In July I ended my ten-month dry spell. It wasn’t with that guy who said he was going to help me find a job when I moved to Brooklyn in May. Or with either of those other dudes claiming the same who only text me after I post new titpics on Instagram. It wasn’t the seemingly shy man who spent the whole date talking about himself without ever making eye contact only to disappear after his unsolicited plan to hook me up with employment ended in a hostile text exchange with an unfriendly fake friend. It wasn’t even with that Actually Shy bartender whose kind eyes I had been staring down at Hi Hello Diner every Friday night while I quietly ate my Steak Bavette and stubbornly nursed my two hand-poured Diet Cokes until I got up the courage to make a move only to be promptly shot down unaware that he had likely read the new essay forecasting this very interaction. No. No one from the usual barrage of Bushwick Dicks has made it into my apartment just yet. In fact, even though for those several sessions in July I felt more satisfied, attended to, more worn the fuck out than I had in years much to my neighbor’s peaked curiosity - I couldn’t quite declare just who was responsible. Left dizzy in an erotic haze with no evidence to the contrary I had come to believe that for a week last summer I was fucking a Ghost.
Sexual self-pleasure is contained by no bounds. Who knows what will turn us on next or get us off better, who could even imagine what used to do the job. I masturbated for the first time as a 9-year-old girl watching Little Shop of Horrors and humping a giant stuffed dog I named Chiffon. Poor Chiffon received many the unwanted advance for years to come until I learned how to touch myself manually and like a growing teenager discovered the clitoris in all its delicate glory. Once you find the magic button there’s not much need for penetration though I do recall one desperate evening pulling the handle off an Ab Roller to use as a makeshift dildo while I reminisced about fucking my boyfriend. Sure the ribbed texture did serve as a nice surprise but I didn’t care much to play with toys until I moved out of my parents’ house and had enough privacy to know my space wouldn’t be invaded, motorized rubber dicks discovered, displayed prominently on a chair next to my bed the way my mother did my big glass bong the year she found that, never to say a word otherwise. I didn’t need the passive shaming. So it was an exciting day when my first vibrator arrived in the mail all the way from Babeland to my new studio apartment in St. Paul. A lot to handle at first I eventually got used to the monstrosity that was The Rabbit for my 19-year-old body. Really though when it comes to getting myself off it’s not about that big rubber dick or even the complex toy, I’m perfectly content with a little Bullet straight to the clit for a few minutes and Bam. Full release. Job well done. Now I can get some seep. I don’t care much about the journey. In fact I’m pretty bad at fantasizing generally. I tend to separate my climax from partner sex and instead use it as a physical exercise to relieve tension and end the day peacefully. Of course there are times it’s nice to bring in the memory of a man I’ve slept with but sadly I’m so lacking in imagination that I just replay an image or movement from a recent session over and over in my head until I’m done. It’s always fun to choke myself to cut off oxygen or pinch my own nipples until it feels intolerable but body manipulation during self gratification is less about a playing a narrative and has more to do with stimulating my nerves. In that regard aside from that one woman who held the door for me at a coffee shop last spring after which I had sex dreams and directed orgasms for a month, I’m unable to fantasize about those I’ve never experienced. Even porn can only occasionally do the job and by now I have only a few go-to videos that I've come to know almost as intimately as the select men that I fantasize about. Though this all may seem very limiting, maybe even cold or shut off, the fact is that I can't get turned on unless I feel connected to the other person. Even choosing a partner for a one-night stand comes down to finding the way we interlock. Nothing is arbitrary. No one is unimportant. You hear that, boys? You’re all special, every single one of you!
It had been a long time since I’ve met anyone particularly worthy of anything more than a get to know you drink though. As promised in Relationship Goals I vowed to get off more this year and with the purchase of a new Palm Power Massager that changed my masturbatory life and brought me back to those ever elusive secondary orgasms that melt the entire body and leave me limp I must say I’ve gladly kept to it. And while men may have been coming up short it wasn’t for lack of trying. Truth be told I’ve been holding onto one in particular that never had a chance to come up at all. Leaving him in Chicago was my choice and the best one at that, but being physically apart from a person doesn’t guarantee his absence. Over my first couple months of contemplation, writing, eye-opening and retrospective observations, I may have felt his presence more than ever before.
During the third week of July it happened. It was early, 6AM. I sat at my table with the usual black coffee and yogurt, local news humming in the background while I typed mindlessly attempting to warm up for the day. Things seemed to be going along smoothly until I felt it - the weight. First it was on my shoulders and then atop my head. It tugged at my eyelids and pressed on my back. My arms dropped as if being pulled to the ground. What was this tether now drawing me back to bed? I couldn’t function anymore, my fingers froze, my vision was blurred, follow the lead and go lie down for fuck’s sake. Slumped over the pillow breathing deeply eyes shut a little confused I attempted to plan the rest of my day now trapped in a moment of calm. But as my mind worked to find work I felt him approach. What’s tickling me? Were those whiskers? Was that his beard on my neck? Did I feel human hair just now he’s not here is he? I didn’t open my eyes afraid the feeling would go away I must say it echoed elsewhere and wasn’t all that bad. Soon the face that grazed my neck and shoulders moved down to my breasts briefly, then along my stomach and down further yet until I felt a man, beard and all, performing oral sex while I laid alone in my own bed eyes clamped closed still terrified to find out that no one was actually there. My whole body gushed and heaved and I gasped at the virtual sensation of a man pleasing me as viscerally as if his very own mouth were making contact. Breathless and stunned I then looked up at my hands that had been above my head the entire time. Who was touching me? I touched myself. Who made me cum?
