Men are dogs.
I don’t mean to say that men are conniving, lying cheaters who are destined to turn on their girlfriend, wife or lover. I mean that we’re trained animals.
The more I think about my experiences in relationships, the more I realize how much I adjust to accommodate the women I’ve been with and even been interested in. It could be in the large scale, such as traveling distances or changing plans on their account, or on the small scale, like adjusting how I kiss or dress. Whatever the case, these adjustments, whether requested, demanded or offered, mark me as a man who has been trained.
This isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It’s important to grow and learn and try new things, but at the same time, habits are hard to break. If I learn how to kiss so it pleases one girlfriend, there’s no guarantee that it won’t be completely different from how the next desires it. On the other hand, if I learned once, I can do it again, assuming she has enough patience.
Hollywood loves the line, “you make me a better man,” but I’m starting to think it’s much less romantic than intended. I say all this with a twinge of depression, for no matter how much I may want it otherwise, there’s a chance that the women I’ve loved haven’t loved me, but rather who I’ve become around them. Certainly, some elements of my personality can’t be repressed or adjusted, and there are times or situations during which they’re guaranteed to appear with raucous whimsy.
Perhaps I’m lucky. My relationships have been short and sweet for the most part. I’ve had plenty of time to let my personality stew and settle into permanence. I find myself wondering if a successful long term relationship could’ve significantly changed who I am, and whether it would’ve been for the better.
I may not have been kept on a leash or found myself often in the doghouse or had to come when I’m called or do stupid human tricks. Yet I have no doubt that I am a dog. All I need now is a owner with a little bit of patience. And maybe a collar, if she’s kinky like that.