Male Ego Quotes

Simon: 'You know men. We have delicate egos.' Clary: 'I wouldn't describe Jace's ego as delicate.' Simon: 'No, Jace's is sort of the antiaircraft artillery tank of male egos.

The way you think about yourself determines your reality. You are not being hurt by the way people think about you. Many of those people are a reflection of how you think about yourself.

There are much better ways to handle the delicate male ego. With a two-by-four? Only as a last resort and never in public.

Yes, people age horribly. They suffer strokes. Their bodies and brains fall apart. But the male ego? Firmly intact until the bitter end.

True saddness is when someone still thinks your the same person after all these years. They brand you because of their own ego, fear and lack of spirituality. What's sadder is when they are Christian.

That’s when she’d learned that male egos and fruit had a lot in common: Both bruised easily.

But by far the worst thing we do to males—by making them feel they have to be hard—is that we leave them with very fragile egos. The harder a man feels compelled to be, the weaker his ego is.

Male egos require constant stroking. Every task is an achievement, every success epic. That is why women cook, but men are chefs: we make cheese on toast, they produce pain de fromage.

Enough, Qhuinn thought. Enough with the excuses and the avoidance, and trying to be someone else, anyone else. Even if he got shanked, even if his precious little ego and his dumbass little heart got shattered into a million pieces, it was time to stop the bullshit. It was time to be a male. As Blay started to straighten like a message had been received, Qhuinn thought, That's right buddy: Our future has come

And then we do a much greater disservice to girls, because we raise them to cater to the fragile egos of males. We teach girls to shrink themselves, to make themselves smaller. We say to girls: You can have ambition, but not too much. You should aim to be successful but not too successful, otherwise you will threaten the man. If you are the breadwinner in your relationship with a man, pretend that you are not, especially in public, otherwise you will emasculate him.

People that have been consistently hurt by others in life will only see the one time you hurt them and be blinded to all the good your heart has to offer. They look no further than what they want to see. Unfortunately, most of them remain a victim throughout their life.

Oh, please, spare me the male ego. I'm not repulsed by sex, and I can reach an orgasm as well as any woman. After all, there are fifty-seven erotic points on a woman's body. If a man can't find one of them, he needs a flashlight and a sex manual.

Eve rose stiffly when he strode out of the house. In silence, she watched Julia look after him. "The male ego," Eve murmured as she crossed the room to put an arm around Julia's shoulders. "It's a huge and fragile thing. I always envision it as an enormous penis made of thin glass.

When someone is stalking you because they think you are stalking them, it makes you wonder who really is the true stalker?

Sound doesn't carry as well through gills. You have to use a different level of your vocal chords." I point to the spot just above his Adam's apple. "Higher." He just stares at me, looking confused——but breathing like he was born to it. "Pretend you're talking like a girl." No way, he mouths, shaking his head. Stupid male ego.

Stupid male ego.

No one got forever. And it was a fucking crime to waste what you were given. Enough, Qhuinn thought. Enough with the excuses, and the avoidance, and the trying to be someone, anyone else. Even if he got shanked, even if his precious little ego and his dumb-ass little heart got shattered into a million pieces, it was time to stop the bullshit. It was time to be a male.

The male ego is a curious thing. It’s about the size of a small continent but it’s extremely brittle.

The guy behind the counter had been seriously adorable. Model-level cute. She had mentioned that, and Allan, her then boyfriend, hadn't taken it well. That's when she'd learned that male egos and fruit had a lot in common: Both bruised easily.

Your language, dear," Victoria reproved gently. "A lady never curses in public. There are much better ways to handle the delicate male ego." Keiley paused. "With a two-by-four?" she asked. Victoria's lips pursed a smile tugged at her lips. "Only as a last resort," she murmured humorously. "And never in public.

I’ll get you back for this, bitch,” the male cupping his balls managed to grit out. She gave him a patronising smile. “I know this must be painful for your ego. Try not to think of it as being defeated. Just think of it as being beat up by a girl.

Even if he got shanked, even if his precious little ego and his dumb-ass little heart got shattered into a million pieces, it was time to stop the bullshit. It was time to be a male. As Blay started to straighten, like a message had been received, Qhuinn thought, That's right Buddy. Our time has come.

...the most common cause of death among alpha males was ego.

You know men. We have delicate egos." "I wouldn't describe Jace's ego as delicate." "No, Jace is sort of the antiaircraft artillery tank of male egos," Simon admitted.

A woman cannot bear to feel empty and purposeless. But a man may take real pleasure in that feeling. A man can take real pride and satisfaction in pure negation: 'I am quite empty of feeling. I don't care the slightest bit in the world for anybody or anything except myself. But I do care for myself, and I'm going to survive in spite of them all, and I'm going to have my own success without caring the least in the world how I get it. Because I'm cleverer than they are, I'm cunninger than they are, even if I'm weak. I must build myself up proper protections, and entrench myself, and then I'm safe. I can sit inside my glass tower and feel nothing and be touched by nothing, and yet exert my power, my will, through the glass walls of my ego'. That, roughly, is the condition of a man who accepts the condition of true egoism, and emptiness, in himself. He has a certain pride in the condition, since in pure emptiness of real feeling he can still carry out his ambition, his will to egoistic success. Now I doubt if a woman can feel like this. The most egoistic woman is always in a tangle of hate, if not of love. But the true male egoist neither hates nor loves. He is quite empty, at the middle of him. Only on the surface he has feelings: and these he is always trying to get away from. Inwardly, he feels nothing. And when he feels nothing, he exults in his ego and knows he is safe. Safe, within his fortifications, inside his glass tower. But I doubt if women can even understand this condition in a man. They mistake emptiness for depth. They think the false calm of the egoist who really feels nothing is strength. And they imagine that all the defenses which the confirmed egoist throws up, the glass tower of imperviousness, are screens to a real man, a positive being. And they throw themselves madly on the defences, to tear them down and come at the real man, little knowing that there is no real man, the defences are only there to protect a hollow emptiness, an egoism, not a human man.