After journaling appropriately and then going back to work - writing a bit, sewing a bit, job searching enough, I had a normal evening a regular sleep and proceeded with the next morning ritual bright and early as usual. Then mid coffee yogurt and wakeup typing just as the day before I felt it again. The Weight. Still a little dumbfounded by the dizziness I stumbled back to bed acknowledging nothing but exhaustion. I laid thoughtless in silence ready for sleep only to immediately feel my visitor upon me. He started at my shoulder again, softly, tenderly, so realistic it sent an actual chill throughout my body standing hairs on end. I could sense the moisture on his lips while he kissed my nipples, thighs and hips. Laid sprawled on my back, hands in the air I dared not move again for fear this apparition would disappear at the slightest change in atmosphere. Not able to control my own subtle writhing I then felt his touch move in closer until. What’s this? What the fuck. Is that a dick?? Am I… are we fucking? I couldn’t help it I was panting, moaning, curling my back with the feeling of deep penetration that I could have sworn was physically inside me this must be real how is there not a real live man here right at this very moment it has to be oh my fucking… Oh. A real orgasm. Hands still grasping the bedposts I shook my head and let out a nervous giggle. It was the best sex I’ve had in ages. With a man I’ve never even touched.
Well this went on for the rest of the week. Every morning like clockwork, sometimes multiple sessions a day. I had no control over it, my body would shut down without warning and I’d have no option but to retire to the bed and welcome in my invisible lover, let him have his way, feel nothing but the warm buzz of satisfaction afterwards. The curious thing about Ghostfucking was that I always had to follow his lead. Any time I’d try to direct the fantasy I’d lose sensation of him all together. No, no move that way I want more attention on my tits. Hey, where’d you go?? Nothing? A minute of a blank mind later and he’d return to the path he was taking towards ass play or back kissing, shoulder caressing maybe a little head. I didn’t mind. It all felt great. In fact I never knew I was that into anal so thanks, guy, new worlds. It was like I'd acquired a brand new sexual partner, the giver I’d always imagined, sensuality and intimacy I never had. Who needs these lying posturing fake shy fronting douchebags I keep meeting in my new city. I’ve got everything I need, and I don’t even need him.
Needless to say my love affair with a ghost did come to an end. A tangibly real man entered the picture. It was an easy lay. He set it up. I didn’t feel much for him but having once before been on my radar I knew what I was going to get sexually. He exceeded my expectations by being every single thing you can ask for in a true Dom. While completely overpowering me with rough sex acts he maintains his respect for women, he observes my power, he does nothing that I don’t want to do, it’s all for my pleasure, not his aggression, and he’s fully aware of all of this. He was sweet and normal and polite afterwards. It should have been the perfect fuck. Eh. It was alright. While it did put a stop to what might be described as a week long of physical sexual hallucinations it only confirmed that I really am unable to become genuinely aroused unless I am connected to the other person. How strange that a man performing every move I describe in my playbook can’t bring me nearly as much pleasure as simply imagining a round with someone I truly adore. Have I crossed a new barrier in partner sex? Does this mean I can move from connections that are based only on mutual damage to those born of mutual love? Can I finally bring orgasms into the bedroom? Oh my god, hey all you whiney ex-boyfriends - I think I’m now Emotionally Available!
One could argue Hey Lady you hadn’t fucked in 10 months wasn’t your body just so desperate for the dick it went off feeling one all on its own?? Valid point. Though I’ve gone longer without sex and not by despair, if I spent two years solo in St. Paul with just a clunky old Rabbit imagine what that Palm Power could get me through these days. So if there was any deep desire that had to manifest in hands-free masturbation I would argue that it was specific to my ghost. The pleasure he offered that had nothing to do with my sexual repertoire may have been cast from subtleties I picked up on during our time together while we both denied the attraction that filled the room. We were pretty great at seeing everything else about each other, maybe extra careful to block out all undisclosed vibes. Perhaps I stored all of this information until it finally burst open in one big wet warm orgasm eight times over in July until finally some very nice Real Dom fucked a little sense into me and I remembered I live in New York now far away from Chicago and my past life and old friends and lovers and ex boyfriends and ex drama and since I moved I haven’t been able to connect with a new man or woman, haven’t been able to find great conversation or mind blowing sex, haven’t been able to find much in anyone.
Perhaps since I moved here all I’ve ever been is Haunted.
Before the second installment of New Cities New Dicks I feel compelled to write a brief announcement that will hopefully lift the dark tone that's been cast over Elegant Hustler for the past few months. While searching the archives for new project purposes it has become sadly clear that above and beyond all complaints or missions or dating goals - lady needs to get fucking laid. Though it's not hard to let men disappoint these days, it's also really not that difficult to have good sex and wake up wanting more. Maybe in Chicago I was in such a rut secretly stuck on an unattainable man unwilling to fuck anyone else and am now in a new city unable to spark new attractions to take his place. But I could let up a little on the boys already. Come on. They're just men. With just dicks. What more do I need right now. Pick me up. Toss me around. Tell me what to do. Put your cock in my mouth. Bite my tits. I don't care. I'm sorry for yelling at you. Not all of you some of you deserved it. But I'm just as desperate as the desperate men I complain about daily. Maybe I can now give someone a break and finally end this bitter cycle. Of course not the guys who show me their Instagram accounts at bars or ask me what my tattoos mean, you're all out. But everyone else deserves as much consideration as I think I do when I imply that I might kill and devour you after sex. We all have red flags. I'm willing to fuck anyone who would be comfortable flying yours alongside my own.
