The Loophole
Whenever I think about male writers, or more specifically, literature written by male writers, I think about this quote from The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides:
“Her wet hair hung down her back
and already her extremities were blue.
She didn’t say a word, but when they
parted her hands they found the
laminated picture of the Virgin Mary
she held against her budding chest.”
It’s a scene of suicide but that’s not what strikes me. It’s the way a woman can’t even take her own life without a man focusing on her tits. A woman can’t even kill herself outside of the patriarchy. The freedom men must feel every day of their goddam privileged lives. I can barely stand it. I bet male writers don’t even notice they’re doing it. I wonder if that’s why I spend such little real estate in my stories writing about what men look like. I think it comes from a lifetime of standing in a defensive position about my own body. I’m exhausted from being on edge, and also, I think critiquing someone’s body is both boring and shitty. Men regularly give me so much material with which to criticize them, it hardly seems worth it to talk about their mediocre bodies. I usually try to be the bigger person, or as Michelle Obama says (totally out of context and not usually something I agree with), “When they go low, we go high.” I mention this not because I’m some paragon of ethics but because I’m preparing for you for this final story, in which I absolutely become a hypocrite.
But also, while judging me for my hypocrisy, I beg you to remember that even though I have settled a hundred, nay a thousand times, for a medium-ugly (and that’s being generous) man, you don’t have to. You don’t have to settle for anything less than you deserve. Will that mean you don’t get to go on as many dates or let as many losers fuck you in the hopes they value pleasure equality? Yes, probably. But as someone who has run the gauntlet, let me have done it for you—so that you, my precious little angel, don’t have to. Or, if you’re like me and it's too late, do not let them characterize you as bitter or jaded because you are not. Or, if you are, like me, and the world has shown you no grace and little fun, then you should wear that bitterness with pride.
Bitterness is just another way the patriarchy tries to make women smaller. A woman who is bitter has seen the world of men and lived to tell about it. And baby, they do not want you to talk about it, which is yet another reason to be louder. Take up space, use your voice, and when they call you bitter—ask them how they think you got this way. Ask them to explain, to offer proof and evidence, ask them to cite their sources. Teach them with their own ignorance. Or don’t. Honestly, it’s not your job to educate men (however much they need it).
Months go by, years even and then I see him back on Tinder. I swipe right because I want to see if he swiped right on me. I forget everything I know about how often men swipe right on everyone. I start swiping right on everyone because fuck them if men think they can bogart being callous with everyone else’s time. I will not allow them to waste my time (I continue to allow them to waste my time). I’m genuinely uninterested in Andy #3 serving anything other than my ego, but memories are fickle systems that have a way of sorting themselves. We match because he’s swiped right on me, and I wait to see what he has to say. He messages boring shit and I respond with boring shit and the conversation fizzles. I unmatch.
More months go by, more years even, and there he is again. This time, he gets in a little (through no expertise of his own). That’s the thing about men—they have absolutely no idea how often they succeed or fail with a woman based on something that changes with her and has absolutely zero to do with their own words, actions, or appearance. Men will absolutely tell a story about how they bagged a woman and she’ll tell the same story to her friends but in her story the main factor is boredom. I can’t tell you how many stories I’ve listened to where men think only they experience boredom, that only they like to fuck for entertainment. And like good for all of us, there’s no shame in fucking for entertainment-sake (assuming you’re an adult capable of not being a shithead who purposely hurts or deceives anyone).
When Andy #3 and I start chatting again, for what feels like the hundredth time, he’s no more interesting or available than any other time. The only change has occurred with me. I’m in the midst of interviewing for a job in Montreal. I’m writing test scripts for adult entertainment. I’m spending my days trying to write raunchy scripts to impress the fuck out of the woman interviewing me. I’m literally sitting at my computer every day, trying to come up with the hottest scenarios and dialogue I can. I’m so turned on that I practically need to put a blanket down on my seat. This is when Andy #3 re-enters the picture—somewhere between unexpected horniness and a hazy memory, Andy slips back in through a loophole. My brain is occupied with trying to get this new job and I forget how wildly irritated (and thus irrational) I became after going out with Andy #3. I forget how little he interested me, how unpleasant I found his voice, how our dates had only gone so so. My memory is a traitorous bitch who likes drama, apparently.
His messages pop up while I’m writing scripts. At first, I’m flirting to tease him, to let him dream about what he’s missing. I type word after word hoping to earn a spot with Brazzers and Andy experiences the best luck of his life—I’m so horny by the time I’m done that I agree to meet up with him. Walking through his front door, I know he absolutely doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve anything from me (especially not my body). I promise myself that I will not suck his dick and I keep that promise. I show up wearing jeans and a cute shirt under a sweatshirt. I don’t bother wearing makeup or curling my hair—I just wear it in a ponytail and then right before knocking on his door I take it down and give it a floof. Tonight, we don’t waste time on the couch and go straight to the bedroom. He seems shorter than last time, his arms thinner, his lips more puckered. In his bedroom, we stop kissing and he moves around the foot of the bed to the other side laying open the blankets.
“Get in,” he gestures to the bed.
“In our clothes?” I ask, confused (and grossed out).
“Yeah,” he nodded, “Is that weird?”
Having been raised right, I answered, “Yes.”
I’d never get in a bed, I mean literally between the sheets, with street clothes on. That’s gross. Street clothes are dirty. Looking back now, I can’t believe I let a man who wears street clothes in his sheets finger me, but we all have regrets and that was only one of many. Instead of making an even bigger thing of it, I simply stripped and climbed in. I mean, we both knew what I had come over for. This wasn’t a date; I was there to fuck. Well actually, I was there to fuck and get my pussy ate, emphasis on the pussy eating, something we had already discussed. That’s the thing about agreeing to see Andy again. Even though things hadn’t gone so well in the past, I had been very clear from the start that things were different this time. I went over to Andy’s with the express desire of getting my pussy eaten. He had said he wanted to eat it, and I wanted to get eaten. It seemed a perfect fit.