The Great Work is the uniting of opposites. It may mean the uniting of the soul with God, of the microcosm with the macrocosm, of the female with the male, of the ego with the non-ego—or what not.

I should have known you'd side with them. It's some sort of of male bonding thing to think women aren't capable of running their own lives." He nuzzled the top of her head with his chin. "It's ego and sheer desperation. We have to keep you thinking we're the superior species." "News flash, Jack - no women on the face of earth believes that anymore." He trailed kisses down her cheek. "But men don't know women know that. We still live in our fantasy world, so don't muck it up for us.

Eaten up with guilt, shame, fears and insecurities and obtaining, if he's lucky, a barely perceptible physical feeling, the male is, nonetheless, obsessed with screwing; he'll swim a river of snot, wade nostril-deep through a mile of vomit, if he thinks there'll be a friendly pussy awaiting him. He'll screw a woman he despises, any snaggle-toothed hag, and, further, pay for the opportunity. Why? Relieving physical tension isn't the answer, as masturbation suffices for that. It's not ego satisfaction; that doesn't explain screwing corpses and babies.

so many issues and problems in a male dominated world derive from the aggressive, secretive and often insensitive masculine ego.

But by far the worst thing we do to males—by making them feel they have to be hard—is that we leave them with very fragile egos. The harder a man feels compelled to be, the weaker his ego is. And then we do a much greater disservice to girls, because we raise them to cater to the fragile egos of males. We teach girls to shrink themselves, to make themselves smaller.

A pickup truck is a fragile ego overcompensated

If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s the wounded male ego. It’s as though Hollywood thinks I’ve got some choice in whether I like him or not. As if. I can’t change who I am.

The only part of a man more sensitive than the aforementioned testicles was the male ego—like a Georgia peach.

Being the only woman on a nontechnical team, providing customer support to software developers, was like immersion therapy for internalized misogyny. I liked men—I had a brother. I had a boyfriend. But men were everywhere: the customers, my teammates, my boss, his boss. I was always fixing things for them, tiptoeing around their vanities, cheering them up. Affirming, dodging, confiding, collaborating. Advocating for their career advancement; ordering them pizza. My job had placed me, a self-identified feminist, in a position of ceaseless, professionalized deference to the male ego.

Plenty of women have met the “male feminist” who can quote bell hooks but will use those quotes to speak over you. Plenty of people of color have met the white antiracist who is all for Dr. King’s dream until people of color start asking white people to make actual sacrifices for racial justice. Ego can undermine even the best of intentions, but often, when things like this happen—when someone we trust as an ally ends up taking advantage of their position and then turning against the principles they once claimed to fight for when that abuse is discovered—we find that the intentions were never that great in the first place.

I’ve spent my entire adult life working and climbing side-by-side with men, so trust me when I say that most male stupidity is a result of one of two things. It’s either their egos, or it’s that junk in their pants.

Stupid girl, I thought. How many hands must he have held before mine? How many girls must have fallen for a lifetime into those bright green eyes only to hit rock bottom. Girls whose hearts he’d broken and left to pick up the pieces of a shattered fantasy lost to male ego and the need to break more. And this was why my track record with men was so pathetic. It didn’t matter how well crafted the act was, or even how poorly crafted, I always fell. And hard.

Becoming aware of our inner man and woman means to discover the roots and creative potential of both the male and female aspect within ourselves. Becoming aware of the inner man and woman means to understand that they have different visions of life. It means to understand that they have different perspectives and views of life. The inner man and woman are our two wings of love and freedom. Through awareness, acceptance and understanding, we can allow our two wings to develop in a deep and natural harmony. In the world today, a one-sided development of the male side leads to destructivity. A one-sided development of the male side leads to ego, struggle, exhaustion and a separation from life. A one-sided development of the female side leads to passivity and dependence.

After all, the male ego was a horrible thing.

well. The term “frocky” was used a lot as a derogatory description for women that Eileen and Stephanie thought were dressing just to please male egos. Yet

The male ego had spent two millennia running unchecked by its female counterpart. The Priory of Sion believed that it was this obliteration of the sacred feminine in modern life that had caused what the Hopi Native Americans called koyanisquatsi - "life out of balance" - an unstable situation marked by testosterone-fueled wars, a plethora of misogynistic societies, and a growing disrespect for Mother Earth.

We all know the male ego is notoriously fragile. Even the cute ones are a lost cause,” she points out with a lamenting sip, reminding us that she does not like boys. (She’s just unfortunately attracted to them.)

The longer hair lengths for men seen with the rise of marijuana use in the United States in the 1960s were a textbook case of an influx of apparently feminine values accompanying the use of a boundary-dissolving plant. The hysterical reaction to such a minor adjustment in folkways revealed the insecurity and sense of danger felt by the male ego in the presence of any factor that might tend to restore the importance of partnership in human affairs.

