Imagine growing up, hidden away from the harsh reality of the world, on a 75 acre tobacco farm with rolling hills, swampland, Native American remnants, and horses galore. Now imagine spending every day traversing the landscape on your horse, trudging along dutifully, galloping up the grassy slopes, wading into the ripples of the pond, jumping over the fallen trees, so far away from society that you are sheltered from its clutches–free to exist as wildly as you were born to. Now imagine hitting age 18 and being expected to work in the confines of a concrete building, at times never seeing the sun for weeks on end, because it is your “duty” to help others, in a world where almost half of your constituents actively vote against actual freedoms in a desperate grasp on to freedom from accountability. Shit sucks.
Finding your place in that world, particularly as a wild creature, is especially difficult. To be expected to exist so unnaturally, subject to the confines of human judgment. In societies based strongly around religions that you don’t respect. In beliefs that you know are naive, or just outright false. Slow to change, and slower to progress. It’s like one of those National Geographic specials when you compare the speed with which the lionesses prowling the Savannah hunt to the rate at which the grass grows. I understand the normalcy of pace is relative, but mine is off the charts.
Add in several near death experiences of my own, an overwhelming heap of childhood trauma, and witnessing several deaths first hand, and you get the healthy knowledge of complex PTSD and along with it, questioning your reality while also trying to balance wanting to help the world with hating the world and all of humanity in it. Factor in the impulsive curiosity of ENTJ’s, an objectively attractive female body, and learning by studying the world around me and you’ve got the lethal combination that results in whatever the fuck I am.
And I’m obviously intense. I know I’m “a lot to handle”. But, I believe it was the meme that said “fuck no I’m not wife material. I’m totalitarian dick material” that really made me feel “appreciated” for the way I am. Like, as alone as I normally am in this world, I’m not ACTUALLY that alone. There are others, equally weird, equally accepting, like me–just not necessarily in my physical environment. Again, download Tik Tok. Its like happiness and body positivity and quirky humor at its best. Which makes sense, seeing as how I lived tucked away on our farm in an incredibly conservative town the majority of my life. Or how my Aunt phrased it “we admire unique children and often criticize them as unique adults”.
But, I guess I hadn’t realized how artistic I am with my life prior to having this extra time in quarantine. Sure, I was a painter and artist, supporting myself through graduate school. But I was a woman of STEM first and foremost. I was a professional. And you couldn’t blend both. Not in the extremity that I am naturally inclined to. But what good is science when it doesn’t captivate the audience? And what good is medicine when the knowledge of the human body is lost?
It wasn’t until the third or fourth trip to Europe that really broadened my horizons in regards to what I thought about Sexuality. Growing up so conservatively, particularly in a military culture, I was taught to be quiet. Seen but not heard. Silent unless spoken to. Emotion, and sexuality, was visceral. A distraction. The only thing that separated us from the animals we raised was our control over that.
But humans are animals.
In capitalism, we rush everything in such a way that life becomes a race. We are never calm because destruction is just around the corner–war, economic collapse, terrorism. Our men have been raised through such an incredibly toxic patriarchal society that their connections to their emotions exist almost exclusively through sport or animated virtual realities like this is The Oasis in Ready Player One. God forbid they express overwhelming love and vulnerability freely in case it’s unrequited. Our men lack the passion that European men are notorious for. They’ve forgotten the art of intimacy. Like everything else, even sex has become cold, quick, and transactional.
And sex should be an art. You shouldn’t just fuck the guy who only makes you feel good for the ten seconds he lasts, just for you to need to seek out Plan B and an STD test and him being way more trouble than he was worth. Just save yourself the drama ladies–sex toys have gotten AMAZING. Why would you settle for a minimal chance of orgasm when you can watch porn and figure out ten ways to cum on your own? And even watch a guy get a little dominated so you’re not the only one getting fucked, literally or figuratively. And art is not meant to be appreciated universally. You will not be appreciated universally. But you should still perform it for those who are deserving.