Not many people know that the female scorpion will eat her mate post-coitus. It's because it's not consistent. She'll only feed upon him if she is famished enough to need the nutrients for her breed of upcoming offspring. Otherwise when well-fed and satisfied she wants nothing more and leaves the male alive and intact. Finally escaped from a city that did nothing but socially and culturally starve me for 9 years I can now say that settled in my new home and lifestyle I am perfectly full. You're fine. You're safe. All I want is your dick. And you can have it back when we're done. Maybe then I'll make you a sandwich. And you can go buy me some pizza. Everyone likes pizza. We'll never go hungry again.
So I'm sorry guys. But I'm back, I'm here, I can see you all now. I promise to be nice this time. Just let me touch your face. And you can have whatever you want.
** standard requirements still apply. 6'+ and clean shaven. No blondes.
On a recent gorgeous April afternoon while visiting New York to search for apartments and job leads I found myself with 30 minutes to spare before an interview in Nolita standing across from an empty park bench, ice cold Diet Coke in hand, sun glaring. Pleased with the opportunity to rest my feet from a full day of touring the city in my favorite 7 inch boots I sat down, took a deep breath, a heavy gulp, and watched the citizens of my soon-to-be hometown pass me by, a comfortable gaze washing over my face recognizing that I recognized nobody, could categorize nothing, no one was the same and everything seemed different. When it was time to go I quickly uncrossed my legs, straightened my face to business blank, adjusted my tits in that low cut probably too tight blazer and bounced up to start walking towards Prince Street. After not nearly 15 seconds I heard a bustle of footsteps behind me and felt a light tap on my shoulder. A tall well-dressed man smiled warmly and said, “Excuse me. I think you’re absolutely beautiful. Would you like to get a drink?”
I’ll give a firm No to moves like that every time, it’s totally insane and presumptuous and out of line, a little stalkery, but it still felt fucking great. Good for that guy, really. There’s a way to creep appropriately and maybe someday it will pay off for him. Just not with me, you fucking maniac. What was really so thrilling was that this was the third time by the second day of my trip that a man had made an advance on me, now a total stranger point blank! Though I didn’t accept any of them, that is more action than I had gotten during the past nine months in Chicago. What’s in the air here. What’s in the men. What’s in me?
I’ve lived in New York over a month now. You know what’s in everyone here? Hustle. That’s it. It’s simply the need to get shit done. The romanticism of being asked out just for walking down the street looking lovely has quickly lost its touch. Yeah, sure, I’m getting a lot of attention. But so is everyone. Maybe in Chicago the men are all pussies. Maybe in Chicago I was mad all the time so I looked unapproachable. But that doesn’t mean that I moved to a magical city where men love women and are going to fulfill some Long Lost Lady’s Dating Dream. As I saw on that park bench I’m simply in a more dense, diverse, and integrated population where guys are willing to try just about anything until the right move works because no one has time to fuck around so bam bam bam just go for it, why hesitate, make a move, give it a shot. I’m no stranger to bad lines and ridiculous come-ons, it exists everywhere. And since I’ve lived back on the East Coast I’ve noticed some particularly draining trends that not only trap me socially but leave me wondering “Does anyone have Game anymore?” Which inevitably leads to the constantly nagging question: is Game even relevant at this age?
I know one thing. Relevant or not there are plenty of ways that men have tried the art of the pickup here that fall flat every time. Maybe I’m too particular, maybe I scrutinize too harshly, or maybe it’s just so fucking clear what they’re doing that I lose patience and either try to get the hell away or turn around and fuck with them when there’s no escape. Though getting caught with a man you don’t want to talk to seems commonplace and the scenarios know no limits, as a new transplant to New York there’s one particular type of interaction that I’ve had about enough of. And that’s all this goddamn Questioning.