But by far the worst thing we do to males—by making them feel they have to be hard—is that we leave them with very fragile egos. The harder a man feels compelled to be, the weaker his ego is. And then we do a much greater disservice to girls, because we raise them to cater to the fragile egos of males.

How did so many women get to this unhappy place of not understanding how truly "simple" men are in their requirements and how much benevolent power their wives have over them? Why did notions like assuaging "male ego" and using "feminine wiles" rocket into disrepute? How is it that so many women are angry with men in general yet expect to have a happy life married to one of them? There are a number of reasons for this, and I believe they all revolve around the assault upon, and virtual collapse of, the values of religious morality, modesty, fidelity, chastity, respect for life, and a commitment to family and child-rearing.

The male ego bruises easier than an overripe apricot.

Vos quod milia multa basiorum Legistis, male me marem putatis? Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo.

A major theme among the women I treat is their difficulty in asking men to do this or that, to touch them in a certain way. Women are very tender with the male ego. They're afraid of offending their partner's pride because men like to think they know how to perform.

But the reality is that women today do not think of themselves in the context of helping "their man." Women today have been brainwashed into thinking that efforts in that direction are in the category of oppression, subservience, and catering to frail male egos. It is sad that this is the prevalent point of view, because interdependence is what ultimately feeds both the man and the woman what they truly need to be happy.

Relationships are a development and a dance between our inner male and female sides. A one-sided development of the male side leads to ego, struggle, destructivity and a separation from life. A one-sided development of our female side leads to dependence and passivity. It is when we have developed a balance and harmony between both our male and female side that a new spark of joy, creativity and wholeness arises within ourselves.

Monotheism exhibits what is essentially a pathological personality pattern projected onto the ideal of God: the pattern of the paranoid, possessive, power-obsessed male ego. This God is not someone you would care to invite to a garden party. Also interesting is that the Western ideal is the only formulation of deity that has no relationship with woman at any point in the theological myth. In ancient Babylon Anu was paired with his consort Inanna; Grecian religion assigned Zeus a wife, many consorts, and daughters. These heavenly pairings are typical. Only the god of Western civilization has no mother, no sister, no female consort, and no daughter.

Sylvia Plath's greatest poetry was sometimes conceived while she was baking bread, she was such a perfectionist and ultimately such a fool. The trouble is, of course, that the role of the goddess, the role of the glory and the grandeur of the female in the universe exists in the fantasy of the male artist and no woman can ever draw it to her heart for comfort, but the role of menial, unfortunately, is real and that she knows because she tastes it everyday. So the barbaric yawp of utter adoration for the power and the glory and the grandeur of the female in the universe is uttered at the expense of the particular living woman every time. And because we can be neither one nor the other with any piece of mind, because we are unfortunately improper goddesses and unwilling menials, there is a battle waged between us. And after all, in the description of this battle, maybe I find the justification of my idea that the achievement of the male artistic ego is at my expense for I find that the battle is dearer to him than the peace would ever be. The eternal battle with women, he boasts, sharpens our resistance, develops our strength, enlarges the scope of our cultural achievements. So is the scope after all worth it? Again, the same question, just as if we were talking of the income of a thousand families for a whole year. You see, I strongly suspect that when this revolution takes place, art will no longer be distinguished by its rarity, or its expense, or its inaccessibility, or the extraordinary way which in it is marketed, it will be the prerogative of all of us and we will do it as those artists did whom Freud understood not at all, the artists who made the Cathedral of Chartres or the mosaics of Byzantine, the artist who had no ego and no name.

How many males had run from this part of her, their alphahole egos threatened by it? [He] hated them all merely for putting the question in her eyes.

There was no time to stick around to stroke a couple of alpha males’ egos. That kind of project could take all day. 

Her fiercest sincerities were translated by the male ego, on arrival, into daffy flirtation. (p. 24)

Men!” Leanne huffed. “I honestly think the male ego resides in the balls. It’s the only logical reason for how fragile the damn things are.

Individualization, ego formation, and heroism belong to the very life of the male group and are in fact its expressions.

Huddled in her mink in the Kansas City airport, she had a vision of women writing about sex as openly as male writers, but quite, quite differently. Some women would treat sex much as men did,as conquest, as adventure--in a way as McCarthy had. Other women would treat female sexuality far less romantically then men who did not consider themselves romantics, like Hemingway, were wont to. The earth would not move, no, there would be more biology and less theatrics. Women had less ego involvement in sex than men did, but far more at stake economically.

But I– (Jake) But nothing, Captain. Heaven forbid you leave the helm for more than a minute. Anything could happen. God could toss down a lightning bolt and set fire to the ship. A sea monster could rise up from the depth of the ocean and swallow us whole. Or, dare I say it? The weight of male egos may be so great that it plops a hole right in the center of deck and we sink from it! (Serenity)

The shame that people with ADHD, male or female, carry around with them after years and years of being told that they are inadequate is a critical factor when a marriage starts to fall apart, or when they are approached by a well-meaning spouse about asking for an evaluation for ADHD. Shame often triggers anger and defensiveness, which can shut down what ought to be a straightforward conversation before it has even begun. Anger, stonewalling, and defensiveness can seem unreasonable to a non-ADHD spouse who, not having experienced this same type of repeated bashing of the ego, doesn’t understand it or interpret it correctly.