You should fuck the people who cultivate your body, drinking it in like a sip of fine wine, in the same way that you should look at it. As in, your body only gets finer as it ages. Those who understand just how many incredible cellular connections had to come together to create you, in this exact version, and understand just how truly spectacular that is. Those are the men you want to fuck. Is it because we cull all of our men like farm animals, desensitizing their cocks as babies, or is it the overwhelming porn addictions that detract from the artistic value of it? It’s definitely a “European” mentality, but I refuse to let fucking become so rabid, even in its most primal, that I allow my body to be misused by those incapable of painting. Someone who understands the raw power they hold, grasped within their palms, or perched upon their cocks.
The USA needs a sexual revolution.
The men are depressed, repressed, and consequentially worse at fucking because they can’t connect to their emotions and then express them. Sexual repression is strange to me, as an adult. The contrast between my childhood of Christianity forcibly deep throating me into thinking sex was, and should be, shameful or sneaky, and the reality of the world that I’ve come to terms with as a basically spiritual / inexplicable Atheist with a healthy BDSM kink is stark. We look at animals of other species to explain our own behavior. So with monogamy, why do I think humans have to be amongst the only 3-5% of 5000+ species of animals on this planet who are actually monogamous? Why would our society have outlawed homosexual behavior when over 450 species also exhibit displays of such? And why, in 2020, when we understand the cyclical nature of anthropological societal norms, with access to all of this knowledge, do we still allow for ignorance of these realities in the world?
In some Ancient Roman civilizations, men commonly took up male sexual partners after marriage. Honestly, if you ask me, that’s pretty fucking hot. I personally really enjoy the idea of a man wanting no other woman other than me, but still allowing me to share partners with them. That would, honestly, be the dream. Two men I’ve seen intermittently currently live together–so the goal there would obviously be a throuple. JK…neither of them would ever be down to share me, although one of them claims it’s his fantasy. They’re both very into socialism though, so it’s also “on par” for why they might be down to share me, ya know.
Plus, anyone who is into BDSM to an extent understands that it’s usually not about the action itself so much–it’s about the aspect of control. And control, in a country and during an age where we were raised to struggle with “sharing”, especially those of us with Great Depression/WWII Era grandparents, makes it easier said than done when it comes to another entirely different human that you have been engrained to think you’re supposed to “claim” for yourself. Branding them in one form or another, changing the way they’re addressed, as if it matters.
And the men who love me know that I’m wild. They know they cannot tame me, and are in for a very nontraditional form of life compatibility. Like I said, I’m a scientist. I’m more curious than anything. That tantalizing moment in Pirates of the Caribbean when Elizabeth Swann whispers in Captain Jack Sparrow’s ear? “You’re going to want to know what it tastes like.” That’s how I feel about sex and people I’m attracted to. The human body is incredible. I study action potentials and nerve endings all day. I just want to know how everything and everybody works. Medical people are some of the strangest because the kinks they never fail to develop around their professions are so eye opening. And who am I to judge? If it makes your body feel good, and you like it, whatever. Sex is supposed to be enjoyable for everyone involved, and it doesn’t need to follow a playbook. We need to stop kink shaming when they’re usually the result of conditioned norms and we need to stop shaming men and women alike for telling them for decades that sex was shameful, that masturbation was shameful, and that your body’s primary purpose should be for someone else’s use, particularly in a society where sex sells.
I personally don’t feel that compelled to act on my urges that often. ENTJs are notorious for being the MBTI most likely to utilize sex toys and be more adventurous, but if I’m not mentally encapsulated, it’s just off like a light switch or how those vampires from The Vampire Diaries can just switch off their emotions. So if I don’t see a worthy candidate, or haven’t just connected with someone, I’m completely asexual. I’ve gone through two asexual phases of celibacy without even masturbating on two different 1.5-2 year segments purely because I went through difficult break ups and wanted to mentally be back on track before I could commit myself physically to anything. Which is also why I don’t view diversions from heteronormativity as that strange. I think exploration is natural, and humans are curious, odd creatures. Learning them at their most vulnerable, and primally heightened is the most dangerous game of all. It is fascinatingly intriguing to witness them illuminated in moonlight, free to slither around, uninhibited, completely comfortable with themselves and with you in that moment.
