Chicks can’t stop checking me out now that I have a kid
Now that I have a kid myself, I know what it feels like to be a beautiful woman.
Not long ago I was sitting alone in Prospect Park near the baseball dugout listening to a podcast about precious metals (GLD, SLV, #tothemoon) when a fleshy mom, bursting out from her red spandex top, asked me to leave. My mere presence and questionable appearance—stringy balding hair, squinty eyes slight hunch—made the children uncomfortable. I hadn’t clocked the all-girls softball team flicking balls twenty yards away. I shrugged and didn’t move and five minutes later a thick wristed man, armed with a whistle and a bullneck, said it would be best if I found somewhere else to go. This sort of thing didn’t happen everyday, but it also didn’t happen once.
Now that I’m the proud owner of an infant son (14 lb, 1 foot-2 inches), the days of being labeled as a miscreant park pedophile are over. Before I had a kid, I looked at men with babies pinned to their chests in public like chumps, some woman’s semi-autonomous doormat. I couldn’t conceive that level of domestication, and was happy enough sinking two buck PBRs night-after-night at Welcome to the Johnsons, then cramming the 2am shawarma. The future didn’t include attending to a squirming blob of need – and I’m not talking about my wife. I pitied those guys without knowing anything of the upside.
My new accessory can do more than shit and cry. He earns me street cred with neighborhood mothers in jogging outfits who gab for hours in coffee shops rocking strollers, comparing Upper East Side hospitals and nipple shields. They look me up and down with sympathetic eyes. When cradling him in my arms (I’m afraid to use those baby carrying straps) I’ve been asked if I have a wife or if I’m raising the child alone. It’s tempting to say that I'm a single father, just for the attention, to watch their hearts splinter, like faking an illness. I’m keeping “widow” in the back pocket, for when I really need the boost.
They ask about baby Sy’s weight and diet and his percentiles, comment on his cheeks and little boating outfits (obviously my wife dressed him), and sweet-talk me with stories about friends' kids. It’s like they forget I’m still a gross heterosexual man - all I did was thrust (twice). Can you imagine a woman striking up a conversation with a poorly groomed schlub who didn’t have a baby? It’s unthinkable. This must be what it’s like to be an actual gorgeous woman. It must be torture. Random strangers coming up to you everywhere all the time trying to talk you into the sack, frightening suitors and creeps dying to cram their hands into your pants in bars and subway cars. It’s everything you don’t want in life. But it’s a twisted fate to be pursued by the same breed of unattainable women who rejected me all through high school. Who mercilessly teased me for my late pubescence, using me to get to more muscular friends while I lusted after them with a pubeless member (I’ve since gotten plugs).
The sudden life change is confusing because I still see myself as the same nasty fucker who can’t keep an earthworm alive. So why am I being approached and lauded when I expect to be maligned? If only women knew the way men think. We can’t help ourselves. We're imprisoned inside our perversions.
My theory is that women don’t care that fathers are secretly disgusting because they’ve proven themselves in the most tangible way possible. They’ve used their God given lechery to create the most impressive thing: life. There’s nothing more high-T than insemination. Nothing more winning than marching your writhing heir through Hungry Ghost while the baristas’ loins detonate. Cold plunges and creatine are not proof of virility, but rather vanity. Procreation is the pinnacle, aka thrusting with purpose. No seventy-five-dollar haircut or six-pack can compete with a tired dad bobbling a bottle and getting puked on.
Is having a kid worth it for this alone? Well, like working on Wall Street, I’m not qualified to give financial advice. But I will say: it’s not all that bad. It’s not just sleepless nights and shit in your hand. It’s a brand-new kind of attention. And as we all know, since life is, at its core, about accumulating as much attention as possible by any means necessary...
Then I say: happy thrusting.
I think if you keep this up your son is gonna spell his name “Sigh…”
i feel sorry for the wife!