A Femasexual is Born

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We are living in the age of the metrosexual male. A metrosexual male is one who strives to be the most perfectly manicured, coifed, toned, tanned, plucked, waxed and well-dressed human of the masculine gender who is absolutely and unequivocally not gay or guilty of any homosexual tendencies whatsoever.

There is so much gender blending going on these days that I am inclined to finally take a stand and publicly declare myself a “femasexual.” A femasexual is a millennium woman who has survived Paris Hilton, Britney Spears, Janet Jackson, and gay marriage licensing, only to find herself in competition with just about the only class of men left who can date and mate: the metrosexual.

As an outed femasexual, I am ready to step on some pedicure-perfect, metrosexual tootsies. Before I do, let me state that I like men who take care of themselves. But between men and women there are some lines that shouldn’t be crossed — and dudes getting their brows waxed, shaped and arched is one of them. A manicure with colored polish is another.

It’s an insult to a femasexual when a metrosexual has skin that is smoother, more toned and more polished than her own. Also, any hint of enhanced coloring on the cheeks, lips and eyes of a metrosexual is enough to drive a femasexual into a complete frenzy.

Metrosexuals are crowding us femasexuals out of our beauty spas and salons. We not only have to vie for top-level positions in the workplace — for which we are still underpaid compared to our counterparts — we now have to vie for hair, skin and nail appointments.

And, adding insult to injury, metrosexuals are known to be better tippers than femasexuals.

Metrosexuals love to shop for the latest designer shoes, clothes and carryalls to complement their hair, face, bodies and their hottie car. They also like to dabble in gourmet cooking and wine-tasting. What could be more adorable than a porcelain-skinned and pouty-collagen-enhanced metrosexual in a designer apron stirring a pot of bouillabaisse in the kitchen?

On the flip side, in television ads you don’t see a metrosexual raising his perfectly manicured hands (and brows) in delight over the wonders of the latest toilet bowl scrubber. And a metrosexual wouldn’t be caught dead at a Super Wal-Mart with a shopping cart full of cleaning supplies, paper towels or Pampers.

The femasexual, on the other hand, does all of the above and then some. Gamely, she manages to fit her salon appointments in between the mundane activities of everyday life. So when a femasexual seeking a mate discovers that his cosmetic priorities outweigh her own, there is bound to be some friction. She may find the metrosexual’s total self-absorption a turnoff. And what is the point of the countless nicks on her shins, when she goes to rub her freshly shaved, silky smooth leg across the equally shaved and silky smooth leg of her bedfellow?

There really is no future, I fear, for the femasexual. Not only is she being overshadowed by the metrosexual male, she is being put out to pasture by gay men who can hire sperm donors, get married and get benefits. Skip the cramps, the tampons and other female products; we may as well have our uteruses cut out and flash-frozen for future generations.

write by Seward

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