Yeah, I get it - see a pretty face you want to know my name where I’m from what I do get your friendly basics. But I’m not sitting down to a machine gun Q&A session where you have nothing clever to say so you’re just going to shoot off one inquiry after another hoping that some sort of conversation will evolve. You don’t need to know where I live, my address, cross streets, and zip code aren’t helping you get to know me. Names, birthdays, places of residence of my siblings aren’t particularly necessary either, what were you going to send them a card? Should I write it down for you then? What you really don’t need to know are the things I don’t want to tell you. When details of a question are avoided you don’t have to ask again for more information, kind of like when you ask to see pictures of the dog I left behind or the work I don’t want to talk about or the general conversation I’m trying to end. I’m not being coy, I actually don’t want to tell you all of this. See, we don’t actually believe that you’re interested just because you’re asking us about ourselves. It’s insulting the way it feels like a drill or a requirement to fill up on facts as if you give a fuck. Whatever happened to normal human interaction. Whatever happened to responding to what you’re given like a thinking processing adult instead of just trying to get more as if that means you’re invested. If you keep up with this shit you know I’m just going to have to get real with you. “Ok Bro, I moved here because I fell in love with someone I couldn’t have so instead of making his life miserable I left town. I’m heartbroken. You don’t stand a chance, no one does right now. No I don’t have a job, you want give me one?” Motherfuckers stop asking so many questions and tell me a joke about pizza or some shit. Everyone likes pizza. No one likes personals. Why not just go ahead and buy me pizza right now, that’s a winning move right there. Interview dates alone are pretty exhausting but after experiencing a night long of multiple interview pick-up attacks last week I think I’ve seen relentless male feigned interest at it’s height. I gave them everything they asked for. As if I cared enough to expose myself. Then as soon as I saw movement in my ladygroup I’d interrupt mid-convo to get the fuck up and leave. Women can pretend to be interested too, guys. Sharing goes both ways. Eventually sharing can become lying. And I’ll start telling everyone I’m an accountant from Delaware. Sadly this will probably still lead to a million questions about nothing anyone cares about just so they can keep me there while they pretend to want to learn more hoping this will encourage me to trust them enough to allow access to my naked body. Let’s not forget the real objective here. I didn’t meet you motherfuckers at Columbia’s biannual panel on climate change. We’re at a club. The music’s so loud I can barely hear your dumb questions at all. Is that my friend walking away to use the bathroom? Sorry, LATER.
One singular type of question deserves attention on its own. Most certainly not unique to this city but the frequency with which I’m bombarded by it has increased significantly since the move. Men. All men: I didn’t get tattoos for you. They’re not for you. Meaning I’m not going out with the goal of discussing the way that I look as if this was an intentional ploy to get people to talk to me. Maybe that’s your tactic, but it wasn’t mine. All tattooed women everywhere face this daily. It’s the burden we take on for this one specific stylistic choice, just one out of all the possible options we have to prune, primp, style, decorate, dress our beautiful selves. This aesthetic in particular, that sadly we can never be prepared for until we look the way we’ve always wanted to look, presses upon us the ever-present price for female self-expression: That we’re going to have to deal with a bunch of fucking losers trying to get our attention by bringing all that attention to our bodies as if having tattoos is a universal symbol for Fair Game. Ladies you know how it goes. No matter how much or little ink you have any spec of color is enough to give them an in. None of it is original, all of it is routine, and it reads objectifying as fuck. Do you really want to know what my tattoos mean? I just pretend the one with logs and beaver teeth is a symbol for Vagina Dentata and see if they get the hint to leave me alone. No I’m not a Scorpio. Are you really going to inquire further? Because that should tell you enough right there. Oh how nice of you to wonder what kind of flowers these are, they’re not roses, they’re dahlias, I know that must have been driving you crazy, given your clear interest in horticulture. No, if you sensed my tone you'd know that doesn’t deserve a round on the dance floor. Go away. That also doesn’t mean stand next to me for 10 more minutes looking over while you try to think of a better line. It means DUDE GO THE FUCK AWAY. I don’t know how many tattoos I have but that’s a good question. Should we go in the bathroom, get naked, and count?? Because you’ve definitely asked already if I have any more so you could picture this scenario precisely. Sometimes we chat about your plans for your own body art and shit gets real trippy. One time a guy told me about a piece he wanted to do on his back of a deer stand (for hunting), a cathedral, stained glass windows, maybe some guns, and a big sun or Jesus or something. I was in Wisconsin at the time, obviously. But dragons with double lion heads spitting fire into wormholes and riding sharks with swords that hold scrolls of their mother’s favorite bedtime stories all seem pretty standard when you’re learning about someone’s tattoo he’ll never get. I just smile and encourage it whole heartedly. At least the focus has shifted to someone else’s skin. Maybe I can convince him to actually get that Shark-Riding Dragon. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll take a compliment on my look when it’s genuine. I’ve encountered plenty of men who have told me they liked my tattoos, I smile and say thanks, and the topic ends there. It’s like complimenting a dress, or a hairstyle, or a new pair of shoes. No man has ever asked me where I buy my shoes or how many pairs I have, what they mean to me or which are my favorites. And that’s a subject I’d gladly dive into. But unless he’s picturing me naked wearing only shoes it just doesn’t come up. Am I wrong? I’m not wrong.
