1) A meek or mild mannered man; a wuss, acting like you have no balls; no guts; no spine.
2) A male, overly attactive or primped, superficial, possibly straight, gay, bi or metrosexual. Also remenicent of a Ken Doll.
1) Your arm goes up only when my hand says so. Your right leg moves forward followed by your left only when I order you to walk to kiss your female companion because I know you two will live happily ever after. You have no voice and therefore you have no choice whether you want to marry Barbie. She’s pretty, smart, and has the best pink BMW of all the dolls in FAO Schwartz. Fortunately for you, you have no voice. You cannot talk back as your mouth remains shut while my hands control your every move of love, affection and care to meet my desperate needs for passion and excitement in my life. You are my entertainment. When I say ‘comfort me’, you better raise your tiny hand and jump into the Barbie playhouse as fast as you can or else I will hold a tantrum. I know you will, because you have no voice, no mind, and a soul that is willing to be damaged. You are Ken, and Ken you will be. So play with my hair, tell me I’m beautiful, and make sure everyone knows that I have the best man a girl can get: comforting, loving, kind, respectful, and controllable to my content.
2) I felt your plastic arms wrap around me, they were so cold. Females did not play with you, you played with them.Even though our lips touched mine were real while yours were temporary. Yours got passed around from little girl to little girl all wanting a piece. Waiting their turn to get a glimpse of your beauty.Wanting to taste, waste their time. Your ego was so high I didn’t know how to break the concrete walls that towered above. Many tried to dive in. The only one’s allowed are the one’s who are not afraid to fall off. Taste the sweet sensation then swallow it only to expect poison. You are the doll my mom recently bought me so my girl Barbie with the pink ribbon in her hair would have a friend. However, just like any new toy, I played with you and got bored. Got bored of your perfect features and your attempt to convince to which seems like all the estrogen in universe that you were what an idealist would call flawless. I heard your mind screaming to come out of the concrete building your ego was holding up. It couldn’t. No matter what your mind tried to coordinate on paper, the thickness of your eyebrows, the sharpness of your jaw line, the cheap nothingness in your words which caressed the emptiness in my soul, told your mind freedom was not to be contemplated. When I got tired of you, my new and improved Ken doll, I realized that the building was of Octavian Augustus’ design. Pillaged, burned, adopted, and yet it still remained standing tall. Wounds inside that pass. You let them slide across your mind like the amount of thought it takes to ask your mother to pass the salt at the dinner table. The plastic consumes. The mind suffers. The plastic enjoys.
