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Tinderp Tale #7: Feminist By Convenience

It was the start of 2016, and I was still a premature spinster virgin. Some days it was a struggle; other days, a nonchalant passing thought. Love of a romantic or sexual nature was becoming a shrinking possibility in my mind. At this point, I just really hoped I would get laid, preferably before I turned 25 in August. (Being a 24-year-old virgin was bearable in my eyes. Being a 25-year-old virgin, however, was completely intolerable and had to be prevented at all costs.)

I was sporadically using Tinder at this time, but hadn’t been on a date with anyone in months. It seemed to take much more effort than it used to. Where did all the thirsty dudes go? I used to have drawn-out conversations with guys I matched up with that would result in an ask to drinks, but now I was getting a lot of matches who were content with empty chatboxes. Was it because I wasn’t taking Tinder as seriously as when I had first started out? (Which to be honest wasn’t all that seriously, because c’mon, it’s fucking Tinder.) Was it because I was much more cynical and dysfunctional with my dating approach, and it showed? How could that be if these passive motherfuckers weren’t talking to me?

Oh, yeah. It probably had something to do with one of my profile pictures, which was a fairly detailed dating resume I had written after a spontaneous burst of inspiration:

12030307_10206799816330183_1801416795006048513_o

I mean, it’s pretty entertaining, right? Who needs wholesome and well-adjusted when you can get colorful dysfunction in the guise of jokes? Clearly, I’m dating material!

A part of me questioned my unfailing tendency to cultivate a persona of myself as a brutally honest and pessimistic misandrist in my dating profile. Was it a defense mechanism? Against what? What would it hurt to frame myself in an equally entertaining but more positive light? The other parts of me told that part to shut the fuck up, I can do whatever I want.

Anyway, in spite of my strategically interesting profile, dudes weren’t biting, which meant I had to start taking the initiative again. I decided to message one of my most recent matches because he seemed pretty cool (also possibly hot, but his photos were kind of shitty UGH get it together, dudes on the dating interwebz).


You matched with Minh* on 1/14/16

Me

Hey it’s been a week and I figure the sensible thing to do is message you for no apparent reason at 3am when you are probably asleep

*name changed to protect the clueless


Surprisingly enough, he responded the next day.


Minh

Darn you missed it by like 30 mins. I think I slept at 0230. Someone Had a ratchet Friday night?


Me

If by ratchet you mean eating pasta in bed and crying as I’m rewatching the hunger games then yes


Minh

That’s next level ratchet. When a ratchet graduates.


I enjoyed messaging with Minh. He didn’t ask any of the boring questions about where I worked, or what I liked to do for fun. We just said stupid shit to each other and occasionally flirted. He complimented me on my smile. I complimented him on his face.


Minh

My face thanks you

So do you use your online dating experience to fuel your blog? I should add fuel to that creative process.


OH NO.

OH NO NO NO NO NO NO.

HE READ MY BLOG?!

AHHHHHHHHH FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY?!!!??!!??!!11111

Okay, you’re probably wondering why I would be shocked and horrified by this when my blog is public domain and I’ve purposefully promoted it across multiple social media platforms. It’s my “hiding in plain sight” strategy: I operate under the assumption that most people, especially those who have little to no emotional investment in my creativity, will find my semi-shameless social media plugs annoying and disregard every blog-related post or link I share. I figured random dudes from the Internet in particular would be too lazy and disinterested to look at this blog, which had proven true so far–no one I’ve been on a date with at this point had ever made mention of it.


Me

Oh fuck, you read my blog *smiley emoji with sweatdrop*

Haha well yes I’ve been documenting past online dating experiences but only when things didn’t work out.* Which has been a recurring theme in my dating life *contemplative face emoji*

*To clarify, I’m defining “things didn’t work out” very specifically. Obviously, all connections I make will most likely not work out in a literal sense, unless I end up married to someone until death do us part, which is improbable even for someone way less cynical, less man-hating, and less isolated than me. What I meant is, if I go on a few dates with someone and it goes nowhere, I will write about that. If it ends up becoming a meaningful and ongoing relationship of some kind regardless if it ends after just three months or a year, I won’t write about it. (I mean, I will probably write about that person in some manner, but it won’t take the form of a lengthy and detailed prose narrative accompanied by crudely drawn pictures of stick figures and sperm.)