According to Flinders, all religious and spiritual traditions and specifically meditative practices—because they were built by men and for men—promote the following: self-silencing; self-naughting (destruction of the ego); resisting desire; and enclosure (turning inward, sealing off from the world). As a feminist, naming these four requirements of transcendence troubled her. “I realized that however ancient and universal these disciplines may be, they are not gender neutral at all. Formulated for the most part within monastic contexts, they cancel the basic freedoms—to say what one wants, go where one likes, enjoy whatever pleasures one can afford, and most of all, to be somebody—that have normally defined male privilege” (emphasis mine).

Nsuuta, every woman resists. Often it is private. Most of our resistance is so everyday that women don't think twice about it. It is life. Even the worst of us, like Aunt YA, who massage the male ego with "Allow men to be men" are not really shrinking but managing their men.

What we didn’t talk about were the male staffers who rated our looks, brushed against us in close quarters, and became hazards to be navigated. Our presence was the problem; their behavior was inevitable. Avoiding them while keeping their egos intact was just part of our job.

But in the end we found it impossible to ignore the impassioned pleas of the Lost City of White Male Privilege, a controversial municipality whose very existence is often denied by many (mostly privileged white males). Others state categorically that the walls of the locale have been irreparably breached by hip-hop and Roberto Bolaño’s prose. That the popularity of the spicy tuna roll and a black American president were to white male domination what the smallpox blankets were to Native American existence. Those inclined to believe in free will and the free market argue that the Lost City of White Male Privilege was responsible for its own demise, that the constant stream of contradictory religious and secular edicts from on high confused the highly impressionable white male. Reduced him to a state of such severe social and psychic anxiety that he stopped fucking. Stopped voting. Stopped reading. And, most important, stopped thinking that he was the end-all, be-all, or at least knew enough to pretend not to be so in public. But in any case, it became impossible to walk the streets of the Lost City of White Male Privilege, feeding your ego by reciting mythological truisms like “We built this country!” when all around you brown men were constantly hammering and nailing, cooking world-class French meals, and repairing your cars. You couldn’t shout “America, love it or leave it!” when deep down inside you longed to live in Toronto.

It says here you’re a challenge to the male ego.” “Isn’t that silly,” I said. “But you are a challenge to the male ego,” he said. “Oh, come on,” I said. “Who’ve I ever challenged?” “It says here you’re a threat.” “What the hell do you mean?” I said. I’d been especially nice all afternoon, I felt.

Women are told that so much of his behavior is normal, par-for-the-course male ego, rage, sexuality. It's not. You're going to learn that very soon, and then you're going to be angry with yourself for not knowing. Don't be. Be angry at the world that told you to weather it, and told him that he was right.

Well into the 1960s, the supposed threat of B-girls was used to justify excluding women from bars. Better ban an entire gender to protect those fragile male egos! Better to deny women access to a public space than have a man realize that the only way a woman would listen to his stupid work stories is if she's being paid!

Libby had known that about Ezra, the way he tended to want to save her from her anxieties instead of simply listening when she spoke. He wanted her to want to be rescued, and she had thought the occasional decision to indulge him was just something people did in relationships. Male ego or whatever. Things good girlfriends did in order to keep the peace.

And then we do a much greater disservice to girls, because we raise them to cater to the fragile egos of males. We teach girls to shrink themselves, to make themselves smaller.

Call it arrogance or male chauvinism, the male ego just doesn’t allow a woman to participate in key issues in family. Men seldom realize that it’s the housewife who has the most difficult job in the world: waking up early, preparing breakfast, getting the children ready for school, preparing lunch, cleaning up the mess at home and so much more. Even before they can some rest, the doorbell would ring and the children are back from school. Then, the routine again, and by the end of the day, they were tired. Women in the family are the last to sleep and the first to wake up. Sometimes, even during a crisis in the family or when there is a dispute, it’s the lady of the house that stands rock solid to calm things down and face challenges head on.

But what about a person's anger? What about her voice? Her laughter? Her arrogance? Her irreverence? Her humor, her ego, her honor, her character? Do these fingerprints of an individual life simply evaporate and disappear with the last exhale? And if that is so, what use all this struggle, misery and strife? What difference whether a woman ever lived or not? Whether she was loved or unloved, educated or illiterate, wanted or unwanted by her parents, whether or not she suffered hurt and betrayal, or whether she still managed to retain her humanity and nobility? In the end, Bhima thinks, it doesn't matter. It is all ash and dust. This is what it means to be human, she thinks: Grains of dust arranged in human form - some dark, some light, some tall, some short, some male, some female. And in the end, the same gust of wind breaks them all down.