So guys - if you see a chick on the street or at a bar or buying vegetables and she’s got a look you’re into yes - it’s ok to acknowledge that someone has it going on. She put effort into it, I’m sure she’d be glad to know it hasn’t gone unnoticed. But there’s a line between flattery and objectification. Sometimes saying You Look Nice is enough. Because I’m really not a Scorpio. The answer to the next question is that I’m a Human Scorpion. Is that really what you were looking for or are you only happy that you get to justify the act of staring at a woman’s figure with the fact that she has art drawn on it? My tattoos are not for you. Because my body was never for you either. Learn that now and you’ll have a much easier time talking to women in Brooklyn. Hell maybe some of them will actually trust you enough to tell you what their tattoos really mean someday. (Most of them aren't about biting dicks off by the way, some are just fucking flowers)
Many men may object to my critique of what seems like a simple attempt to get to know me. I understand, you need some way to learn about the woman you’re interested in, you have to find out if you’re interested in the first place. But my main concern has always been with a constant disconnect in authenticity. These men aren’t trying to get acquainted. They’re asking for personal information that has little to do with who I am and everything to do with basic uninteresting facts that require no intellectual investment in order to continue the conversation. We’re not sharing things we like or care about or listen to or look at or think or wonder or find entertaining. We’re not sharing anything. I’m being interrogated. I’m filling out forms. None of this is relevant. I don’t care if a man can’t think of anything better to say so he uses questions as a social tool. Or if everyone told him that women prefer good listeners or that we like talking about ourselves so pretend you want to hear what we have to say. How about we all decide that if you don’t have chemistry with someone you’re allowed to give up and move along. Why do we have to force a connection if there’s none to be had? I’m all for fucking upon first sight. I’ve picked up plenty of men at bars with barely a regret in all my years as a single adult woman. But selection still mattered. Walking away when a guy opened his mouth and didn’t live up to that beautiful face and body was not only healthy for my own social esteem but it ensured that I never had bad sex. Chemistry still mattered, too. Even if it was just masked misogynistic hostile chemistry coming from a stupid idiot that led to perfect rough dominating Amateur sex all night. I know when I know. And it takes about 30 seconds to tell. Though I've never completely given up on the practice of going out with the pure intention of getting laid the goal is to find pleasure, not to accomplish sex. Sometimes you just don’t find it, so you go home and get yourself off to that man you left behind and try again the next weekend. Good sex is never going away. Bad sex will always take its place if you forget why you’re fucking from the start. Men don't seem to care about the distinction. But I certainly do.
So stop asking me questions you don’t care about, why don’t you go find someone you do, and give me the time and space I need to figure out how to talk to this shy bartender over here. Because I wanna get to know that guy, and not where he lives, where he’s from, how long he’s worked here, what his tattoos mean, when he got them, if he has any more, if he can recommend a place for my next one, or if he wants to hear my plan for it. Right now I just want to know whether or not he’s going to let me touch his face. And if he's as slow and methodical when he’s making love as he is while making a drink. If he’s going to quietly tell me to crawl around on the floor or suck his dick or make him a sandwich. Maybe I’ll make him one before he asks. He deserves it. Because out of all the men I’ve met since I’ve been here only one has both shown a liking to me and respected my power by doing nothing to acknowledge, protest, worship, position, flatter, or desperately cling to it. I can’t switch roles to that of the Inquisitive Dick but in the name of denouncing the Game I am still left with one pressing question that will show my full hand and either end or begin this courtship all together, a question that needs to be answered now and I can only hope won’t objectify or scare him or make him feel like some sort of target behind that bar while I sit there and stare at his gorgeous eyes while he tries not to stare back at mine. I don’t care. It’s only one question. And it’s fair. And I just need to fucking know.
Do you have a girlfriend?
Just wondering. Never mind. You’re beautiful. Another Diet Coke please.
Today I received a check in the mail for $500. It was a refund for a deposit I put down on an apartment in early April, a decision I had made in deliberate haste not having any idea where I should live or how much things cost and really I was just exhausted because I had been unwittingly coerced into personal conversation with a man I had met the night before whom I thought was meeting me at that bar midday to up and show me real estate. The thing is - I will talk to anyone about anything usually sex and my personal life because hey - that’s what I do. I tell stories. I have a lot of them. I usually listen to your stories too and give some pretty damn good if not just well-worded advice. Getting together with me is like one big share-fest no topic off limits including my best fuck follies and everything that went wrong in your last relationship. By the time I interrupted the tell-all chit chat and asked whether or not I was going to be renting a new place anytime soon I had about reached my breaking point. I threw down on the second and last space he had planned to show me. Who cares. Get me the fuck home. If this is what apartment searching in New York is like I think I’m done. Oh. Oh you want to get a drink now? And then DINNER? Am I this nice?? Yeah I’m nice. Fuck it. Free guacamole.
I make stupid decisions like a bad habit. Maybe it’s laziness, or avoidance, or just an inability to read a shady scene in the moment. But over the years I’ve developed a great talent for damage control, at least enough so that I’ll make it out unscathed. Can’t say much for the other parties but they’re partially responsible for my predicament in the first place. Still uncertain about the apartment I had seen earlier, upon returning to that freezing Airbnb that reeked of Trader Joe's and Mrs. Meyer’s hand soap (don’t they all), I immediately texted a broker about another place I had been scoping out, she replied with a phone call that led to a positive vibrant conversation, professionalism with zero bullshit, and a rent stabilized apartment in Bushwick that’s twice the size of that other shitbox. As if to nod at my turn to good sense my best friend from earlier in the day soon hit me up with a novel text about our newfound connection followed by a rather blunt assertion about coming over and relentlessly fucking me. Well. A quick “No Thanks” and decision made. I left it. Signed the Bushwick lease. And went on to imagining the exciting prospect of moving to New York.
Upon my return to Chicago I realize I’m $500 out and kind of need that money back. Not to worry, this stuff happens, deals don’t go through, potential renters aren’t approved, papers never get signed, I’ll just ask for the refund. Keep it simple. He assures me that it’s already being processed, would I like to come pick it up? Yeah, so we can have another 7 hour impromptu get to know you date? No thanks. Send it to me in Chicago, here is my address. I won’t be back for another month. I’d like my money now, please.