How do I wander the Parisian canals, listening to the musicians play, Notre Dame standing tall and proud, having run all the way down the sloping cobblestones from the Basilica and windmills of Moulin Rouge?
How do I roam the store fronts of Amsterdam’s red light district solo, after spending the afternoon biking around the city, basking in the powerful, somber, yet beautifully tragic collection of the Anne Frank House, wandering the Van Gogh exhibits in a museum solely dedicated to him, and then not direct my intrigue toward the cultural immersion of performative sex? The sexuality owned by the women illuminated by the curtains. The power of the men guarding their doors. The lack of attention I drew, walking down the middle of the street, even though I knew the random stares were still making the assumption that I was just coming off of a shift myself.
How do I wander around the gardens in La Villa de Estes, walkways with hundreds of fountains and Bernadini sculptures, just to return home and be expected to buy into consumerism and keeping up with the Joneses?
How do I float, freely, basically nude, in the waters of the Adriatic Sea, drifting easily with the increased salinity such that even with my muscles, I don’t automatically float to the bottom as I usually do? How do I do this and feel so uninhibited, so carefree, because my body is admired, sure, but is not shamed in such a way that it feels shameful to share it. Or lay upon the beaches in the South of France along La Ciotat, tits in every direction and men in speedos, and not having anyone steal a second glance.
In the USA, I can’t even go to a pool without a guy trying to swipe a snapchat of how nice my ass is, just so he can jerk off to the visual and cum on his phone screen later that night, but in European countries (most with legal prostitution, notably), I not only felt safe, but I felt natural, at ease. Like the way of life was ACTUALLY advanced. And how do I go back to the USA and expect to abide by corporate normalcy after I know these variations in the cultures exist, and that the bounds of my knowledge and reality constructed by my childhood for how the world worked was wrong? How do I balance experiencing these things, these places, then going back to the normalcy of whatever the fuck we think life is supposed to be about in the USA?
How do I settle for men who are so disconnected from the purpose of humanity? And why would I ever be expected to settle just because my “biological clock” is ticking. If these men do not lock me down in time, that is not my fucking fault. They have nobody to blame for my genes not propagating in this life other than themselves.
I also think that’s a Freudian intrigue as to why men are so attracted to me… From a scientific perspective, we study a lot of societal traits or characteristics in objective ways to see how different evolutionary mechanisms arise. I, and everyone else, is, therefore, the result of their geneaological advancements that permitted them to survive until this day and age. Which, as an epidemiologist with a morbid fascination in all things grim, also reminds me that I likely have certain genetic factors for particular character traits, including predisposition to PTSD, anxiety, and depression, due to my family’s survivalist, military history. Union generals and prisoner of war, nursing and setting up our home as a hospital during the Civil War, traders with Native Americans and mastering nine different languages to facilitate peaceful exchanges (yeah, it sucks, we were also on their land but I can’t change that right now so I’m just glad we weren’t confederates unlike my good ole boy Strider’s fam). Serving in London during the Blitz in WWII, West Point Military Academy, Overseas tours of Italy, Korea, and Vietnam, the Italian Army War College, being a Knight of the Italian Republic, nuclear weapon developers within the Pentagon, more burials in Arlington National Cemetery than I can remember.
I’m an apex predator.
I’ll die fighting for what I believe in.
Why would I expect that intensity to ever be dulled in reference to anything, particularly in reference to the most primal form of submitting me to your advances? There’s a TON of dudes with breeding fetishes who have openly fantasized about the types of powerful children they would make with me. Honestly, I can’t blame them. I’ve never had to worry about it. What’s annoying is they don’t take any concrete steps towards setting up a secure familial life for me because they either think I’m “not ready” or wouldn’t be interested, even though I’ve explicitly told them I would but then they have the self confidence of Chuckie Finster from Rugrats and think I’m casting a magic spell over them and tricking them to some degree. This isn’t me being facetious either, they have told me this is how they interpret interacting with me.
And I am brutally honest. I may be somewhat emotionally cold, but I’m very communicative. Maybe not outwardly expressive, but what do you expect when I’ve been expected to compartmentalize emotions. To perform on national stages no matter what condition I was in with reference to any other aspect of things going on. Tunnel vision.