Minh

Haha you and me both. I haven’t read it, but I inferred it in your dating resume.

Yea dating is exhausting :/


Me

Lol oh right. Yeah idk why we subject ourselves to this torture

I mean I guess in hopes of falling in love or getting laid or whatever


Minh

I guess it’s nature sprinkled in with some cultural entitlement here and there. [I have no idea what he meant by this]

With that said, I would be grateful to see you’re [sic] sarcasm and quick wit in person 🙂


Me

Lol oh right.

I don’t think my wit is as quick in person lol but yeah, let’s meet up


tinderp 7.1

We made weeknight plans to get coffee at Philz in Berkeley, his home turf. In person, Minh was shorter and stockier than expected, and not as cute as I’d hoped. Still, I was determined to be open-minded. I was excited to learn that he was part Cambodian. “You can call me by my real name, Leh!-keh-nah,” I told him as we walked over to the coffee shop.

“Okay, Lahgena,” he said, completely butchering the actual pronunciation of my name.

I cringed. “Uh. Never mind. Just call me Learkana.” It became even more apparent as we made small talk that he hadn’t been raised Cambodian and spoke zero Khmer, which was somewhat disappointing, but I wasn’t going to count it against him.

After getting our caffeinated drinks, we grabbed a table upstairs. It felt comfortable and easy, conversing with Minh. He chatted about TV shows, working as a nurse at a psych ward, and having an allegedly sarcastic sense of humor (allegedly because I saw no proof of it and at one point wondered if he knew what sarcasm meant). I smiled and nodded and looked at him and tried really hard to find him attractive. It was kind of working. Wasn’t it?

I soon became painfully aware that we were the only ones engaged in animated conversation in the cafe. Everyone else was studying. Minh didn’t seem to notice or care how loud and obnoxious he sounded. His dude-bro voice droned on, penetrating the silence like some oblivious phallic object. I was embarrassed. I also felt old as fuck, sitting in the middle of all these college students. “Can we go somewhere else?” I asked. “This place is too quiet and I feel kinda awkward.”

“Okay, sure,” he said. We left the cafe and walked a few blocks over to a tea house. Minh led me to the patio in the back, where we sat on some steps to talk some more. I don’t quite remember how the patio looked, but it was pretty fancy and almost romantic, except I felt absolutely nothing. Unfortunately, it seemed Minh could tell. He kept making “jokes” about the date going badly and my lack of interest in him, but I would just smile and say nothing in response, and that probably only served to confirm his suspicions. I felt trapped in some ways. I didn’t want him to think I didn’t like him, but I couldn’t bring myself to express interest outside of simply being there with him. I also didn’t know how to flirt in person, but I wasn’t sure if I wanted to, even if I had known how. At this point I usually would have made up some excuse about being tired and left already. But I didn’t want to call it quits this time. I was sick of giving up so easily. I needed this to work, because I couldn’t bear the thought of this being the first of yet another long and tedious string of first dates with guys I would never see or hear from again.

So the date dragged on. We were running out of things to talk about. At one point, Minh asked me what I was going to write about for this date.

“Oh. I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t really think about it until afterwards.” I didn’t want to tell him that this date was probably going to be pretty boring to write about.

We somehow ended up sitting at a table outside of a restaurant we weren’t planning on entering. Minh was looking at me, trying to engage me in a discussion about past dating experiences. I was avoiding his eyes. I hated this conversation. I hated it because reliving my failures was no longer fun for me and talking to him was no longer comfortable or easy.  I suddenly felt anxious, panicked. I didn’t know what to say to him. We had said all the things that needed to be said. I was so bad at this. “I’m really bad at this,” I said out loud. “Sorry. I don’t know, maybe it’s because I’m sober. I usually drink on first dates to make things less awkward. I know, it sounds bad.”

“We can go to a bar if you want to,” he said. “I don’t mind.”