I don’t know about anyone else but when I’m expecting a check in the mail I open that box every single day. Normally I let shit build up and sometimes even bust open so the last tenant’s ladies catalogs and my dozens of meaningless Blue Cross letters and way too weekly Nature magazines spill out all over the floor. But when money is on the way I'm taking trips down the stairs with no shoes on each time I hear the gate close just in case that was the mailman. Every day I do the math to figure out what my account balance would be once I have that check deposited. I maybe flirt with the idea of buying myself a present Wait Wait that’s for moving no more shoes! After a couple weeks of this agonizing anticipation I texted my Broker BFF again. He asks me my last name and is going to go look for the check, and would I like to come pick it up when I’m in town? Motherfucker you know both who I am and what I want you to do with that check. Just because I didn’t respond to your text when the Purple One left this earth doesn’t mean I didn’t receive it and forgot who you are, man who assumed you could fuck a woman because she talked about fucking, not in any way fucking YOU. Why, Men, did you all think it was ok to contact me about Prince just because I have a connection to him, and none to you whatsoever? A little transparent, wouldn’t you say? You weren’t thinking about what I was feeling on that day, or a funny quip you once made about Graffiti Bridge and I put my hand on your knee, no. You were using a celebrity’s death as an excuse to reach me knowing that I am a megafan and you have no other knowledge of who I actually am or how to even talk to me. Are you that desperate?
I once again texted my Chicago address thinking Well maybe he’s just an idiot and not actually trying to hold my money hostage so he can see me again. But I don’t need to tell you that I waited another 2 weeks and he never sent the check. Because he NEVER SENT THE CHECK. And of course I asked again. And of course I’m told there was even more confusion at this well-established real estate business where he worked, like a bunch of fucking monkeys running around throwing stacks of paper in the air and smashing keyboards on their desks. After a promise to send, a full week waiting and another apparent miscommunication at that damned disorganized place, I remembered the name of his company, called, the woman I spoke to found it immediately, sighed, apologized, and two days later I opened my new mailbox in Brooklyn and received a check for $500.
I heard from him a couple days after my move-in date, which he was aware of. He was wondering if I had picked up my check. I’m assuming he was planning on delivering it himself having received my new address in a frustrated text about Sending the Fucking Check Already, and had probably freaked when it was missing. I ignored him. I have my money now, fuck that guy. Seriously. Fuck That Guy.
I know I’m an easy target for situations like this. I know what being an openly sexually available woman does to men, especially when they don’t understand that it’s still not an invitation. But that doesn’t justify their behavior. It wasn’t my fault that he mistook my candidness for intimacy or a connection or even some sort of desire to fuck. Don’t you know what the signals are? Don’t men learn how to pick up on when a woman wants to go down and when she just wants to talk? Do we need to teach them better? Our world is evolving and this Victorian hold over contemporary social culture is finally loosening its grip. When women are vocal about our sexuality we need men to comprehend the difference between sharing and flirting. I should be able to leave the house in giant heels, slim black pants, a low cut blazer, and feel free to rant about my latest sexploits without fear of being mistaken for a someone who is trying, right at this moment, to sleep with your dumb ass. Guys - just because women like talking about sex doesn’t mean we want to fuck every single person in our company. The way I share with men is identical to the way I tell stories to women. I shouldn’t have to censor myself for fear that a man’s libido is too sensitive to handle the way that I talk. Get your shit together. Have a little self-control. More than that, have a little self-awareness. If anything you should think that I’m coming off pretty arrogant and self-absorbed by not shutting up about my own private life and in no way relating it to you. Because let’s be clear - I’m never asking you questions, or leaning in your direction, or looking at you with hopeful eyes. Is the simple fact that the subject matter involves fucking mean that you are now expected to fuck me? Explain those physics. Because in every other topic I could come up with your eyes would gloss over and I’d struggle to keep your attention.
Here’s a fact for all you men out there - you’re not that special. Meaning you don’t deserve sex just for having a dick and being present. Maybe you don’t practice discretion when you’re horny but I have standards and a pretty complex vetting system. Unlike a man who hops from woman to woman at a bar when he’s in need, requirement WILL SAY YES, your ability to show up isn’t even part of my criteria. Don’t you know anything about women? I may rant and rant about all my particulars but unless I’m making it pretty clear that I want you to experience them with me you’re just not a candidate. I get that vibes exist, attraction is real, you can be turned on and fantasizing about all the wild shit you want to do while you’re sitting there listening. But know what your options are. Inviting lust is different than inviting contact. And it’s time we start holding everyone accountable to actually understand the difference. If you want to call me a tease or accuse sexually open women of treating men unfairly you might want to think about what it means to tease someone in the first place. What was being offered to you that was taken away. Are you so deserving of sex that the mere mention of the act implies that it’s yours, and when it’s denied you have been wronged in some way? Does this mean that women owe men intercourse otherwise we’re not allowed to speak of it? What seems to be so dangerous about a sexually available female is that in already claiming ownership of her body she may be open to offers but she is still perfectly capable of saying No.