And now I can do, and find, and learn things with love?
And, after several near death experiences, I know just how precious this life I’m granted is. I’ve stared down what I thought was sure death, and felt peace. Acceptance. And then I just walked away, unharmed. I’m AWARE that most people would classify it as “mentally unhinged”. It’s fine. We’re working through it. My boyfriends get like 28 personalities so they have their hands full and it’s like a real life version of those Polly Pocket or Barbies–you can dress me however you want, I’ll look great. I’ve had several careers, nothing has really fueled my PASSION for life, though. Turns out, I’m more passionate about NOT working. Imagine that. Maybe it was the child labor.
Cats sit around all day and watch the stupidity of humanity and you don’t question it twice and still love them when they consent to giving you affection. Most of you even admire their defiance. The cute little scratches. (Unless you declaw them–pretty cruel, tbh. We might as well practice Chinese Footbinding for cats).
So why, when an intelligent lioness is watching her prey across the Savannah, surveying the pathetic lack of options in this drought of emotional intelligence, do we condemn it in human form as a “man hater”.
I am not a “man hater”.
Far from it.
I love men and as such, it is quite clear sexuality is not a fucking preference because there is no logical explanation as to why I should be attracted to men still, at this point. If anything, I’m Nelly Furtado’s “Maneater” come to life. I don’t try to be, either. One of the guys I have unfinished business with, who watches my instagram stories regularly (and I’m assuming, reads this or listens to it), compares me to Jennifer Lawrence’s character in “Red Sparrow”. And he does so admiringly. Guy is a special force medic in the Army, undeniably way too good of a person for me, he would like “encourage me to be the best version of myself” and all that shit, knowing that was an uphill battle. (I have long accepted that adulthood made me realize, begrudgingly, I was in fact, Slytherin, and not the Gryffindor.) But the fact that I can just know in some inexplicable way that he’ll come back into my life, because how do you turn your back on the actual grit and determination that gives you hope in the ungodly Moroccan heat, months into your deployment and never quite “settling in” because the reality of carrying weaponry with you at all times, and needing to, will never not be unsettling. And now that you’re home, and you realize you can’t just return to the life you thought you were leaving, because it’s never going to be the same sense of peace or naivety no matter how hard you try to will it so or try to protect others from the darkness.
How can you look past the allure of someone who owns that darkness as armour. Glittering, black in the night, the ambiance of my soul.
It’s pretty obvious by now that I would have been burned at the stake during the Salem Witch Trials. Every time I watch Monty Python and the Holy Grail, when they’re like “what makes you think she’s a witch?” Literally any answer for any guy is “well since women are more emotionally intelligent and men are predictable as fuck, so we can understand when you’re controlled by the thing you value most of all between your legs and that idea is terrifying to you.” Seriously, I get it. The sexual trance must be terrifying, yada yada. Can’t you mother fuckers just be grateful?
One of the most interesting, and annoying, reflections, is also the knowledge that the men I’ve been “intimate” with also understand how soft and vulnerable I can be. Which, juxtapositionally speaking, is so significant that it warrants anomaly. Believe me, its not the most fun to sit and write about the sweeter topics, or ones that would normally be “easier” for people with happier backgrounds, or topics that warrant insight into the mentality of the hunter, exposing the potential for weakness (although ultimately knowing that anyone who judges purely by what is put out into the world is only seeing a minute portion of who that person is).
…You see my personality, not my reality of the current day.
It’s like living with me is a different day in Doctor Strange’s reality. So why am I expected to prioritize such a significant portion of my time to something as trivial as dating, as if I 1. Don’t have a plethora of candidates or options and 2. Don’t have more important things to do, and if the man who pursues me can’t understand that and do the pursuit, then he won’t value my feelings enough to have earned dating me as is.
