Yin, Yang, and Joni, Men’s Empathy is Baloney

If I had to pick one thing I thought might be the greatest difference between guys and gals--not including the biological elements--it would have to be how unsympathetic men can be toward their fellows. Sure, differences must play some role in the yin and the yang of life, but I just can’t understand how a guy’s inability to have empathy helps anything yang, yin, or otherwise--especially when it concerns his own wife’s best friend.

Case in point: My best friend Oajsees (she had given herself the nickname “Oasis” during her sophomore year, but altered the spelling to better represent the complexity of her creative self-reality) has recently had a few guy problems.

Now I’m similar to most women, in that I like to confer with my husband about my friends’ problems, but, when I try, all he does is roll his eyes and make jokes about euthanasia. If it weren’t for the fact that every man I’ve ever known has acted in this identical self-centered manner, I’d divorce the jerk today.

I mean, who would have such a lack of heart but a man to make a snide comment about a wonderful, creative, and original spirit like Oajsees? How many women can say they’ve never been married by the age of 38 like she can? And how many more--married, divorced, or single--have the ability to carry their stoic beauty about them like a badge of courage? It’s such an absolute shame so few guys go for her.

But if they do, the timing’s always wrong, which is the cause of her present quandary. There’s a guy named Donaldo she’s had a crush on for years, and last month they finally hooked up. But there’s one other problem: Scott. Scott is an 18-year-old poet Oajsees met at an open mic two weeks ago. Of course, because she was seeing Donaldo, Oajsees hadn’t been considering getting involved with another guy. But after the poetry reading, Scott approached her and told her he wanted to marry her--a romantic situation a girl can’t resist!

Okay, I know it sounds sudden. But if things were going perfect with Donaldo, I don’t think Oajsees would have had sex with Scott in the cafe bathroom after the open mic. See, Donaldo and her have not had any real sexual contact. Well, not in the normal sense. They spend the night together, but apparently they haven’t even kissed. The only thing that could be construed as being sexual is when Donaldo gets up in the morning and goes to the bathroom and jacks off on Oajsees’ panties.

This is the type of scenario my husband can’t deal with, but it’s exactly the type of situation that causes a woman to seek the guiding help of her friends. Oajsees really believed the fact Donaldo was taking it slow was that it was “the big sign” (every girl knows that if a guy doesn’t go for it right away it means he respects you). But what’s a girl to infer when Mr. Right makes her “special presents” every morning in the privacy of her own bath? Will this be the extent of their relationship, or could this be a segue into a more normal relationship? Such questions can taunt a complex woman like Oajsees to no end. But my husband hasn’t the ability to contemplate these states. “Jesus fucking Christ, you’re kidding me, right?” he said when I told him what Donaldo had been doing. I wanted to know if he thought Donaldo’s activity could be construed as a man’s way of showing devotion.

Luckily, Oajsees is getting some play: Scott, apparently, fucks like a rabbit! Sure, he comes every minute or so, but his “down time” is minimal. Unfortunately, there are some concerns here, too. If things were going perfect with Scott, I don’t think Oajsees would continue to spend nights with Donaldo. I mean, she loves it that Scott is already saving to buy her a ring, and she adores the romantic poems he writes, and she loves that he calls 30 times a day, but she’s concerned he might be too young. When he turns 28, she will be 48, and then she could eventually lose Scott altogether when he takes a mistress at the age of 38. She’d almost be 60, then!

Well, it seems that fate almost took care of her quandary. Last week Scott scaled four stories up a drainpipe and caught Oajsees and Donaldo in bed. She told Donaldo that Scott was just a crazy punk kid who had a crush on her, and that at least satiated Donaldo’s curiosity concerning the youthful Spider Man. She also felt certain that the Goddess Isis had sent her this solution: Now Scott would run off and she could focus on loving Donaldo. And that morning, after Donaldo had left, she admitted that she licked the semen from her panties.

It would have all been fine had Scott not returned the next evening. Out of love for her, he had burned off his shoulder-length hair with a propane torch and engraved her name in his chest with a butter knife (although, apparently, he mistakenly spelled it “Oasis”). Again, this is where those sheer differences in emotional capabilities between males and females really become obvious. “Jesus fucking Christ, you’re kidding me, right?” is all my husband could say when I asked him which love seemed stronger.

Although Oajsees is a true free spirit, one who normally taps into the Goddess forces of the universe and allows the cosmic mother energy to rule her actions instead of using her mind, this time she devised a plan. She was going to tell both Scott and Donaldo she was pregnant. Whoever agreed to take responsibility would be the one she would stick with, and then she would fake a miscarriage by falling down some stairs, so no harm done. And true to form, all my husband could utter were his same derogatory comments. Although this time he mentioned that Oajsees should be put to sleep.

“But we never even kissed!” Donaldo yelled. Oajsees told him that she had gotten into the habit of wearing the panties--out of devotion--and she supposed there could have been some accidental contact.

Donaldo, then, dropped out of the running by calling her “the dumbest fucking bitch [he’d] ever laid eyes on” before storming out of KFC.

But not to be dissuaded, later that day Oajsees met Scott, the man whom she thought was about to become the man of her dreams. She sat across from him, the smell of burnt hair wafting across the table and the chest engraving seeping puss through his dirty white T-shirt. This was a man who loved her, who would care for her, and who would burn off all his hair with a propane torch for her.

Their eyes met, and she hinted there was something special she had to disclose. Then, clasping his hands between hers, she told him of the miracle that would soon be born between them.

“How do you know it’s not that other dude’s kid?” he asked. “How many guys are you fucking? I’m starting to think you’re like a box of assorted creams!” he exclaimed, and then stomped out of Taco Bell.

I’m neither happy for Oajsees, nor am I sad for her. I think she tried the best she could, but, like I mentioned earlier, the timing always seems off whenever love comes knocking at her door.

I’ll probably confide in my husband again, despite knowing what it will get me, because that’s what women do (although I’ll probably wait awhile, and see if anything happens with Oajsees). The other day I noticed she was walking funny, and she told me she had three pairs of soiled panties and a mentholated tube of ChapStick brand chapstick stuffed inside of her. I really would like to know what my husband thinks of the chapstick, but there’s no reason to query him just yet; that would only give him all the more reason to make a snide, shallow comment before anything really happens.

But you know, even if bad love, complicated love, or confusing love raps at Oajsees’ heart’s portal, it’s her best friend who must be there to guide and advise her--a selfless, caring act that guys simply cannot comprehend.