![]() ![]() Viz.: the man who thinks 30 seconds of foreplay is “enough,” the man who cheats on his wife, the man who passes women over for promotion, the man who steals his girlfriend’s credit cards, the man who keeps 19 guns in the basement, the man who tells his co-worker she “talks too much in meetings,” the man who won’t bathe, the man who beats his girlfriend’s dog, the man who takes his female colleagues’ ideas, the man who tries to kill his rich wife by putting poison in her shampoo. Jean” column in Elle, and for 26 years, no matter what problems are driving women crazy - their careers, wardrobes, love affairs, children, orgasms, finances - there comes a line in almost every letter when the cause of the correspondent’s quagmire is revealed. For 26 years, I have been writing the “Ask E. I just know a hideous man when I see one. Does Hunter, the greatest degenerate of his generation, who kept yelling, “Off with your pants!” as he sliced the leggings from my body with a long knife in his hot tub, make the list? Naw.Īnd if having my pants hacked off by a man lit to the eyebrows with acid, Chivas Regal, Champagne, grass, Chartreuse, Dunhills, cocaine, and Dove Bars does not make the list - because to me there is a big difference between an “adventure” and an “attack” - who, in God’s name, does make my Hideous List?Īfter almost two years of drawing and redrawing my list, I’ve come to realize that, though my hideosity bar is high, my criteria are a little cockeyed. Thompson … now, there’s a good candidate. But in the end, they do not make my Hideous List. I considered Matt Lauer, Bill O’Reilly, and the giant dingleberry Charlie Rose, all guys whose TV shows I was on many times and who made headlines during the rise of #MeToo. When I began, I was not sure which among all the foul harassers, molesters, traducers, swindlers, stranglers, and no-goods I’ve known were going to make the final accounting. As the riotous, sickening stories of #MeToo surged across the country, I, like many women, could not help but be reminded of certain men in my own life. I started it in October 2017, the day Jodi Kantor and Megan Twohey published their Harvey Weinstein bombshells in the New York Times. Now, about this Most Hideous Men of My Life List: It is a list of the 21 most revolting scoundrels I have ever met. It is his uncles, his father, his grandfather who belong on such a list. I am not putting him on the Most Hideous Men of My Life List - whether he belongs there is for him to decide. James and I played so many ferocious games while camping that summer: hooking each other with fishhooks, holding each other underwater, tying each other up, shooting each other with cap guns, chasing each other with garter snakes, dumping hot embers on each other’s heads. ![]() And there it still was, the wadded-up thing. Late at night, when the guests had gone home, I took off my dress, pulled down my pants. He pulled up my dress and crammed the balled-up material down my pants. He wadded up a piece of fabric - it was a light blue-violet shade and looked fluffy, like a bunched-up hairnet. James looked at me with his feral gray eyes. I don’t remember now what it was, probably a stick, or maybe a rock. Our families had gone on a camping trip to Pokagon State Park, and I learned that an object could be shoved up the place where I tinkled. To me he said, “I’m going to shove this up you again.” He ordered everyone around, even the older kids. James was 7 and a half or 8, a bloodthirsty, beautiful, relentless boy. As the parents drank cocktails in our big yard with the scent of the blooming wads of cash infusing every inch of Indiana just after WWII, the kids played up on the hill beside the schoolhouse. Arthur and Evelyn drove up from Indianapolis with James to the redbrick schoolhouse where we lived, deep in the hills north of Fort Wayne. Arthur and Evelyn were best friends with my parents, Tom and Betty. When James was 6, he was taken away from his father and given to a rich couple, Arthur and Evelyn. My mother told me the stories much later. He grew up to be the president of the United States. My first rich boy - I had fixed my eyes on his face long enough to know - was beautiful, with dark gray eyes and long golden-brown hair across his forehead. ![]() My first rich boy pulled down my underpants. ![]()
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