Right now, I’m undeniably at my weakest, most unevolved form too. (I like to call it my “natural” form, for the record.) But let’s just assume I’m Eevee from Pokemon. I’m pretty basic, plain. Got multiple degrees, published research, but am worth negative amount of money and, because I’ve worked every waking moment of my life for roughly 25 years, understand that I don’t in fact, have to work this hard, and am told that I “should” want to…for others benefit… others who are rude, disrespectful, and feel “entitled” to be able to make judgments over my body, that I should give a damn about your opinion? I’ll pass.
I can take any fucking stone and evolve whatever direction I want. And I have been. Vaporean is my personal fave but Jolteon also holds a special place in my heart. Investment wise, this is the best time for men to lay claim to me and make their intentions known. Do they think I’m going to get MORE approachable with life? That life will somehow “soften me up” with time? That this sunny disposition is going to just fade away into delirious oblivion if I microdose enough shrooms?
I make myself available, I just also think it’s way more likely that I’ll be introduced to my future spouse(s) either through chance, through a “friend of a friend”, or through a romantic comedy re-make of the ending of Sweet Home Alabama. Seriously, I’m not kidding. One of the guys I referenced in my interview with Mina, the Farmboy, KNOWS that is one of my favorite movies and purposefully quotes it, flirting with me by saying things like “whatever blows your dress up” knowing damn well the connotation of the fact that Jake’s character was fully in love with Reese Witherspoon’s. He acts like I don’t know it’s only a matter of time before he confesses that he loves me and we have to actually give it a real try. At least the sex is worth the mental gymnastics. For the record, it could be very, very simple. He’s just afraid to ask. He doesn’t deserve it until he’s able to ask, though. LOL.
Then, I have option #2: Strider. I purposefully named him Strider because he self identifies as Aragorn in real life, like has slid in my DMs when I quote Aragorn and say what a turn on it is. Which, hopelessly dooms me to think about them whenever I watch Lord of the Rings. Which is, a LOT. But then its obnoxious because he’s definitely just the stoic, quiet, lone ranger version of Aragorn over the gentlemanly warrior ready for love and to take on the world with me. I’m ready for THAT Aragorn.
Side note, it’s completely possible that they listen, but I think it’s just as likely that they think I’m a complete lunatic and they want to live in blissful ignorance, or, they already are so consumed by the mental image of the fantasy that is “me” come to life for them, that they would never listen or try to consume even more information about me. Maybe if this somehow takes off, but, unlikely, since I do like 0% advertising or marketing, but more so because I don’t want any of you to “expect” anything of me. That’s when you start to demand things. To think you should be allotted insight to me. To be clear, that will never be the case. You earn the respect. A novel concept, I know. If I have to always be on my toes, so do you.
It was incredibly validating, to be honest, when I took one of those extensive personality character trait ranking tests that establish what characters from pop culture you would be. My closest match was 91% Arya Stark. That moment when Arya fucks Gendry, and he asks her to be his lady, sitting at home, and she’s like “that’s not me. I’m not a lady.” Girl, I fucking feel you. But tell me why Gendry was completely fine wandering all around the Seven Kingdoms for the sake of the kingdom but wouldn’t fucking ask to join Arya on her lifetime of adventure? The rest of the list is as follows:
- Arya Stark (Game of Thrones) (91%)
- The Alien (Alien) (91%)
- Sherlock Holmes (90%)
- Ruth Langmore (Ozark) (90%)
- Omar Little (The Wire) 89%
- Maeve Millay (Westworld) 89%
- Rosa Diaz (Brooklyn Nine-Nine) 88%
- Toph Beifong (Avatar: The Last Airbender) 87%
- River Tam (Firefly + Serenity) 87%
- Janis Ian (Mean Girls) 87%
- Azula (Avatar: The Last Airbender) 86%
- Black Widow (Marvel Cinematic Universe) 86%
- Cristina Yang (Grey’s Anatomy) 86%
- Bertram Gilfoyle (Silicon Valley) 86%
- Jo March (Little Women) 86%
- Red Reznikov (Orange is the New Black) 86%
- Daenerys Targaryen (Game of Thrones) 85%
- Asha Greyjoy (Game of Thrones) 85%
- Alastor Moody (Harry Potter) 85%
- Buffy Summers (Buffy the Vampire Slayer) 85%
- Alex Vause (Orange is the New Black) 85%
- Dagny Taggart (Atlas Shrugged) 85%
- Captain Marvel (Marvel Cinematic Universe) 84%
- Gamora (Marvel Cinematic Universe) 84%
- Dolores Abernathy (Westworld) 84%
- Elizabeth Bennet (Pride and Prejudice) 83%
(In bold are the ones I actually knew).