See!” she snapped at him. “You men are all brutish. You force your strength and will on us as if we matter for naught and then you wonder why we don’tlike ”—she spat the word at him—“you. Really? Is it any wonder? Why would any woman want to subject herself to the male ego? Why?” She looked down at his body as a sudden heat came into her gaze that made him instantly nervous. “Sure, you’re a handsome beastie with kissable lips when they’re not bleeding. You’re fair in form with big, bulging—” He actually cringed in fear of the word “cock” coming out of her mouth again, but luckily she averted her thoughts as her gaze met his. For the first time the despair left her voice. “Your eyes are so beautiful.” She ran one finger over his brow, making him instantly hard for her. “Did you know that?” Then the gloomy tone returned as she dropped her hand from his face. “Of course you do. You’re a worthless man. Just like all the others.” “Yeah,” Blaise teased. “You’re worthless, Varian. And what on him bulges again, Merewyn?” Varian glared at the mandrake, who merely continued to laugh at him. “Everything. His arms, his legs, his—” “Enough, Merewyn,” Varian said from between clenched teeth. “Well, you do bulge. I’ve seen it.” “We’ve all seen it,” Merrick said, his voice filled with humor, “And it’s sickening.” Varian glared at the triplets, especially the ferret, who was laughing and rolling around his brother’s neck. “When she is over this, I’m going to kill all of you.” Merewyn let out a long-suffering sigh. “Of course you will. That’s what men do. They destroy everything. Everything. Because you’re all worthless whoremongers.” Varian winced at her choice of words. “Whoremongers?” Blaise repeated with a laugh. “Yes. You all go out with your giant lances, spearing anything you can find. Nailing your targets against trees and walls, while you gallop from field to field, bragging over your conquests, uncaring of who you’ve hurt while you quest for more glory.” “Good gods,” Merrick said, his face horrified. “Is she speaking of what I think she is?” “Do you mean warmongers?” Varian asked her. “No! Whoremongers. All of you.” She looked over at the triplets. “Especially them.

(..) if something goes wrong in his environment, a man tends to look outside himself first for the cause of the problem. According to research, this tendency is based partly on the male biological tendency to take action (versus introspection) and partly on the male ego, which encourages him to blame others and not take responsibility for his actions. Conversely, if something goes wrong in her environment, a woman will tend to look inside herself for the cause of the problem.

Aren’t parents but mere facilitators to perpetuate the species as per nature’s designs? It’s his ego that makes man imagine that, without him, his family would be orphaned. Is there anything more ironical than the falsity of that proposition!

If there is no list of names in eternity, we are burdened with making our own personal name day after day. Either we are made by another or we must be self-made. Then it is every man for himself, dog eat dog, as we vie with one another for a zero-sum dignity and importance. If you have it, then I don’t, or I will use you for my measuring stick. In either case, I am lost in comparison, envy, competition, and codependency. Spiritually: if you have it, I do too, and if I have it, you do too. Authentic spirituality is an experience of abundance and mutual flourishing instead of scarcity. Material gifts and ego gifts decrease with usage, whereas spiritual gifts actually increase with each use, in ourselves and in those around us.

Those who accuse these women of fraud in their image craft seem not to have heard of David Bowie's successful alter ego Ziggy Stardust or even Bob Dylan, the folksy creation of a genius named Robert Allen Zimmerman. There is a tradition of male artists taking on personae that are understood to be part of their art. It is as though there is so much genius within them that it must be split between these mortal men and the characters they create. Women who venture to do the same are ridiculed as fakers and try-hards.

As a symbol of the all-encompassing unconscious, the godhead is appropriately androgynous rather than exclusively male or female.59 For Jungians, the initially androgynous godhead ordinarily becomes a female god, whose bearing of a son symbolizes the emergence of the ego out of the primordial unconscious.60 The emergence of matter alongside the immaterial godhead symbolizes the beginning, but just the beginning, of the emergence of the ego out of the unconscious. Inert matter itself does not symbolize the ego, which

Willow nodded. “Far be it from me to make excuses for him, and I’m not trying to do that now. But you are the prettiest little thing, Nicks. And then you strap on that guitar, and you turn into a ten-foot-tall warrior woman. I imagine you were a shock to Mr. Jensen’s nervous system the first time he saw you. He has no justification for being an idiot, but I’ll tell you, based on what I know about men, that his reaction was understandable to a certain extent. You must’ve come across like a ten on the Richter scale the first time he saw you play.

Of course his name would be Dominic. It meant "gift from God." AKA a life-support system for an ego. Still, that didn't mean he wasn't fun to stare at. Dominic Rossi looked like a dream, the kind of dream no woman in her right mind would want to wake from. She had always been susceptible to male beauty, ever since the age of ten, when her mother had taken her to see Michelangelo's David in Florence. She recalled staring at that huge stone behemoth, all lithe muscles and gorgeous symmetry, indifferent about his nudity, his member inspiring a dozen questions her mother brushed aside.

But by far the worst thing we do to males—by making them feel they have to be hard—is that we leave them with very fragile egos. The harder a man feels compelled to be, the weaker his ego is. And then we do a much greater disservice to girls, because we raise them to cater to the fragile egos of males. We teach girls to shrink themselves, to make themselves smaller. We say to girls: You can have ambition, but not too much. You should aim to be successful but not too successful, otherwise you will threaten the man. If you are the breadwinner in your relationship with a man, pretend that you are not, especially in public, otherwise you will emasculate him. But what if we question the premise itself: Why should a woman’s success be a threat to a man? What if we decide to simply dispose of that word—and I don’t know if there is an English word I dislike more than this—emasculation.

I'm just sorry your dragon is so hell bent on mating with someone as fucked up looking as me," he murmured, keeping his voice light even though he wasn't joking at all. God, everything about her was perfect. It was no surprise she was so resistant to mating with him.... To his surprise, she snorted and smacked his stomach. "Bran Devlin, you're the sexiest male I've ever met. If you want me to stroke your ego you're out of luck." Then, to his utter fucking surprise, she slid her hand lower and grasped his already hardening cock before looking up at him. Her smile was an erotic mix of uncertainty and wickedness. "But I don't mind stroking this.

