a femasexual is born

We live in the era of the metrosexual male. A metrosexual male is one who strives to be the most perfectly groomed, groomed, toned, tanned, waxed, waxed and well-dressed human being of the male gender who is absolutely and unequivocally not gay or guilty of any homosexual tendencies.

There’s so much gender mixing these days that I’m inclined to finally take a stand and publicly declare myself “femasexual.” A sexual woman is a millennial woman who has survived Paris Hilton, Britney Spears, Janet Jackson and the gay marriage license, only to find herself in competition with just about the only class of men left who can date and mate: metrosexuals.

As an outspoken femasexual, I’m ready to step on some pedicure-perfect metrosexual feet. Before I do, let me tell you that I like men who take care of themselves. But between men and women there are some lines that should not be crossed, and men who wax, shape and arch their eyebrows are one of them. A manicure with colored nail polish is another.

It’s an insult to a sexual woman when a metrosexual has smoother, more toned and polished skin than hers. Furthermore, any hint of enhanced coloration in a metrosexual’s cheeks, lips, and eyes is enough to drive a femasexual into a complete frenzy.

Metrosexuals are driving us women out of our spas and salons. Not only do we have to compete for the highest level positions in the workplace, for which we are still underpaid compared to our peers, we now have to compete for hair, skin and nail jobs.

And, to add insult to injury, metrosexuals have been known to tip better than femasexuals.

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

On the other hand, you don’t see a metrosexual in TV commercials raising their perfectly manicured hands (and eyebrows) in delight at the wonders of the latest toilet scrubber. And a metrosexual wouldn’t be caught dead in 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. Courageously, she manages to fit her salon date in between the mundane activities of everyday life. So when a sexual woman looking for a mate discovers that her cosmetic priorities trump his own, there’s bound to be some friction. She may find the total absorption of the metrosexual a turnoff. And what is the point of her innumerable cuts on her shins, when she goes to rub her silky-smooth, freshly shaven leg on the silky-smooth, equally shaven leg of his bedmate? she?

There really is no future, I’m afraid, for the femasexual. Not only is she being overshadowed by the metrosexual man, but she is being shunned by gay men who can hire sperm donors, get married, and make benefits. She skips cramps, tampons, and other feminine products; we can also have our wombs cut and frozen for future generations.