“No, that’s okay,” I said quickly. “I don’t want to depend on alcohol.” I was such a dumbass, trying to take the high and sober road. We should have gone straight to the nearest bar to get shitfaced drunk so we could move past the inability to verbally connect and sloppily make out in some corner. Instead we awkwardly sat outside until he suggested we get pho for dinner and I said sure.

He drove us to a cute little Vietnamese place that was mostly empty. “Is this the worst date you’ve been on?” he asked in what I was certain was only a half-joking manner.

“No, I’ve been on worse,” I reassured him. I recounted to him the story of the torturous hike I went on with someone from OKCupid. “He kept making these dumb jokes that weren’t funny at all,” I said. “It was awful.”

“So my jokes are better,” he said lightly.

“Haha, yeah,” I lied. We sat down and ordered. He finished his pho in no time; I gulped down a few noodles. I wasn’t really hungry. I agreed to dinner because I didn’t want to be the one to say no. I was playing the waiting game, passively sticking out the date in hopes of one spark. It never happened. Conversation had slowed to an agonizing trickle. Looking back, I’m not sure how I lasted so long in awkward first date limbo.

tinderp 7.2b

The check finally came. I asked the server for a container so I could take my three quarters uneaten pho home. Minh put down his card. “I’ll pay for it.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Oh, you’re not going to offer to pay?” he inquired. “So you’re just a feminist when it’s convenient.”

I looked at him. He was smiling, so he was probably joking. Half-joking. A lot of things flashed through my mind in that moment. The fact that I have never expected, suggested, nor insisted a guy pay for me on a date, in contrast to some of my feminist friends who were still invested in chivalry as a consolation prize for systematic sexism.  The fact that I usually paid for myself on these endless dates that never went anywhere. The fact that free food is a tempting offer regardless of gender politics, because I live paycheck to paycheck and being cared for even in small material ways feels nice. The fact that he and I both live in a white supremacist cisheteropatriarchy that primarily operates through capitalism and refusing his payment for my food wasn’t going to help end it, nor should it be a strike against my feminism when fighting for gender equality goes well beyond who pays for dinner.

I didn’t have the mental capacity, time, energy, or will to articulate any of this in a way that was socially acceptable, so I reached for my bag instead. “You want me to pay? I’ll pay.”

“Oh no, that’s okay,” he said, chastened. “I can afford to.”

After Minh paid the bill, we left the restaurant. I stopped in my tracks. “Fuck. I left my pho in there.”

He shrugged. “Oh well.”

His response made me feel worse. I wasn’t sure why.

We got into his car and he dropped me off at the downtown Berkeley BART station. I thanked him for dinner and we said good night to each other. By the time I got home, I was in low spirits. Why was I still terrible at dating? I had wanted to believe I had changed as a person. That I could be optimistic and carefree and open-minded. But when faced with the opportunity, I shut down. Pessimism, anxiety, and judgment overshadowed all thoughts in my mind. I couldn’t hold them at bay.

I decided that even though I was a failure tonight, the very least I could do was reach out to Minh and apologize for being such a lukewarm date.

Me: Ack sorry if that was weird. I’m terrible at social interaction

Minh: No not at all. I think I overwhelmed you

He overwhelmed me? What a weird, condescending thing to say.

Me: With what? Your Berkeley food recommendations? Lol

He never responded. At first I was upset that he wasn’t willing to put in the effort to see things through. It meant I wasn’t worth his time or interest. But then I realized he was only ending our mutual suffering. We weren’t a match in real life. It was so plainly obvious on that first date. I just didn’t want to let it go because I was sad and tired and lonely and didn’t want to get back out there and meet up with another stranger only to have the same anticlimactic situation repeat itself like it had so many times before. But now I had no choice. I was going to die alone, but at the very least I should go out with a bang. That meant more bad and awkward dates. That meant boring dates and exciting dates and hot dates and ugly dates. That meant dates that left me sad and confused and disappointed and also dates that left me hopeful and giggly and nostalgic. I had to keep trying because failing spectacularly is better than failing timidly. Because sitting across from a guy I will never see again is better than sitting at home and wondering what if. Because feeling lonely with someone is sometimes better than feeling lonely alone.

tl;dr Learkana has a dating resume! Learkana is still really bad at dating, like reeeeeeeally bad, but you already knew that! Learkana refuses to give up!

