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I’m Really Not a Man-Hating Bra-Burner, but…

April 30, 2014

I returned to Baltimore, my home of six years during college and grad school, for the first time since 2010. The excuse for doing so was my college’s alumni reunion, which takes place a mere week before I get paid go to Tampa for a month to house- and dogsit for my cousin, who lives a mile and a half from the beach, and work on my novel. Yes, dear readers, the hardships have indeed been numerous since I last updated you on my non-dating life.

The reminiscence of my college days during current circumstances does, however, remind me of a few of my youthful ideals once again. See, I went to a small liberal arts college with a dearth of men and minorities (so much so that my longtime friend, follower, and sounding board, who can check off both boxes and whom I met at this institution, was asked twice at an alumni gathering where exactly he’d attended school) and a plethora of majors and minors in women’s, African-American, and queer studies. But for such specialized focus, the devotees were enthusiastic preachers in the name of liberté, egalité, and fraternité for all. Let no one be denied a voice simply because of her/his/xir/their race, orientation, or preferred gender identity!

All of which is a long-winded way of explaining that much of the reason for my near-abandonment of this blog is that I feel somewhat guilty because the next series of posts will boil down to this: men suck.

Yes, I did indeed say series. Because there were two incidents which prompted my decision to throw in the towel on the notion of feminism being about parity between the sexes and declare that my true motivation for calling myself such is that I am a man-hater, even though I swear I do not hate all men, just the white, straight, cis, able-bodied men who happen to have Category 5 crushes on me. (It’s also worth noting that I do not burn my bras. My adventures in cooking have led me to conclude that they must be lined with asbestos, else I would’ve singlehandedly brought a pornographic rendition of Suzanne Collins’ Catching Fire.)

The first seemingly one-off incident took place in February during one of my trips to LA. I had arranged to meet with a young filmmaker who wanted to find a writer/actress to work with on a film he hoped to expand into a series of his own, though one presumably with a message friendlier to a whole half of humanity than mine. Like all the best first meetings in film history, this one took place in a Subway. There wasn’t much privacy to be had there, of course, so we absconded for a location nearby where the man in need of a muse “knew the owner” and so would “only have to pay $55 for two hours.”

Even my socially stunted self could see where this was going. And yet…he was 22, clear-skinned, and ripped, and I am even shallower than a layer of cooking spray on sizzling Teflon. If ever there was a decent opportunity to reach deep down past the crusty, blackened outer shell and find a trickle that might turn into a pulse of desire, this was it. Plus, I thought, he’s in LA, and I’m usually in Denver. He can’t possibly bug me about the prospect of this going anywhere else because I’d be somewhere else that was a thousand miles away in a week!

If I’d only been Gollum and could therefore have animated conversations with my split personality, I could’ve totally saved myself. After a few hissings of, “Everybody loves us, precioussssss,” I would’ve sharply told myself that thinking I could have a one-night stand that only lasted one night (or a one-lunch hour stand, as the case may be) reeked of a painful naïveté that belied my then-27 years, although I was all too happy to belie at least five of those years anyway for the prospect of engaging in a little consensual cradle-robbing.

But of course, I should have told myself so. One of my objectives in going along with this foolishness was to see if I liked sex better in practice than in theory. I do not, no matter how young and strapping the human strap-on is. I like the follow-up cuddling even less, making me happy that I’d parked in a two-hour only area so that I could use the need to avoid a ticket to cut out early. That, I hoped, would be the end of that.

Two days later, I received a text: “Ever hear of morning wood? lol” I declined to respond.

Two weeks later: “Good morning! Hey I think I found a place it’s no fancy room [Ed. note–!!!!] but it’ll do :)”

“Sure hope it’s in Denver,” I texted through gritted teeth.

“Nope! It’ll still be here when you get back ;)”

I felt the mentally therapeutic thing to do would be to put the phone down and go rip some hair out.

Two months later, as I was trying to finalize plans with a friend by text and therefore whipping out my phone eagerly each time it chimed, I received this in lieu of my desired confirmation: “Hey, when are you back?”

I’d had it. “I don’t know. Do you like anal?”

“Do you?”

“Oh, yeah! There’s nothing quite like the feeling of dry-fucking a guy with a ten-inch dildo while shoving his face into a pillow. The muffled screams really turn me on.”

Amazingly, he kept texting until I slut-shamed him. More amazingly, he has now decided to start calling me every couple days. Thus far, I have yet to pick up, but I do believe I’ll answer with, “I’a, I’a, Cthulhu f’taghn!” if I happen to have my phone on me next time. Usually works on telemarketers.

I do apologize for the inconclusive nature of this tale of woe, though in my defense, when I first conceived of it, I assumed that since he wasn’t interested in my proposed encounter at our next meeting (for which I would have to pony up the $60, I was informed), he must not be a masochist and would therefore leave things be. Alas, this proved but a taste of the misery that was to come in the none-too-distant future. Suffice to say until next time that if I run into of my intersectional literature-women’s studies professors while I’m in town, I will happily decree to them that the plot of the graphic novel series Y: The Last Man currently sounds outstanding to me.

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3 Comments
  1. Lol..Good thing you’ll be working on your book when you visit Tampa..Very VERY slim pickings in good men in Tampa..Without a doubt & 100% I preferred the men in Cali..You just happened upon a dud dude..Anyways , hope you make great writing progress with the book..Looking forward to the read. 🙂 Btw I was hoping you’d not abandoned your blog forever

  2. Hi I like your blog, why not check mine. x

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  1. …Get out the Lighter Fluid and the Matches Anyway, ’cause We’re Having a Bra BONFIRE! | Not Taken, Not Available

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