If you are part of the male population that believes that expressing emotion is for pansies, going to a psychologist is for the weak, receiving mental health treatment is for sissies, or that people who experience suicidal thoughts should suck it up; you are part of the reason why so many people bottle up or mask their emotions. It’s okay, you probably have been raised that way, but you are wreaking havoc. I’m pleading for you to be part of the solution. Don’t let your narrow-mindedness, ego, and ignorance ruin the life of your child, partner, colleague, friend, or family member. If you don’t attend to a loved one’s mental health, the next thing you might attend is their funeral.

We see that it is not the alleged profligacy of the male world that necessarily causes immorality and delinquency in boys and girls. Women are not oppressed and morally led astray because of males, but by their own distorted conception of masculinity, a condition originally caused by their malignant mother's attitudes. In today's world many women prefer raising children without a male influence being present. This is because the "male" is rejected in a similar way as the woman (or mother) is rejected. Neither the father nor the mother have contributed to the creation of a positive superego or ego-ideal (Self-image). Consequently, both parents are demoted in the eyes of a malignant daughter.

In dreamless sleep, the Upanishads say, a king is not a king nor a pauper poor; no one is old or young, male or female, educated or ignorant. When consciousness returns to the mind, however, the thinking process starts up again, and personality returns to the body. According to this analysis, the ego dies every night. Every morning we pick up our desires where we left off: the same person, yet a little different too. The Upanishads describe dying as a very similar process. Consciousness is withdrawn from the body into the senses, from the senses into the mind, and finally consolidated in the ego; when the body is finally wrenched away, the ego remains, a potent package of desires and karma.

But by far the worst thing we do to males—by making them feel they have to be hard—is that we leave them with very fragile egos. The harder a man feels compelled to be, the weaker his ego is. And then we do a much greater disservice to girls, because we raise them to cater to the fragile egos of males. We teach girls to shrink themselves, to make themselves smaller. We

Is it because I’m marrying a woman? Is that why Orion hasn’t responded? He’s never been homophobic, but maybe this strikes too close to home. Bruises his male ego. That time when we met with the lawyers to negotiate the terms of the divorce, he’d already been drinking. I could smell it. And it wasn’t exactly the cocktail hour; it was 11:00 A.M. I’d wanted to say something to him about it after we left, but I didn’t. I was still trying to figure out what the new rules were about such things, now that we were almost divorced. The other day, I tried imagining what it would be like if the shoe was on the other foot—if he had left me for a man. It was a ridiculous exercise: picturing two hairy-chested men in bed with each other, one of them Orion. LOL, as Marissa would put it. LMFAO.

The problem is that we who are badly wounded in our relation to the feminine usually have a fairly successful persona, a good public image. We have grown up as docile, often intellectual, daughters of the patriarchy, with what I call ‘animus-egos.’ We strive to keep up the virtues and aesthetic ideals which the patriarchal superego has presented to us. But we are filled with self-loathing and a deep sense of personal ugliness and failure when we can neither meet nor mitigate the superego’s standards of perfection. But we also feel unseen because there are no images alive to reflect our wholeness and variety. But where shall we look for symbols to suggest the full mystery and potency of the feminine and to provide images as models for personal life. The later Greek goddesses and Mary, Virgin Mother, and Mediator, have not struck me to the core as have Innana-Ereshkigal, Kali, and Isis. An image for the goddess as Self needs to have a full-bodied coherence. So I have had to see the female Greek deities as partial aspects of one wholeness pattern and to look always for the darker powers hidden i their stories—the gorgon aspect of Athena, the underworld Aphrodite-Urania, the Black Demeter, etc. Even in the tales of Inanna and other early Sumerian, Semitic, and Egyptian writings there is evidence that the original potencies of the feminine have been ‘demoted.' As Kramer tells us, the goddesses ‘that held top rank in the Sumerian pantheon were gradually forced down the ladder by male theologians’ and ‘their powers turned over to male deities. This permitted cerebral-intellectual-Apollonian, left brain consciousness, with its ethical and conceptual discriminations, to be born and to grow.

Some women who are already conscious enough to have relinquished their victim identity on the personal level are still holding on to a collective victim identity: “what men did to women.” They are right — and they are also wrong. They are right in as much as the collective female pain-body is in large part due to male violence inflicted on women and repression of the female principle throughout the planet over millennia. They are wrong if they derive a sense of self from this fact and thereby keep themselves imprisoned in a collective victim identity. If a woman is still holding on to anger, resentment, or condemnation, she is holding on to her pain-body. This may give her a comforting sense of identity, of solidarity with other women, but it is keeping her in bondage to the past and blocking full access to her essence and true power. If women exclude themselves from men, that fosters a sense of separation and therefore a strengthening of the ego. And the stronger the ego, the more distant you are from your true nature.

