo. The sex act is king.
Try as I might to follow through with such musing, following them to their unwanted pregnancies, emotional complications or syphilitic conclusions, the simple fact is that I will do anything to feel my DNA go hurling forth into the damp recess of a cute stranger. Anything before or after that transaction is of little consequence. Fuck my career, fuck my writing, just as long as I fuck something.
And that’s the reality of being a man.
So spend all the time you want on your resume ladies. List all your titles and your accomplishments and awards. Go to town. Knock yourself out.
Just know, I (and every other red-blooded man) don’t give a shit. I’d much rather bang your assistant than get a request from you to send in a copy of my book. When I’m sitting there erect I couldn’t even tell you the name of any of my dumb books. Not when I’m LinkedIn.
Let me choose between a book deal and ten minutes in the men’s room of a truck stop with your daughter and the one thing I can guarantee you is that I won’t be writing dick.