Men

My roommate and I took a class on the history of the female nude. Everyone and their mother try to get into the “Aphrodite” course, so it took us 4 semesters to make the cut. Of the 20-something women that sat around the large center table, there were 2 men. I had no qualms with the Guido who sat in the corner for months without speaking, but I did have a problem with the fountain-pen-using man who my roommate ended up finding on Hinge. (Yes, there was a shirtless picture on it.) He loved to whip his dick out and go head-to-head with the smartest girl in our class—not me—and luckily our professor didn’t buy into his pseudo insight on female representations. At the end of the semester, he presented his work which was the culmination of everything he’d gleaned from the class. His conclusion: I am a man and can’t understand what it is like to be a woman; let me demonstrate this with some AI-generated looking art surrounding the Venus de Milo. Just the kinda guy that I would be embarrassed to bring home to my friends. Now one last thing and then I swear to god I’ll shut up about this forever: but I’m the real fool for thinking that there would be a sane straight man in my class on nudes.