I love when a word enters our language that truly captures what it’s meant to describe. A few years ago, I noticed “beta” being used to define a certain group of hapless men. Learning this word helped give shape to a notion I’d been contemplating for years. I’m a beta. I have no business attempting to date women. I’ve known this, but now I have a name for the rationale.
How do I know I’m a beta? Simple. I look at men who date women. Then I look at myself. Done. I can see from a distance they have what I don’t. Without belaboring this, I can try to keep up with them, but the strain takes me too far from who I am. I spent years in denial before admitting defeat.
My point isn’t to review the obvious, though. I want to divulge the utter nastiness someone would have to date me to discover. I want readers to know what they’re missing, or what I’m sparing them. I’m going to save women the morbid disappointment of learning this through experience as I detail my repulsive self here as a courtesy. More men should do this. Think of this as an anti-dating profile.
We’ll start with my dick. I’ve written about before, but I feel compelled to share again. It doesn’t work. I’ve had trouble getting hard since my twenties(!). This isn’t just in my head. These days, I can barely stay hard while masturbating. In addition to not getting hard, it’s small and weirdly shaped. Sometimes I take forever to ejaculate. Sometimes I need just two or three minutes of any form of touch. My dick is in every respect the opposite of what a woman wants.
I get unexplained rashes all over me. In the fifteen years or so that I’ve noticed them, I’ve yet to find a pattern explaining why I get them. I thought my workout clothing was causing them, but that wasn’t it. Antifungal creams (for athlete’s foot) seemed to stop them sometimes. I asked my doctor if he had any better ideas. He said he didn’t and that I should keep doing what I’d been doing. Thanks, doc.
My feet are horrible and no one should see them. They’re disfigured and sharp. I try to hew down the calluses and manage the toenail fungi, but I just can’t make them presentable. I haven’t much more to say about them. They’re just the worst.
I have peculiar bumps all over me. They’re concentrated on my limbs, but I’ve noticed them on my stomach as well. Each is about the size of a marble. They feel slightly squishy. Apparently my father had these. He also had the foot issues. I don’t know if his dick worked. Anyway, that same doctor told me not to worry about my bumps. I guess I don’t. I can see a few of them in my shadow.
Digestive problems make my stomach a mess. My stomach gurgles all the time. I fart a lot. Sometimes I shit myself a little. I have to shit two or three times during the first two hours of each day. I leak piss after every trip to the bathroom. Sometimes spotting is visible through my clothing. My crotch always stinks of urine. I am the paradigm of desire.
Now let’s examine what lies beneath anatomy. I have several simple quirks that a partner my want to question. I sleep on my stomach. Not too weird. I chew anything I drink. Odd, but not off-putting. I wipe my ass standing up. Unlikely to be noticed, but a bit unorthodox. I have a rigid need for symmetry and an insistence on incessant checking. This would come out at some point. I’m constantly anxious and I usually make the wrong decisions. This too probably would come out.
Continuing, I dislike what most other people tend to like. Okay, Mr. Party-Pooper. I like the idea of intimacy, but I’m somewhat uncomfortable having anyone touch me and I’m much more at ease by myself. Um, what the hell? I like to look at gore and I laugh about natural disasters. Seriously, what is wrong with you? I can’t talk with anyone about what makes me horny and even kink-loving members of fetish communities would heap hatred on me. That’s it. We’re done here.
We grow up inundated with messages about how there is someone for everyone. These messages are horseshit. In truth, some of us aren’t fit for anyone. Everyone else would be better off if the unfit among us would back off. I’ve done so. Women do just fine without me. Not taking part in an aspect of life I see all around me is somewhat debilitating, but subjecting someone to me would be selfish. I’m thinking of those of you out there reading this each night I stay home and squirt my sorrows into the trashcan. If only your boyfriends were so thoughtful.