Now it’s time for…

RATE THAT DATE VENUE!
Venue: Philz Coffee
Rating: **
Review: Okay I feel kind of bad because I think the awkwardness had to do with the time and location and not really the coffeehouse chain itself. So I’ve thrown in an additional star out of pity and will also be specific and advise anyone trying to plan for a date to NOT meet up at a cafe in Berkeley on a weeknight that is not in the summer. It will likely to be filled with very studious college students who will incidentally make you feel old as fuck even if you only graduated college like 2 years ago (okay fine 2 and a half)

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Tinderp Tale #4: Rhymes With Beyonce

Using Tinder to meet guys was a lot less stressful than using OKCupid. It wasn’t just the simpler interface and limited access to information that the infamous app provided, it was also my new approach to dating. I stopped worrying about whether or not a prospective date wanted to smash the patriarchy, and focused more on whether or not I wanted him to smash my pussy. I WAS HORNY, OKAY. My sexual awakening had arrived late, but arrive it did in the late fall of 2014, when a trip to Good Vibrations and some encouragement from friends spurred me to explore sexual pleasure on my own. I ended up buying a vibrator that to this day remains one of the best purchases I’ve made. (Fun fact: I named it Harry Styles. Don’t judge me, naming a sex toy is less embarrassing than naming your genitals. But, uh, if you have named your genitals, totally no judgment here. And yes, this entire opening = TMI. I know, I know. Sorry, I’ll rein it in. Ish.)

Anyway, I was a 23-year-old perpetually single virgin at this time, and despite my constant refrains of feminist empowerment and reclamation, this identity was really starting to get on my nerves. I was desperate to have something more tangible than a couple of dates that fizzled into nothing. Why not a two month fling that ended with us as actual friends who could eventually give each other dating advice and support? Why not a six month situation where we really like each other until we get into a huge fight about reproductive rights or some other politically charged issue and I’m like, fuck off #ByeFelipe? Or what about a couple of weeks of fooling around with a sexually experienced, feminist-leaning guy who’s down to help me safely navigate my sexuality, using an X-rated to-do list that I’ve been meaning to compile for a while now? Love wasn’t off the table, but it wasn’t some closeted priority like it was when I was using OKCupid. I just wanted to start off with mutual attraction and interest. Why was that so fucking difficult?

Thank goodness for my Dating Sensei Sayuri. It was a little rocky at first, but she finally got into her groove and matched me up with dudes I was interested in banging. “You’re so good at picking guys for me!” I told her. “I don’t trust my judgment at all anymore. I’m wholly dependent on you, because you know better than I do!”

This was supposed to be a fucking compliment, but Sayuri had a look of alarm on her face. “Uh, that’s not a good thing, Learkana. You shouldn’t rely on me. I think I’m gonna have to stop swiping for you.”

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!” I cried, lapsing into great anguish and emotional turmoil for a few minutes. Then: “Okay whatever, fine. I can’t make you do it.”

tinderp-4-1b

Well, it was nice while it lasted. Now I was left to fend for myself in this murky dating cesspool. Eventually, though, I was able to formulate a stricter set of guidelines for myself that determined who was and who wasn’t right swipe material. (Okay fine, just who wasn’t.)

