My collection of Boy Culture includes:
Morrissey lyrics, lines from Monty Python, Evil Dead and Hal Hartley films, the Fugazi ethic, distinguishing features of classic Ford and Chevrolet body styles, skateboard lingo, football stats, subscription to FHM magazine*, early history of Hip Hop, Mister Show, Ernest Hemingway, Franz Kafka, fluency in sexual profanity, Your Mama jokes, the running NAS vs. Jay-Z debate, Tenacious D, Ween, annual attendance at the NHRA Southern Nationals, the drummer from Rush, the Surrealist Manifesto, hot wings, the parables of Soren Kierkegaard, etc.
(*leftover from a previous resident at this address)
Do I really enjoy all this? Sure, but only a fraction as much as the guy who influenced me. This stuff is the currency of seduction. Guys are smitten with their own Boy culture, often mistaking me for a tomboy.
“At last,” they think, “I have found a girl who is one of us.” And they are not entirely mistaken- I have been minoring in boy culture. But they are essentially falling in love with my prior boyfriends, my brother and my dad.
This makes me feel a little arbitrary in the whole equation.
Luckily, I too have supplied a range of useful trivia to the men in my life: Screenprinting, Cajun cuisine, Flannery O’Connor, preparing collard greens, Frank Black (but not the Pixies), table ettiquette, Apple, Bukowski, stain removal, BUST magazine, Liberation Theology, sushi, campfire building, Sam Prekop (Wait, Prekop came from my husband. But I would have discovered him eventually), French cinema, etc. And guys, in turn, have leveraged these feminine influences to attract other women.
“Isn’t he sensitive,” they imagine, “He grinds his own coffee beans, he handwashes the delicates, he gives the perfect backrub, he loves Interpol as much as I do.” Turns out, you have me and his momma to thank for that.