The man in my Theater class turned to me and asked, “what kind of coffee do you drink?”
It’s the kind of meet-cute come on that belongs in a romantic comedy. He was adorable, really. Between the Irish brogue, the attentive gaze, the casual hips in the ripped jeans. He had the flirtatious pose down.
I am starting to have my doubts about that pose. I have started to recognize the kinds of men who like to use it.
He bantered. I responded. He made a comment about whipped cream. I responded, “I really like to plant my tongue in the center of it, make sure I can taste it before it disappears.”
He got that look on his face and bolted for the bathroom.
I’m pretty sure that look is the “I have somewhere to be” look, the “get me out of here right now” look. There is hostility in that look, and rage, and helplessness. I used to get offended by that look. Now, I understand it.
Women really do have so much control over the male body. It isn’t fair at all.
In a way, I’m exactly who I appear to be. I’m trying to rack up numbers on a list, trying to sleep with as many men as I can, setting a wall between myself and real connection. I meet a man like this who seems to be interested in me but is also just a little too professional in his protestations of real attraction and I take the initiative to set the terms of the relationship before he can convince me to start thinking about romance.
There’s more to it than that. There’s rage. So, so much rage.
Controlling men feels good. Being hit on feels so terribly out of control, and asserting myself by making them hurt, making them feel humiliated and afraid, feels so, so good.
Here is what I found out about this man. He has multiple partners, which is his right, but it is my right not to want to be serious with people who are already serious with other people. It is my right not to be interested in playing my part of a meet-cute with someone who is really not available for a meet-cute with me or anyone else.
Here is what I found out about myself, this week. I have gotten used to the feeling of being available, whether I like it or not. In this case, I was the only straight-presenting woman who seemed emotionally and mentally together in that room. I was the only person this man might have hit on. He felt like hitting on someone, so he hit on me.
Men really do hit on women for these kinds of reasons. We get used to being hit on because we exist in public spaces, or because they think our faces or skirts or breasts are attractive. We know it’s not real, no matter how cute it seems. Sooner or later, we recognize that. We grow up.
I don’t want to feel so aggressive towards men. I want to feel I can protect my boundaries without embarrassing or harming men. This man seems like he would make an excellent friend.
I just want to feel like I can exist in a room without being treated like a sexual opportunity. I want that to be the default.
Yes, I am lonely. Yes, I am a sexual person. But men sometimes make the mistake of looking at me like I carry sex with me inside my body. Like by virtue of having large tits and an ass, by virtue of the fact they associate these things with sexual desire, I must also be a walking bastion of sex.
Sex does not live inside of me. If they rip me open, sex won’t come out.
I want to be alone right now. Someone hurt me recently, and I hurt myself rather than defend myself, and now I am working on my boundaries and assertiveness and being alone. I want to feel safe to connect with men, but before I can do that, I need them to listen to my boundaries and wait.
The behavior of acting before I invite them in is coercive. The answer to that will always be no.
Someday a man will be worthy of my yes. Until then, while my behavior perhaps is unwarranted, my aggression unfortunately is.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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White Fragility: Talking to White People About Racism | Escape the “Act Like a Man” Box | The Lack of Gentle Platonic Touch in Men’s Lives is a Killer | What We Talk About When We Talk About Men |
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