It keeps going but I just wanted us all to take a moment to appreciate some of my favorites. My notable first reactions were:
-Arya, not surprised. Validated.
-Sherlock Holmes. I would fuck Robert Downey Jr. in his Sherlock Holmes costume in a heartbeat. What a hottie.
-Maeve. Thank fuck. I’m leaning towards the logical, crazy but absolutely justified type of characters. I’m glad that comes across.
-Toph before Azula. Not surprised in either case. But again, its reassuring that I’m *slightly* more the positive characters. Maybe there is some redeeming qualities in me after all. One of the guys I fucked from UF guessed I would’ve been Azula. He did not guess Toph.
-Black Widow. The hottest Marvel character for me. The fucked up back story. I dig it.
-Jo March. The writer clinging to her independence and following her heart instead of logic? Nooooooo.
-Daenerys. I am here for these strong female characters. Also am worried about what the commonality of men being their tragic flaw has to say.
-Elizabeth Bennet. I’m just picturing that scene in the Netflix film “After”, which, great romantic comedy ladies. Ugh. Gotta love the angsty writer types of men.
And the men who love me, who deserve me, they don’t love me because I’m submissive. They love the fire, the wit, the passion, and the confusion that comes with it. They are entranced by the reality of who I am, in such a way that casts doubt due to the sheer quickness. The all-or-none response. The primal necessity to be with me that makes nothing else matter to them. And their own self doubt that makes them think I’m unattainable. Plus, the slight concern that I may either be a beacon of light calling them to shore or the fateful tune of a siren is probably very overwhelming. I empathize with them, I really do. At the end of the day, if they never try to kill me, I will never try to kill them. Pretty simple terms as to whether I pose a threat to their safety. I feel like that’s fairly normal and shouldn’t be weird and the fact that they are expected to earn my trust as men and physically dominant beings is really “practical” over “weird” but social optics and everything, ya know.
So I’m going to look deep into nature, and make sense of the world around me. Really Albert Einstein it. And I’m going to gravitate towards those who make me feel most connected to that. Who embody it. Who remind me of the magical world in which we live even within the confines of our home. The people who remind me of just what we live for. What our greater purpose as humans on this planet is.
I’ve been undeniably wrong about people’s intentions in the past. I’ve been repeatedly lied to, and the delay in me finding out the truth is usually only when I don’t care enough to notice the deviation in your pattern of behavior. I don’t care about any of that stuff anymore. It doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. What matters most is the feeling that being in the presence of those you’re aligned with so much spiritually, in that you can undeniably entrust that inner instinct–the instinct, mind you, almost ALWAYS on high alert. That has inexplicably served you right over and over, even if it almost always caused you to look crazy first.
I don’t have the time to sit here and walk you through your life’s possibilities and what they could mean. I know nothing with any certainty, but I’m sure that’s not my job and would only make you hate me down the road. Anyone who is meant to walk my path of life with me, is meant to do so on their own free will, understanding I may very well lead them to danger, but I will never mean to. And that it will be an undeniably grand life of adventure either way, though undoubtedly unpredictable.
If we were another species, free of the notorious necessity to track our every moves, willingly, with the technology in our hands–technology which offers comfort and security, even in the most rural and obscure of places, free of the necessity, will power, and ability to analyze memory by memory, understanding the importance of perspective, of removing bias from judgment, (again, was I just born this way? My grand magistrate judge of ancestors and owners of the Cedar County Republican Stockton Missouri newspaper would be so proud), then maybe I wouldn’t be looked at so mystically. And I could retreat into my lair of anonymity to plot my next move without it seeming like a weakness. I could also switch directions seamlessly without being judged…
It’s only a weakness because you’ve tied my purpose in life, as a woman, to the presence of another, or the recognition of another’s validation.