Maybe it’s all a little too far off at this point. Most men are going to think or at least hope our sexual energy is directed at them. And they’ll probably continue to make fools of themselves in the process. I don’t mind. I’ll never stop punishing a man for his entitlement and then writing all about it. It’s time they start learning, and for women to know that now is our opportunity to teach. Men aren’t just going to up and change because we’ve found our light. It’s our job to train our partners, our friends, our acquaintances, and passersby how to treat us. Flash our sexy vibes all over the universe, yes, YES! We have all the power in the world! We have so much power that men are scrambling and calling us whores and pretending to be Male Feminists and withholding $500 deposit refund checks for a whole month until we find a way to get it back without them. It’s time we start giving a little direction. It’s in our hands now. So go help your man see what you see, be forgiving, know he’s likely clueless and he probably just wants to do the right thing. And if he’s still a total fucking idiot send him over to me and I’ll write him up on this website. For I know no shortage of idiots, and I’ll never stop making examples, I’ll never stop writing, I’ll never stop Hustling for the sake of female power and all the potential we have to embrace it. Fuck self-censorship, never stop the conversation, it's ours to be had.
Elegant Hustler will be on sabbatical for the month of April. Be sure to check back in May where topics will include New Dicks in New Cities, Scorpion’s Choice, Psychic Dreams, and Falling in Love With All The Wrong Men.
Have a lovely four weeks. Get your fuck on. You deserve it.
There’s a chill in the air in Logan Square. No it’s not the season. It’s not the Winds of Lake Michigan. Nor the cold echoing off the city concrete. It’s my fucking face. I don’t know why. Because I’m smiling. Making eye contact. I look fantastic. But this very fact is what seems to freeze all the bearded motherfuckers I pass by daily as I look over invitingly hoping for a little human interaction in the midst of this shitty Chicago Winter. Maybe just a nod. Maybe just a fucking nod of recognition to a woman who is staring directly at your stupid face in a clear act of acknowledgment. But no. These days if not just switching focus intently to the ground all I get in return is the goddamned Whale Eye. A hard face turn away, a terrified eye rolled back towards me assessing the threat until we’ve passed. Look - a well-dressed attractive smiling woman, The Horror! Recently learning that scaring men on the street is no longer just my experience it now seems like an appropriate time to talk about the Misogyny of Fear.
Though I have to be very clear that not all of them do, out of the confirmed majority there are several categories of men that fear women. You have the Insecure Alphas, desperately needing to dominate feeling that their worth depends on intellectual, psychological, even financial superiority and general competency over any woman they encounter whether fucking, dating, or just chatting in line at a coffee shop. There are the double standard enforcers, not accepting our growing sexual independence and dwindling focus on attachment and relationships. And finally you have your Basic Bros who just want to fuck their mothers. Which let’s face it - that’s really all of them. In your time as a single adult female you will come across at least one of these guys. Maybe a couple. Maybe the ever so dangerous combination of all three. In any case you must know this and never let a well-played game or flattering talk fool you: They’re all misogynists. All of them. With no exception. For the very fact of fear implies nothing but.
I never fully understood what it meant when a man was scared of me. I am so frightening in general I would just get a power trip and treat him however I saw fit. The truth is I normally slept with really nice guys who simply kept their distance and any fear that I picked up on was only an acknowledgment that I was unavailable. So when I found myself hopelessly stuck on a man that I had no real interest in, no intentions of dating or even seeing outside the hours of 2 and 5am, and no desire to talk to when I did, I never made the connection that my obsession had nothing to do with him as a person and only relied on the unfamiliar ways in which he was treating me. That motherfucker was a chauvinist pig. A great fuck. And a total idiot masquerading as a man of superior intellect. I went berserk. And am still shocked he never called in a restraining order.
We met at Butch McGuire’s, resident late-night bar for all Lincoln Park and similarly designed singles who haven’t made a match yet and need to move the show to Gold Coast once the 2am establishments shut down for the evening. It’s a fucking gold mine for me. With that many drunk desperate men and my unicorn appeal in the sea of going-out blouses, skinny jeans, and long loose curls, I can take someone home with every visit. On that particular night I was feeling the summer heat dressed in my micro-mini neon yellow denim shorts, a matching skin-tight crewneck t-shirt covering a barely visible red lace bra, mile-high platform wedge sandals and a silk blazer I was more comfortable slinging over my purse than shoulders. With that perfectly straight blonde bob, black eyes, and bright red lips I looked like a horny human highlighter writing sex all over anyone who’d cross my path. I was. It’s the only time I’ll ever go to that goddamned miserable bar. Most men didn’t dare talk to me which is usually the plan with an outfit like that. I need the boldest of the bold - those who are either confident enough to know they can satisfy me or the mommy issue misogynists who have too much to prove. Unfortunately during this period of my life I never put much thought into the latter group. Because in either scenario the sex was great. Who cares what’s in his head. I know what’s in mine.
While standing alone waiting for a friend to use the bathroom I was confronted with the opening line. He was normal looking. Average build, height, attractiveness. Dressed in a white t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. None of it really made an impression on me, I was too blown back by the overwhelming stench of insecurity. He said he was afraid to talk to me as if my big badass boyfriend would come beat him up. Ok. Whatever. Self-deprecating and admitting my power. Sorry - my Boyfriend’s power. Go on. He was worried that I was sober and judging him in his inebriated state, a theme he carried on throughout our relationship. Of course men who distrust sobriety prefer a woman with lowered capacities for all obvious reasons, including a decreased ability to see him or his foolishness clearly, ideally being a fool herself. After too much of the badass talk and some other crap concerning him not being cool enough I gave the guy a break and just invested. It was late. He at least had the balls to approach me. It didn’t take us long to get back to his place and as anticipated the sex delivered. He was a purebred Insecure Alpha, dominating and aggressive bordering on degrading, unapologetically requesting cuddles immediately after orgasm. I went home the next morning and forgot about it. Until I got horny a week later.