Learkana’s (In)Eligibility Criteria for Potential Tinder Matches

  1. No white guys. If you are confused or offended by this, you can find a more elaborate explanation here. If you are still confused or offended by this, thank you for reading my blog, now fuck off. 🙂
  2. No ab pics. I am shockingly more interested in what a dude’s face looks like than in how muscled his abdomen area is.
  3. No blank bios. I get it, dudes are on Tinder because they’re DTF and literally that’s it. But I’m still gonna need them to exert some brainpower and write a sentence or two about themselves if they want a shot at getting it in, kthnx.
  4. No boring, generic bios about tech, travel, and the outdoors. Ugh, like 80+% of Tinder’s male demographic is guilty of this.
  5. No bios that consist entirely of emojis. See explanation for #3.
  6. No consistently glaring spelling or grammar errors. I realize this may be classist/racist/ableist, but I’m a low-income person of color who got her degree in English, I’ve devoted my life to the written word, and I constantly proofread my own fucking text messages, I cannot handle communications I personally deem poorly written especially if it’s just some random dude from the Internet I have no emotional or professional stake in, sorry.
  7. No less than 3 quality photos to determine attractiveness of prospective match. Please, dudes, you think just 1 or 2 photos of yourself will suffice? Your mediocre bio says otherwise. Also, grainy photos from 3+ years ago do not count as “quality” photos. Also, neither do photos of you in groups of friends where sometimes I honestly can’t tell which one is you since your social group is so fucking racially homogeneous and that’s not racist, that’s just an inability to differentiate regardless of what race you project because I don’t know or care about your ass yet and your pictures suck balls, also you can forget about photos of you taken 50+ feet away from the camera or at some weird, “artsy” angle that does a shit job at showing your face, you should be ashamed of yourself like seriously. (What the fuck is wrong with dudes on dating apps? Do these motherfuckers actually want to get laid? Then they better start taking some tasteful, hi-res pictures that suggest actual fuckability! If they don’t wanna come off as vain or whatever, then they should get their fucking friends to do it! Being superficial is a two way street, goddamnit. Yes, I have some very strong feelings about this.)

It soon dawned on me that I was not a cultural fit with Tinder. I was a race-conscious feminist writer who wanted to get laid but still cared about things like compelling biographical narrative in shorthand form and is this guy hot and why can’t I tell immediately? I didn’t give a fuck about your passport adventures, had little to no interest in hiking or other physical endeavors unless I really liked you and in these circumstances that would never be a given, and I basically hated people as a general rule. Why the hell was I on here again?

Because of my vagina, duh. And other things integral to the human condition that I was not immune to (loneliness, desire, blah blah blah). (Ooh! Working title of my future autobiography: My Vagina and Other Things Integral to The Human Condition – y/n?)

Anyway, given that my requirements were reduced to what I didn’t want, as opposed to what I actually wanted (which I still wasn’t too sure of), that left a lot of room for plenty of A-OK dudes to fill up my inbox. One of whom I will refer to as Rhymes With Beyonce. Why? Because his name actually did rhyme with The Queen’s, and this fact (spoiler alert) was literally the only interesting thing about this guy.


You matched with Rhymes with Beyonce on 7/12/15

Rhymes With Beyonce

Hello there. 🙂 My name is [Rhymes with Beyonce] and I currently stay is [sic] San Francisco. I was wondering if you’d like to talk and get to know one another better? :). I’d love to chat.


Me

Sure! I’m Learkana (leer-kaw-nah) and I currently live in Oakland


Rhymes With Beyonce

:). Its nice to meet you Learkana. What do you like to do?


Me

Dancing karaoke writing reading having deep conversations getting boba making awkward videos of myself…you?


Rhymes With Beyonce

I like that a lot. I’m a professional cook so I love to cook, have fun, relax, great conversations, travel and more. :).


We kept going back and forth for a while. His responses were so boring we accidentally had the same conversation twice because I had forgotten his response the first time around. I also couldn’t tell whether his excessive use of smileys was his way of flirting or if that was just his way of textually conveying he was a super duper nice guy, but regardless it was kind of annoying.

tinderp-4-2

At one point he called me “love” and said I was “the most awesome person” he’s met on Tinder, which made no fucking sense to me, because we didn’t actually know each other and had never met in person. Still, I asked him out in an attempt to be optimistic and non-judgmental. Maybe he was more interesting in real life? (Nope.) Maybe we would hit it off. Maybe he’d be the one to devirginize me. Maybe we would eventually marry each other in a surprise twist and he would become the house husband I’ve been harboring as a fantasy ever since I realized I possessed little to no domestic skills and should probably exchange freaky monogamous sex for domestic labor and caregiving provided by a hot dude who could also put up with my eccentric nature and intense personality. (Nope, nope, and nope.)