That is where we differ.
Your perspective of what you think I should take initiative on is flawed. It’s built around your insecurities and what you admire in my ferocity. What opportunities you do not have. It’s not built around a carefully cultivated set of skills and ability to captivate with ease, and the wit to match and dance mentally with others. I’m not meant to confine it, or to be controlled or answer to the whims of society just because I seek out others with as intriguing of minds.
For the first time in my life, I have the opportunity to be selfish. To not answer to other people. To be allowed to make my own decisions. You are feeble creatures if you think I’m going to compromise that when you refuse to dive in and be able to communicate your feelings. You can also be okay with not actually sharing me physically as long as you put no barriers on sharing my mentality. (Aka: you’ll never be able to censor what I cover. The ultimate trust fall.) My partner needs to be ready for that, and they can come find me once they are while I continue to perfect it.
I put enough of my personality out there that its like a bee spreading pollen all over the place. If you think it’s intense to experience it secondhand, think of what I feel like with the energy of that stupid bunny that never stops and the intellect of decades of engineers and strategical minds. I started watching “The Queen’s Gambit” and felt a bit attacked when they said “creativity and psychosis often go hand-in-hand. Or, for that matter, genius and madness.” because having to answer to the expectations of others after the reality of the world hits you and particularly the reality of what people have power, and value, in this country, that rogue lifestyle looks more and more attractive. I no longer wish to play games that do not interest me. And men, in particular, have disappointed me in such drastic proportions that you can NOT expect me to prioritize them as worthy prey any longer? The very thought is hilarious, honestly. Let me just take some time solo and work on myself, okay. Spare me your judgment.
I once broke up with a boyfriend the night before his sister’s wedding, after spending the entire rehearsal dinner meeting his extended family, because he lied to my face about a girl who texted him to meet up at 1 am. Dude, I could see the name. It was very clearly not your friend, Matt. I was, right, by the way–they had been a lot more than “friends” lately. But nobody had to rap about it for me to know “it ain’t nothin to cut that bitch off”, because I drove myself back to Chapel Hill, hit up my good ole on-and-off boo of like 4 years at that point, fucked him the entire night guilt free, and never spoke to that ex boyfriend again. Life is too short to worry about men who can’t be honest. It’s also too short to worry about men who are obsessed with their own cocks so they’re at least decent at using them, but then spend the time in bed only staring at themselves, instead of studying you. It bores me. Growing up is realizing you side with all of the Disney villains. When that bitchy lion was like “I’m surrounded by idiots!” Girl. I get it now. Took me a while, but, I see it.
And being so intelligent that you dissect reality and analyze the bounds of what you know is exactly why you are so drawn to men. They are curious creatures. And cats do like to torture their prey before they kill it, so watching them squirm has its advantages. Learning the way their dicks work like the manual shift on a car, switching gears with minor maneuvers. Its an art. Men can appreciate the mastery of piloting of the Millenium Falcon by Han Solo so why can they not realize I shouldn’t need an amorphous form to soften the weight of my words. I am simply providing you with feedback and anecdotal evidence of things you should maybe know for the future. It’s basically community service.
Unlike most people, I don’t need the reality of the world sugar coated prior to being forced to deepthroat and swallow it.
I don’t need to “seek out” men, nor do I plan to “answer” to one.
That doesn’t mean I can’t submit.
And I don’t need to cater to the natural sexuality you’ve placed on my persona, only to now be intimidated by it because I know what it looks like, illuminated in a haze of smoke and purple light, posed atop 6” stilettos, a mini dress barely covering my ass, with strippers freeing my nipples from the confines of my dress as they lick my skin and give me a lap dance. I just wanted to make it rain and wave over which one I thought was the hottest. I was just happy to be here. Ya’ll were supposed to be the ones stripping. I was not getting paid for this.
