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To me the subject of men crying is pretty easy:
Imagine the ideal paragon of a masculine alpha male. He's got three hot young college girls bent over his bed in a foursome, drilling them and thrilling them with his rabid piston-like ramming and endless stamina, tossing them around like juggling balls. They love him. They'd do anything for him. They would rip a baby right to shreds right on the bed if they thought it would appeal to him or make him devote even a second more of his attention to them. They caress his muscles like a rare and invaluable diamond. They would die for him, kill themselves for him. He is their God because of his pure testosterone-fueled magnetism and charisma.
Maybe in another scene he's fixing a car, sweat and grease smeared across his brow, his 40 year old MILF neighbor that he's doing a favor for wishing she was in the first scene instead (and maybe she will be after the car is done). Maybe in another scene he's surfing, programming (a nice masculine, logical activity), kicking someone's ass, cleaning a gun, humiliating someone verbally with his impenetrable wit, or making millions of dollars.
But in any scenes of his life, is he crying? And if he is, is he letting a woman gawk at it?
So who would you rather be? Would you rather be him or would you rather be given fake pity applause by women for your "emotional sensitivity?" Sure, most of us here will never be that close to this perfect Super Chad Infinity, but would you rather get closer or further away?
And maybe you have a nice wife or girlfriend who is decent enough to tell you that there's nothing wrong with crying and it just shows that you're exquisitely in touch with your feelings unlike some other unenlightened caveman.
But when her fingers snake beneath the waistband of her panties in those idle moments, who is she fantasizing about? Again, who do you want to be?
I'm a man so no. If anything this all turns me off, because any amount of inadequate I am by comparison to Super Chad makes me feel less sexy and thus less sexual.
Sorry, but I don't really buy that you're some sort of amazing unicorn. I think your panties mentally drop when you see a guy who mogs your husband on traditional masculine axes same as every other woman, whether you want to admit it here or to yourself or not.
I also bet he scores a lot more highly on those traditional masculine axes already than you're letting on, which allows you to enjoy his "unbelievably adorable" side, and that if he didn't you might instead find it to be some combination of childish, infantile, creepy, and/or off-putting. (Let's hear his height, BMI, facial width, bicep size, jaw depth, ring/index finger length ratio, penis size, grip strength stats, test and estrogen levels, etc.)
Cute online persona though.
I never said you needed to be Super Chad. I'm not Super Chad, I have a girlfriend who isn't quite Super Stacy (though she's a decent bit more Stacyish than I am Chaddish, due to psychological manipulation techniques I learned from autistic men on the Internet), and we're pretty happy together. But it's obvious from certain tells that, though I don't think she has any plans or explicit intentions to branch swing, when she's around a man who mogs me her mind wanders as is natural.
And that's fair, because so does mine. Sometimes when I fantasize I imagine her and sometimes I imagine a more symmetrically babyfaced and plump-lipped milky pale cosplay weeb goth DDLG bimbo with a way bigger ass (which I'm sure secretly hurts my GF's feelings a bit since she has a pretty large one herself which is her obvious main immediate charm point at least physically as a woman, and she knows I'm a big booty addict), larger tits, wider hips, and longer legs (who is also shorter, as somewhat ironically, at least according to some study I read once, men like women who are shorter but also still longer-legged).
We still argue half-joking about my head supposedly "flying off my neck" to ogle a girl at Publix who had an ass the size of a baby stroller (and wasn't otherwise fat) tucked into the tightest yoga pants imaginable (which again pissed her off extra for the aforementioned reason that anal appeal has been her charm point since she realized at like 7, or so she says, and I'm an ass man). And I know she does the same when she encounters (comparatively rarer) rock-hard abs, just a bit more subtly since she doesn't have nearly as many autist tendencies as me. You can't negotiate with instinct and biology.
So no, I can't be Super Chad. But again being a little bit more like him seems to me like a worthier result than getting kudos from a woman for being Oprah material. Nobody is turning their heads to look at the guy who cries really well.
Basic question: On a sexual/lustful/physical/primal level, are you more attracted to Super Chad or to your husband? You tellingly refuse to directly address this issue.
That's just it. They're not your panties. They're the panties of all womankind, even those who don't wear them, even those who were around before they invented them.
Sure, why not? You're using him as a comparative example but you won't disclose the size of his hog? That is completely invalid in the world of male comparative rhetoric.
It's not erotica. If you were reading my erotica, you'd be looking at 20,000 more words minimum.
I'm not hyperfixated on him. It's not even a "him", just an obvious masculine ideal proven by a simple thought experiment: If any man could turn himself into Super Chad Thundercock Infinity 3000 with the push of a magic machine's button, what percentage would refuse? Does anybody seriously believe it would be many at all, that even most "male feminists" wouldn't jump at the opportunity? Would you refuse a magic Super Stacy upgrade? Sex = money and power = greater acquisition of desires = enhanced satisfaction.
Whether you find Super Chad attractive is nothing about your marriage. But it's fine, because we all can guess the answer based off of your failure to answer. Like you, I'm willing to let the evidence speak for itself.
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