Rhymes With Beyonce asked for my number and we made plans via text to meet up at Jupiter, a brew house in Berkeley. This would be my third time going there for a date. Considering how poorly the first two times went, I probably shouldn’t have agreed to this location, but I honestly couldn’t have cared less about where we met up at this juncture in my dating exploits, so as long as it was in a public location, in case he turned out to be a murderer or something.

We met up on a weeknight, as was typical for most dates I’ve been on. Some of my friends think it’s weird, but I think there’s been an unspoken understanding between me and most millennial dudes I connect with, which is the fact that we refuse to waste our weekends on each other when we have better things to do, like hang out with people we actually give a shit about, and laundry (super important).

In hopes of at least getting laid, I put on some sexy underwear and form-fitting clothes, then got into my car and drove over to Jupiter. I got there roughly on time and waited outside for a good 10, 15 minutes. Rhymes With Beyonce didn’t let me know until the last minute that he was running late. Annoyed, I decided I would just chill at the bar until he arrived. I also ordered without him, just to be petty. I ended up sitting next to an ethnically ambiguous guy who was kind of good looking. We started talking. Just when I was seriously and semi-shamelessly wondering if I should get this guy’s number, he ruined the moment by asking me, “Where are you from? I can’t place your accent.”

“IT’S NOT AN ACCENT, IT’S A SPEECH IMPEDIMENT, YOU MICROAGGRESSIVE RACIST ASS MOTHERFUCKER!” was something I was sorely tempted to shout at him. Instead I stiffly replied, “I was born and raised in California. Where are you from?”

He said something I don’t remember because at that point I didn’t give a fuck about what he had to say and only asked so I could sarcastically and obnoxiously interject with, “NO, where are you really from?”

He laughed and I proceeded to ignore him.

Rhymes With Beyonce eventually got his ass to the bar. He was okay-looking in person and definitely not worth the wait. We were seated at a small table. He asked me if I wanted anything. I said no, I had already eaten. He seemed disappointed. I was too irritated to be more accommodating.

So much for my fake optimism. We ended up having the same conversation for the third fucking time, when he asked me what I liked to do for fun. I was pretty sure that having the same conversations over and over again meant that we were not gonna work out in any sense because apparently the things we cared about doing in our spare time weren’t memorable or important enough to be retained in each other’s brains. I humored him by answering though as he nibbled on his pizza and implored me to take a bite. (I think I took one, but definitely no more.) I stared at his goatee and decided I hated it.

tinderp-4-3b

Backdrop is not actually Jupiter. IT’S HARD TO FIND GOOD PICTURES OK

I know, I was being kind of a heartless bitch. Rhymes With Beyonce was a sweet guy. The fact that a former coworker of his came by to enthusiastically say hi, make some brief small talk with him, and sing his praises was further proof that he was a genuinely nice dude. A genuinely nice, boring dude, just like he had conveyed via messaging. The kind of guy I had zero interest in, unfortunately. Not that being nice was a turnoff, but he was so boring! And more importantly, there was no chemistry. My eyes were glazing over. I was itching to get up and leave.

At one point, he asked me how I thought things were going. I was semi-honest. I said I saw us being just friends. Really, I felt that I would be perfectly content to never see him again, but I opted for the friendlier lie. I think he was a little upset, but didn’t make a big deal out of it. After the appropriate amount of time had passed, I called it a night and we said our goodbyes.

I drove home, annoyed at how the date turned out and annoyed at myself for disregarding my gut instinct in favor of pseudo-optimism. Self-aware pessimism was clearly the way to go here. Man, what a waste of sexy underwear, I thought bitterly. I got a text from him when I reached my house. Oh god.

Rhymes With Beyonce: I hope we can be friends. 🙂

Me: Lol no bitch.

Kidding! I just ignored him. Good thing he could take a hint. I never heard from him again.

tl;dr Learkana is horny! Learkana meets up with a nice and boring guy! Learkana does not get laid!

Now it’s time for…

RATE THAT DATE VENUE!
Venue: Jupiter
Rating: ***
Review: Eh, nothing special and not really worth the drive from Oakland, so it’s ridiculous I made the trip THREE times just to sample an array of inevitably disappointing dates. This place can get noisy, so if you and your date would like a valid excuse for getting in each other’s faces and shouting, have at it.