My future husband gets the biggest freak, willing to fulfill or at least entertain almost all of his fantasies. Which, interestingly enough, I learned that sex toys are often geared towards different species or creatures because it’s easier for partners to use them in the bedroom without getting intimidated. Do we really think I’m supposed to sit around pining for his lack of presence? No. If anything, I’m pining for the lack of actual dick because sex toys, while great, don’t replace the mind games for me. Like I said, my dependency on man is rather frustrating. I’m just gonna work on my hobbies and if the now-doctor who used to cook his own DMT in his bedroom before he fucked me wants to come back around for another round and show me how he’s grown as a person, I’ll listen to persuasion. Sue me for enjoying the one physical thing I lack that you can offer me. This is your innate advantage, you should take pride in that.
And yes, I understand the irony of coming and talking about this, or taking the time to write it. I get it that it “defeats the purpose” of me not sitting around and thinking about dick. Let’s make a clear distinction–me fantasizing about what I want one to do to me is not me being dependent on one. If anything, particularly in a male dominated world where my livelihood and greatest means of financial success involve catering towards the male gaze, and shattering your expectations, it bodes well for me to imagine how you think, and know and enjoy catering towards that.
But the USA in particular has always loved caging exotic animals. Ripping them from their natural habitats, forcing them to pace back and forth within the confines of their cage, deluding them into thinking they should somehow be GRATEFUL for the life you “grant” them. Why would we expect society to treat women any differently.
So, if I have to address it, so that I won’t have to repeat myself for the next ten guys who disappoint me from Bumble get to try so hard to convince me of just how different they are, when really, they’re just trying to convince themselves, or for the random guys on the internet who are into being emasculated a little bit, so they listen to this, like I said, it’s a public service announcement. You’re welcome. I’m not going to stroke your egoes for doing the bare minimum. Greatest Showman the fuck out of life. That’s probably a bad analogy because I haven’t actually watched it. I’ve watched enough romantic comedies, though, and LOVE enough romantic comedies to know that, as a woman, I am likely condemned to love a man who doesn’t deserve it, but will bring me inexplicable and idiotic joy. Kinda like how my dog loves me and gets unreasonably happy when I come home, even if I could’ve come home a few hours earlier but chose not to. It brings me disdain with every passing day that I know one day I’ll enjoy that fate. So please, just let me enjoy singlehood, guilt free, while I still can and let me take enjoyment in one of the last things I have left in this world while capitalism and impending warfare threatens my habitat, dulls the senses of the men, takes them off the menu with supply and demand, and expects me to play it safe despite having been raised to follow the call of the wild.
So dating, in the 21st century, when you have to surmise yourself to a handful of incredibly basic questions and photos of how to best “sell” yourself, doesn’t really “work” for me. I’ve long said that I can not WAIT for my shining moment to be as somebody’s ideal second wife. All of you men can go get married in your 20’s, not knowing who you are, but desperately wanting it to be this suburban version of yourself that you’ve been told your whole life represents “happiness” and “comfort”, just to realize 5 years into the marriage and 3 kids later that you hadn’t actually known who you were, or if you did, were too afraid of what it might reveal to question it, so then you run away, or just buy a shiny new convertible well past when it’s acceptable to, but when it’s the first time in your life you’ve been able to afford it, and come to realize that I was, in fact, right all along.
Please stop pushing the conservative agenda on me being a baby making factory who sits at home like a good housewife (no shame to those who do it, I’ll just never be a typical “mom” should I be blessed with that… gift.) It’ll be like the Maleficent movies. If you wonder why its frustrating, just know that my mom was working on her third kid by my age. In fact, today whilst talking about life’s uncertainties, her suggested solution was for me to have children. With who?
Can’t ya’ll just be happy that I at least preliminarily cured like one strain of prostate cancer and can that be my contribution to society? Why does whether I bring a date to a wedding or how much debt I have at my ten year high school reunion even matter? Just let me exist, weirdly, uninterrupted, and free.
We, as humans, and as Americans, should just take note of the levels of sexual repression. We should not settle for this bleak hook up culture of depravity and just accept the quick, easy fucks. That shouldn’t even interest us. What happened to winning? That is the participation trophy culture of fucking. Even though I can’t say I’m surprised because Americans in particular are predisposed to looking for the “easy” solution over the long term investment.
I may settle for Biden, but I will never settle for a man.
What’s a queen without a king? Historically speaking, more powerful.