I had a response from PPS about the long trail of comments following his pronouncement on What NCGs Should Know About NCBs:
It seems I should start blogging: two sentences written by me, and you have the most popular blogpost in months! Too bad I cannot be bothered.
By the way, is not this "clothes don't matter; what's inside matters" nonsense of many of your readers terrible? So much of your preaching to no effect. And they do not even realise that such an attitude at they present is a fruit of rotten modernism.
Of course, I may be in trouble now for having shared that snippet, but hopefully PPS cannot be bothered to get mad. I think it would be great fun if he did a guest post, for the same reason we cannot resist sneaking a peek at whatever terrifying film everyone is currently talking about. Pastorally, though, it might not be a good idea, for a certain percentage of young women cannot resist young men who say jaw-droppingly shocking things. If you don't conceive an implacable hatred for them on the spot, you run the risk of becoming addicted to the drama of unsayable said, like people addicted to roller-coasters. Possibly the same chemicals--dopamine and adrenaline--start coursing through our veins. A common complain from letter-writers is that NCBs are boring. NCBs may seem less boring to non-Catholic girls who are beyond startled that the NCB is saving himself for marriage, or opens doors, or believes in God, or loathes ab*rti*n. For many an NCG, this is just NCB as usual, ho hum... Look! Motorcycle!
Incidentally, one of the signs of spring in my high school days was the roar of an IROC (muscle car) pulling up outside the convent/school to its own stereo soundtrack. BLACK CARS. (BLACK CARS!) LOOK BEDDER IN THE. DOO DOO DOO DOO DOO DOO...!
"Girls!" the teachers would shriek. "Get away from that window. Sit down!"
"Ginos," muttered the more conservative of the Italian girls, having known such boys all their lives. (Classmate to me, wailing, "You're so lucky you don't have to marry one!")
But for us others, there was much speculation and conjecture. Who were these boys? And who among us were their girlfriends? Or if not the girlfriends, the female friends? Only now, almost twenty-five years later, does it occur to me that the IROC drivers might have been picking up their sisters. This may be because the appearance of flashy cars rudely pouring music into the outraged nouveau genteel neighbourhood was rather more macho than brotherly.
"Girls!" wailed Mr McK, my Grade Thirteen religion teacher. "When I see you in those sleeveless prom dresses, I want to clothe you in suits of armour!"
Mr McK did not have a high opinion of teenage male sexuality. "Men are BEASTS, girls! BEASTS! The homework is question 2 on page 45."
Mr McK also showed us a probably dodgy film narrated by a priest and called "The Good News About Sex" and having become the most unlikely of the school rebels, I complained vociferously that in pointing out the differences between male and female expectations around sexuality, the film should be called "The Bad News About Sex." In hindsight, it could also have been called "The Not Universally Applicable News about Sex" because most teenage boys I met would have quaked at a sexy prom dress, let alone run off for a can opener to prise off the armour.
PPS is probably wondering, hair standing on end, where I am going with this post. Sorry, PPS. Naturally you are not an IROC driver, except in an intellectual, metaphorical sense.
Anyway, poor old Mr McK was doing his best to keep us safe from contemporary versions of his long-dead teenage self, but in so doing he probably aroused our interest in Bad Boys even more than if he had kept his mouth shut or had emphasized not that Bad Boys are dangerous but that they are so often uncouth or dull. I mean, Gino Vannili. Come on.
A guy who strings you along/humours you for years while flirting with other women is actually very dull; the guy who surprises you with a heart-winning marriage proposal and then bizarre anniversary presents every year is much more exciting. Now that I think about this, this may be because you can comfortably fight with him without worrying that he will immediately leave you for the hideous crimes of raising your voice, bursting into tears and blaming him for the fact that you put too much mustard powder in the Fat Tuesday Skinny Red Beans, not that I ever behave like that myself. (She looks shifty.)
But that does not resolve the problem of Bad Boys who are neither Uncouth nor Dull but merely enjoy making women flutter and shriek like a flock of chickens, keeping a beady eye out for the ones that neither flutter nor shriek but merely fall into a trance before their fox-like charm. I think the only cure is a vixen disguised as an entranced chicken. Fan art, please.
Incidentally, before I met B.A. two of his friends told me he was an incorrigible womanizer who needed saving. Women, they claimed, threw themselves at him, and I thought, "Huh! Well, I hope he does not expect ME to throw myself at him!" and longed more than ever to meet him. Fortunately, B.A.'s friends were wildly exaggerating his popularity with women, not to mention blowing up ordinary unhappy romances with the Misses Wrong to womanizing, so he enjoyed the benefits of being thought a bad boy without my having to suffer the reality.
The hope I am holding out for Nice Catholic Boys with this post is that if so far they have found themselves passed over by Nice Catholic Girls who tell them they just don't feel a spark, they may find success by boldly telling women where they disagree with them. It could be dangerous, of course, but it is certainly one way to separate the ladies from the wimmin. If you are speaking to a woman who derides "the anti-Choice" to you, you should politely tell them that you yourself feel strongly that unborn babies have the right to life. She may gape with horror, but as long as she doesn't denounce you on the spot, there is a chance that the dopamine and adrenaline coursing through her blood at your outrageousness will bind her to you. "Why do I always fall for the bad boys?" she will weep to her friends.
"Does he vote Republican?"
"I don't know," she weeps. "Maybe!"
Update: More comments up at recent posts! Sorry about all the moderation, but it's to keep the ads and crankies away.