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Cute

Boys tell me
I am cute
they wonder why
or how
I am still single
and I laugh
at how cute it is
that “cute”
is their only prerequisite
for a woman
they will always
refer to as “girl”
Boys tell me
I am cute
and it took
a few scars
to realize
this is not a flimsy compliment
this is a demand
an expectation
a conditional agreement
I am socially obligated to sign
with a smile
and a thank you
I am cute
and I cannot be
anything more
or anything less
lest they abandon ship
and disappear
for better or for worse
I am cute.
Cute is harmless
Cute is innocent
Cute is approachable
Cute is palatable
Cute is lovable
Boys tell me
I am cute
until my smile disappears
and theirs do too
when they see my fangs
when they see my venom
when they throw stones
and I heave boulders
to break their fragile bones
When they run away
and I watch them
laughing
crying
screaming
over everything I already knew about myself
all the ways in which I remain unlovable
in the eyes of men
who cannot bear witness
to the full humanity
of a woman
without spitting it back in her face
and leaving

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Dating Cheat Sheet

Smile.
Express your distaste of a remark with a pointed question
instead of a side-eye and a string of profanity.
Be sympathetic. Be kind.
Remind yourself that he does not represent his entire gender.
Remind yourself that cracking unfunny jokes isn’t necessarily a dealbreaker.
(On second thought, it is.)
Administer physical affection as needed.
No, seriously. Lightly touch that arm.
Do it.
Do iiit.
Ugh, never mind. You’re a lost cause.
At least maintain eye contact.
Fuck, you’re just too tired to care.
Refrain from ranting about the white supremacist cisheteropatriarchy.
Refrain from disclosing all your baggage except the cute stuff like “I’m so awkward lol” and “I’m an introvert haha”
Refrain from letting slip that you’re a 25-year-old mess who doesn’t have her shit together and is not sure she ever will
Too late
Damn
On to the next one

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How to Lose Your Virginity and Only Kind of Regret It

You tell yourself virginity is a patriarchal social construct.
You tell yourself this, but you can’t stop thinking in these terms.
(Social conditioning, you know.)
You tell your friends you just want to get it over with. Get rid of it.
They tell you to wait until you’re ready.
They tell you so many people regret their first time.
They tell you that you are not alone.
They tell you, but you don’t listen.
You think losing your virginity doesn’t have to be a big deal.
Correction: you think making your sexual debut doesn’t have to be a big deal.
(A feminist reframing your friend came up with that you happen to think is pretty genius.)
You’re a 25-year-old virgin and every guy you tell is surprised.
You are way past due, it seems.
You feel locked out of some secret clubhouse
that almost everyone you know is in
and your face is pressed against the window
looking longingly inside.
You believe your first time doesn’t have to be special.
Or with someone you love.
And you would never save yourself for marriage.
Fuck marriage.
It just has to be the right timing.
With someone you like in the moment
and can trust with your naked body.
So here it comes.
Cramped in the backseat of his car.
And you can barely see each other.
And you’re not sure you like him.
But you know he likes you.
Or really, he likes your body
and what he can do to it.
And you tell yourself you’re okay with this
because this is what you wanted
to get it over with
to get rid of it
just another item to check off your to-do list
and you’re so curious
and his mouth is everywhere
and he’s flipping you this way and that
and it’s painful at first but you’re getting used to his dick
shoving itself in and out
in and out
in and out of you
and you can’t tell whether or not he’s come
but you know he’s enjoying this more than you are
and you really fucking hate that
but it seems there’s nothing you can do about it
so you check the time
tell him you should go
and fumble around for your underwear
while he goes outside to pee
before he takes you back to your car.
You notice he doesn’t touch you in the aftermath.
(For some reason, your boundaries only matter post-coitus.)
You exchange a brief hug
an awkward pause
no goodbye kiss
he says he’ll let you know
when he comes back from his trip.
You drive home.
You go to your room
the place where he wanted
to fuck you so badly
with a bottle of wine
not as in he’d fuck you
with a bottle of wine
but you know,
like he was going to bring a bottle of wine
and then you two would fuck
but you said no
because you’re embarrassed
by your living conditions.
You sit your bare ass
on the cold seat of your toilet
and take a piss to avoid the possibility of a UTI
then wipe to find blood.
You stare at the bright red blot
on your toilet paper.
You wipe some more.
More blood.
You keep wiping until there’s only faint spots left.
You feel sick.
You feel empty.
You already know this is a thing that happens
but that doesn’t make you feel any less sick or empty.
You remember watching a College Humor video
about the hymen
and how it doesn’t have to break
if a person is gentle enough
and you know nothing that just happened between your legs
was gentle.
You text him to let him know.
‘I hope your backseat isn’t stained with blood
although it would serve you right.’
You sound mean on purpose.
He asks if you’re bleeding badly.
You text no.
He says
‘Should be fine. Let me know if it doesn’t stop.’
This hurts you. How callous he is.
Like he didn’t just fuck you so hard you bled.
Like he doesn’t give a shit it was your first time.
Maybe he doesn’t–
he fucking knows. Don’t kid yourself.

