Spock and I were born at the same cultural crossroads: Gene Roddenberry was giving birth to his vision in the same mid-60's that produced this devotee to it. My earliest television memories, at age 4 or 5, were of Star Trek, already in reruns at that point. Much of the cultural significance was lost on a pre-school me. I did not understand the relatively radical interstellar society he had created (Interfering with alien cultures is wrong! Different races can work together with respect! Women can be nurses and secretaries in space!)
But I did have a marked interest in the character of Spock; the sort of pre-adolescent interest vaguely situated between wanting to play with him and wanting to kiss him, which veered sharply toward the latter as my viewing history progressed. Spock was smooth, confident, and undeniably exotic. He was tall, lean, dark, and handsome. And although I'm not privy to the intimate details of Vulcan anatomy, I had my suspicions.
He had all of Kirk's charm, without the volatile swagger and pounce. While Kirk would become enraged at the sight of his own blood, and then pummel his enemy, cuing a swelling, frenetic musical score, Spock would vanquish his enemy with a carefully placed, controlled pinch. And he would never fickly ogle every impossibly short-skirted secretary/ensign with papers to sign.
But therein lies the seed of my ruined love life: He would never ogle anyone. His frequently referenced but rarely witnessed human emotions were tightly controlled. He had no temper, but he also lacked passion. I suspect that this early and ongoing infatuation was the foundation for a lifelong attraction to emotionally remote men. Men who thought it unreasonable (shades of illogical) to expect demonstrative affection and romance. Men so caught up in calculations that the intangible value of love eluded them.
But, you protest, Spock *does* have emotions: Did I not see his libidinous torment during pon farr? Or the playful romantic side elicited by the spores?
Indeed, I did. And like the rats that are more motivated by the pellet only occasionally produced by pressing the bar than by continuous pellet production, these episodes strongly reinforced my interest. I'm not a masochist after all. Spock was emotionally remote to be sure, but there was always the faint hope that pon farr was just around the corner; or that I could find a reliable source of spores. And so I waited, motivated by the belief that I could be the one to unleash the repressed volcanic passion.
I suspect that I'm not alone in this: Under the bell curve of humanity, most men are somewhere on the Spock spectrum: Emotionally repressed aliens genuinely puzzled by our disappointment in their unresponsiveness. Some (more primitive) human men describe the women who react to their barren emotional landscapes with frustrated attempts to terraform as "crazy". But not my Spock. When confronted with a lack-of-romance-induced vexation, for example, how would Spock react? He would raise one quizzical eyebrow and consider, while I wait for him to see the logic of my position.
But I did have a marked interest in the character of Spock; the sort of pre-adolescent interest vaguely situated between wanting to play with him and wanting to kiss him, which veered sharply toward the latter as my viewing history progressed. Spock was smooth, confident, and undeniably exotic. He was tall, lean, dark, and handsome. And although I'm not privy to the intimate details of Vulcan anatomy, I had my suspicions.
He had all of Kirk's charm, without the volatile swagger and pounce. While Kirk would become enraged at the sight of his own blood, and then pummel his enemy, cuing a swelling, frenetic musical score, Spock would vanquish his enemy with a carefully placed, controlled pinch. And he would never fickly ogle every impossibly short-skirted secretary/ensign with papers to sign.
But therein lies the seed of my ruined love life: He would never ogle anyone. His frequently referenced but rarely witnessed human emotions were tightly controlled. He had no temper, but he also lacked passion. I suspect that this early and ongoing infatuation was the foundation for a lifelong attraction to emotionally remote men. Men who thought it unreasonable (shades of illogical) to expect demonstrative affection and romance. Men so caught up in calculations that the intangible value of love eluded them.
But, you protest, Spock *does* have emotions: Did I not see his libidinous torment during pon farr? Or the playful romantic side elicited by the spores?
Indeed, I did. And like the rats that are more motivated by the pellet only occasionally produced by pressing the bar than by continuous pellet production, these episodes strongly reinforced my interest. I'm not a masochist after all. Spock was emotionally remote to be sure, but there was always the faint hope that pon farr was just around the corner; or that I could find a reliable source of spores. And so I waited, motivated by the belief that I could be the one to unleash the repressed volcanic passion.
I suspect that I'm not alone in this: Under the bell curve of humanity, most men are somewhere on the Spock spectrum: Emotionally repressed aliens genuinely puzzled by our disappointment in their unresponsiveness. Some (more primitive) human men describe the women who react to their barren emotional landscapes with frustrated attempts to terraform as "crazy". But not my Spock. When confronted with a lack-of-romance-induced vexation, for example, how would Spock react? He would raise one quizzical eyebrow and consider, while I wait for him to see the logic of my position.
I'm still waiting.