Why are you doing this? I don’t want you. Is that the problem? Is your ego so big you can’t handle a woman rejecting you?” “Oh, you want me alright, my sexy little witch. Want me so bad it scares you. Well, I’ve got news for you. It scares the fuck out of me, too. But I don’t care. When the options are settling down with you for life and popping out little demonlings or watching you walk away, I know what I choose.” For a moment, she couldn’t answer, could only gape at him as his words penetrated. Surely, she misunderstood. “What did you say?” “I want you as my mate.” No misunderstanding that time. She tamped down her elation by slapping it with the cold, hard truth. “You’ll hurt me.” “Trust me.” He asked too much. “I’m not the right woman.” “You’re all I want.” She shook her head lest his words weave a spell around her and make her believe. Yet despite all the warnings in her head, hope blossomed and love warmed her. How nice it would be to allow herself to love him. To trust him. Sadness entered his expression at her rejection. “I know it’s hard for you, little witch, but I promise you’ve nothing to fear. Unless the thought of too many orgasms in a row freaks you out.” And that quickly, he changed from pensive male to the one she’d grown to love with the mischievous smile. He lunged. She squealed like a little girl and ran. Not far though. With his ridiculously long stride, he quickly caught her and tossed her over his shoulder. He laughed as she beat at his broad back with her fists. “Save some of that energy for the bedroom because you are not leaving until you admit you care for me.” “I’ll kill you first.” “I like a girl who’s kinky.” “You’re impossible.” “No, but I am horny.” “How are we supposed to catch those souls if we’re fooling around here?” “Some things are more important.” “How can having sex with me be more important than ensuring you don’t burst into flame tomorrow?” “I would let someone beat me with a cat-o-nine too, if you’d just admit you like me.” “I hate you.” “Close. I see we’ll need to work on that.” -Ysabel & Remy

This medical view of an ideal male who was insulated from pathogens was inextricably bound up with a parallel discourse about the maintenance of strong ego boundaries, a psychic investment in one’s bodily peripheries that effected a gradual closing (and, one might say, a closing off) of the male body, at once from the outer world of dangerous stimuli and from the inner world of threatening passions. Without a doubt, as Norbert Elias has shown, in the western world both men and women experienced a shift in their sense of personal boundaries during the early modern era where, amid changing social circumstances, rising thresholds of repugnance and shame were manifested among the upper-classes as a growing aversion to their own bodily functions and to the bodies of others. The changes wrought by new developments in table manners and etiquette were extended by the introduction of hygienic practices in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries that endeavored to maximise the order and cleanliness of the social body while futher compartmentalising the bourgeois self as a discrete bodily unit.

many relationships depend for daily ease and survival on one person’s capacity to be flexible: to be able to give more than take; to be able to accept rather than demand; to be able to hold back rather than rush forward; to change when change is needed. It is no coincidence that in heterosexual relationships it is far more likely to be the woman whose sense of self is less ‘ego-bound’ and more adaptable. It is also no coincidence that it is likely to be the woman who is in much greater danger of allowing her sense of her own unique self to slide or be submerged into a ‘we-self’ which largely serves the needs of the male partner. This comes about for many reasons: • The woman is likely to have been socialised into emphasising an awareness of others rather than self-awareness (believing that self-awareness may be synonymous with selfishness). • The woman may be more flexible than her male partner. • She may unconsciously collude with her partner’s equally unexamined assumptions that his interests, career, sense of purpose have greater legitimacy than her own. • Her self-worth may depend on her capacity to make life pleasant and agreeable for others.

The male narcissist is a misogynist, holding women in complete contempt. Here you are being tormented, and your compliance with this request [ because by now you know the silent treatment will follow if you don’t ] is just another example of his control over you. At the end of the day you are merely an object, a source of his narcissistic supply discussed earlier, giving him another ‘fix’ to his fragile ego. Attention procured from fellow male diners at the next outing will only serve to inflate his delusional feeling of superiority over others, and bear in mind the attention is for his benefit, not yours. Women present will no doubt take a different perspective from their temporarily distracted partners looking on with tongues hanging out. Along the lines ‘poor woman, if that’s how she’s made to dress. I’ll bet her life must be hell. What a prick’. His demands, always phrased as though in your favour continue unabated. ‘Why don’t you just pack in your job? It’s not as if we need the money. We can live comfortably off my salary. Think of all the extra time we can have together, and less pressure on you’. Awwww, this man is all heart. Well, he does need a cleaner, that’s for sure, as describing the place as untidy would be an understatement. As for employing a gardener! Forget it. Guess who will be spending the summer months breaking her back weeding and edging? Narcissists deem such jobs trivial and beneath them. These tasks were designed for inferior people.

We do a great disservice to boys in how we raise them. We stifle the humanity of boys. We define masculinity in a very narrow way. Masculinity is a hard, small cage, and we put boys inside this cage. We teach boys to be afraid of fear, of weakness, of vulnerability. We teach them to mask their true selves, because they have to be, in Nigerian-speak—a hard man. Of course, because of their historical advantage, it is mostly men who will have more today. But if we start raising children differently, then in fifty years, in a hundred years, boys will no longer have the pressure of proving their masculinity by material means. But by far the worst thing we do to males—by making them feel they have to be hard—is that we leave them with very fragile egos. The harder a man feels compelled to be, the weaker his ego is.

The well-known phrase, 'Women have no character,' really means the same thing. Personality and individuality (intelligible), ego and soul, will and (intelligible) character, all these are different expressions of the same actuality, an actuality the male of mankind attains, the female lacks. But since the soul of man is the microcosm, and great men are those who live entirely in and through their souls, the whole universe thus having its being in them, the female must be described as absolutely without the quality of genius. The male has everything within him, and, as Pico of Mirandola put it, only specialises in this or that part of himself. It is possible for him to attain to the loftiest heights, or to sink to the lowest depths; he can become like animals, or plants, or even like women, and so there exist woman-like female men. The woman, on the other hand, can never become a man. In this consists the most important limitation to the assertions in the first part of this work. Whilst I know of many men who are practically completely psychically female, not merely half so, and have seen a considerable number of women with masculine traits, I have never yet seen a single woman who was not fundamentally female, even when this femaleness has been concealed by various accessories from the person herself, not to speak of others. One must be (chap. i. part I.) either man or woman, however many peculiarities of both sexes one may have, and this 'being,' the problem of this work from the start, is determined by one's relation to ethics and logic; but whilst there are people who are anatomically men and psychically women, there is no such thing as a person who is physically female and psychically male, notwithstanding the extreme maleness of their outward appearance and the unwomanliness of their expression.