You swallow the hurt. Ignore it.
Ignore your pussy aching.
Hope it’s stopped bleeding.
You shower.
Rinse your vulva.
Over and over again.
Rinsing.
Wondering if the slimy stuff
is just the usual discharge
maybe mixed with his saliva
and possibly with his cum
(Did he come?? You told him not to.)
You wonder how long it will take
to be rid of him
how long his residue
(whatever its makeup)
will stay in you.
You crawl into bed
feeling confused
unchanged
and deeply disappointed.
You push away regret
because you don’t want to dance with it tonight
and you don’t want to hear
the voices of your friends
inside your head saying
I told you so.
But really,
what would you have waited for?
Another fuckboy from Tinder
to come along
and leave you dry
while he gets off
because you don’t know
how to meet the right men
in real life?
You are too much
for romance.
For functional relationships.
For true love
(whatever the fuck that means.)
You are a diehard millennial
a heteronormative feminist
and that necessitates that anticlimax
is your life story.
But still.
You swallow anger and spite
for how you grew up as a girl
who was told
over and over again
that sex is dirty
shameful, vile, secretive
and that it will definitely hurt
and you will always be called a slut
no matter what
and there’s nothing you can do about it
no conversation that can change the course
of this compulsory heteromasochism
and all these abject things you’ve been warned about sex
are normalized and to be expected
and you start seething
at how boys
(or people with penises)
never get sex = pain
sex = fault
sex = guilt
sex = pathology
sex = criminality
drilled into their heads
by fucking anyone.
You want to scream
at how fucked this shit is
at how shit he was at fucking you
at how in an ideal world
you would have fucked a guy
who gave a shit about you
and your needs
with “Dance Inside”
by The All American Rejects
playing in the background
a guy who would have given you
the fucking test results you asked for
with written confirmation
from his fucking doctor
without derailing
or dismissing your concerns
by being a condescending asshole
a guy who would have known
how vulnerable you would feel
after your first time
getting slammed by a dick
a guy who would have had
the fucking ability
and fucking decency
to do whatever the fuck it takes
to make you fucking come
So yes
virginity is a patriarchal social construct
rooted in misogyny and heterosexism
that holds no significance or value
so there is nothing to lose
so then why do you feel used
so then why do you feel like crying
so then why do you feel betrayed
so then why do you feel
the taste of loss
creeping past
the tip of your tongue
hanging heavy in your throat
and down
to where
you think
your heart
used to be

0

Confession #2: Compulsory Celibacy

A factor in my reluctance to enter into a romantic or sexual relationship is all the horror stories I hear from women that I don’t know and do know. I used to think, that won’t happen to me. I’m strong. I’m a feminist. I’m a bitch and I’m not afraid to wear that on my sleeve. But that was all a coping mechanism for the ugly reality of patriarchy. Because the truth is, it doesn’t matter how strong or feminist I think I am, I can still be a victim of domestic abuse or rape, and the fact that I can’t exert control over that is frightening.