Most disconcerting of all were those experiences in which the patient's consciousness appeared to expand beyond the usual boundaries of the ego and explore what it was like to be other living things and even other objects. For example, Grof had one female patient who suddenly became convinced she had assumed the identity of a female prehistoric reptile. She not only gave a richly detailed description of what it felt like to be encapsuled in such a form, but noted that the portion of the male of the species' anatomy she found most sexually arousing was a patch of colored scales on the side of its head. Although the woman had no prior knowledge of such things, a conversation Grof had with a zoologist later confirmed that in certain species of reptiles, colored areas on the head do indeed play an important role as triggers of sexual arousal. Patients were also able to tap into the consciousness of their relatives and ancestors. One woman experienced what it was like to be her mother at the age of three and accurately described a frightening event that had befallen her mother at the time. The woman also gave a precise description of the house her mother had lived in as well as the white pinafore she had been wearing—all details her mother later confirmed and admitted she had never talked about before. Other patients gave equally accurate descriptions of events that had befallen ancestors who had lived decades and even centuries before. Other experiences included the accessing of racial and collective memories. Individuals of Slavic origin experienced what it was like to participate in the conquests of Genghis Khan's Mongolian hordes, to dance in trance with the Kalahari bushmen, to undergo the initiation rites of the Australian aborigines, and to die as sacrificial victims of the Aztecs. And again the descriptions frequently contained obscure historical facts and a degree of knowledge that was often completely at odds with the patient's education, race, and previous exposure to the subject. For instance, one uneducated patient gave a richly detailed account of the techniques involved in the Egyptian practice of embalming and mummification, including the form and meaning of various amulets and sepulchral boxes, a list of the materials used in the fixing of the mummy cloth, the size and shape of the mummy bandages, and other esoteric facets of Egyptian funeral services. Other individuals tuned into the cultures of the Far East and not only gave impressive descriptions of what it was like to have a Japanese, Chinese, or Tibetan psyche, but also related various Taoist or Buddhist teachings.

the practice of extreme violence, known by the catch-all and often inexact term terrorism, was always of particular attraction to male individuals who were either virgins or unable to find sexual partners. Mind-altering frustration, and the damage to the male ego which accompanied it, found its release in rage and assaults. When lonely, hopeless young men were provided with loving, or at least desirous, or at the very least willing sexual partners, they lost interest in suicide belts, bombs, and the virgins of heaven, and preferred to live.

Há dez anos a vida era, sobretudo, uma questão pessoal. Eu precisava equilibrar o senso da inutilidade do esforço e o senso da necessidade de lutar; a convicção da inevitabilidade do fracasso e, ainda assim, a determinação de ‘vencer’ - e, mais do que isso, a contradição entre a mão morta do passado e as admiráveis intenções para o futuro. Se eu conseguisse fazer isso apesar dos males comuns da vida - domésticos, profissionais e pessoais -, o ego seguiria como uma flecha atirada do nada para o nada e com tal força que só a gravidade a traria por fim de volta à terra.

Jack had seen his brothers-in-law, all puffed up with testosterone pride when they’d gotten their wives pregnant, when the babies came. He never pretended to really understand it. He was too busy with his career, with his troops, when it seemed to him a woman getting pregnant was probably the worst career suicide a man could suffer. He didn’t get their male egos; he thought his sisters were just getting fat and mean. He got it now. He felt as though his chest might explode. There was a fire in his belly and it was all he could do to keep from running up a flag. He couldn’t wait until he and Mel could make some plans, get married, tell the world they were lifetime partners and bringing a baby on board. She

Show off,” Taylor told him. “Just because Brody has only human strength right now.” Veris grinned. “Let me enjoy the superiority while I can.” She rolled her eyes. “Men. Who cares who is stronger?” Brody slid his hand over her waist. “He’s stroking his own ego, anyway. He’s always stronger, even when I’m vampire.” “And I’ve always told you strength is mostly a mental thing…” Veris drew in a breath and caught Brody’s face between his hands. “Guds, I missed you.” He kissed him, slowly and deeply, and Taylor’s body fizzed and bloomed as she watched them share the intimate expression. She loved this side of their three-way relationship. She loved watching them together and she loved catching hints of their long, long past together. Both of them were typical males; they didn’t share intimacies and didn’t like talking about themselves except for moment like now when their guard was down and they felt completely secure and safe. Taylor pieced together the story of their relationship before she had met them one fragment at a time and she still didn’t have the full picture for it was a story that stretched over a thousand years.

You did not look like that on the basketball court in high school.” “Like what?” He shook his head. “I swim.” “To where?” The male ego kicked in, if a bit belatedly, and Quinn’s laughter sounded very pleased. “I swim sometimes when I can’t sleep.” “Mmm. Molly says you have insomnia.” “I do.” “I can see that.