The true test of the evolution of a man is how he responds to a woman who is interested in casual sex. I’m sorry to say that most fail. However to the degree that they flounder says a lot about their place on the spectrum of modern sexism and immaturity. I may not help the situation by being so outspoken about my rejection of relationships and desire for the Fuck Buddy System, but we’re adults and it’s 2016. It’s time to accept what actual human sexuality looks like. I texted my hopeful fuckfriend late with a clever lead about whether or not he had reason to get up early the next morning. He didn’t get it. Or maybe just didn’t want to. I proposed that we meet at Inner Town Pub for a drink as if sex was secondary. Our conversation was lacking - he didn’t share much about his cliché politco-masked self-congratulatory man writing and I really only made a point to rant about my distaste for marriage and children which I can guess by now is my glaring red flag. By the end of the evening I had concluded that we need to fuck again, right now, and these nice little drink chats can be taken off the table. As we left the bar he paused pretending to check out one of the local papers sitting on the counter in front of the door. Choking on a snort I quickened the pace to get him back to my apartment and out of his pants.
The next morning he launched the first assault. I didn’t see it coming. And it came hard. Perhaps he sensed that I didn’t give a fuck about him or his mind. That half-assed breakfast I made was only for show, part of my playbook, now in its last stages of dissolution the lazier I got with feeling that I needed to appear desirable as girlfriend material in order to keep men coming back for more sex. We were sitting at my coffee table quietly pushing around eggs when he started intently staring at my books. Assessing them. Out loud. Then tells me of course this is what he does, judges people’s (women's) books. (After all the man’s a writer, remember? He wrote a book about writing a book. You know, the original one that didn’t make it to publishing.) The problem with a move like this on a person like me is that I immediately feel stupid, exactly what he had intended. It’s not that I actually think he’s smart, I made my decision on his brain last night. It’s the gall he has to position himself as intellectually superior that scares me into believing it. After the way he just fucked me any quick forceful gesture even if psychological can be used to manipulate easier than I’d like to admit. We’re conditioned to think that men have intelligence on us. They’ve wanted us to believe this for millennia. They even found ways to prevent us from learning how to read and write as early as they could. Women can’t have knowledge, imagine what we’d do if we had an understanding of the world and how little men actually knew it! We’re only now being exposed to the brilliant game-changing females in all of history that have been conveniently left out of the records. We’re just not supposed to be smart. It’s too dangerous. What would they have left, their strong shoulders? Their beards? Their dicks that we immediately send in group texts and laugh at any time they feel vulnerable enough to share them with us? Reinforcing this ugly turn of dynamic on the way to my car so courteously offered as his ride home he asked me about the giant cover up tattoo on my back. Clearly not understanding my explanation having to do with bird intelligence versus the human intuition that we’ve clouded due to constructs built in order to have what we think is a functioning society, he shrugged and told me that didn’t make any sense. I drove him home. Awkwardly. As he commented in a shocked and condescending tone that the music in my car was rather cool. Yeah you fucking asshole. That’s one more point for me.
I must have known how fucked this behavior was without a conscious awareness. I followed up with a text indicating that I’m not looking to date, only regular sex. He responded with a remark on how he doesn’t want to get an STD. I ignored it. Because after living in a household where I was forced to endure shitty treatment with no option of ever leaving I have developed a pretty high tolerance for disrespect and an invincible ability to move beyond it maintaining a working relationship with my abuser. I still wanted the dick. And now in addition to prove to that asshole that I was the one with the functioning mind here. He was nothing but a sex toy. A dirty sex toy who loved to fuck hard, spank and choke me, sit on my face and shove his cock in my mouth cumming in or on it at the end of every session. I live for that shit. Men like him don’t understand what that actually means. That I continued to booty call him knowing what a prick he was only indicated our perfect relationship as Top and Bottom. Fake Dom and True Sub. I had all of the power, he meant nothing, and it terrified him to the point of hostility and pushback.
The problem with always dating good guys who feared me because of my distance versus finally facing a bad guy who feared me for my strength meant that I had no idea how to tell the difference. I knew exactly what I wanted and my pursuits never implied otherwise. However I grossly misunderstood what was in his head. I made a hobby of trying to guess. An obsessive cyclical bordering on psychotic habit of analyzing his mind and creating theories as to who this man was and why he communicated the way he did, fucked me so, wrote his shitty Redeye column with the blatant overinflated confidence masking crippling insecurity every week. Ego was a theme. Self-absorption. Narcissism. Feelings of inadequacy. But never the notion of sexism or the anger towards women. How was I so unfamiliar with the idea that most men can’t handle being used for sex? How did I not understand that he saw my light immediately, picked up on my indifference, couldn’t possibly fathom that someone wouldn’t want his time or affection. Didn’t think he was smart or special. How did I not know that the time he said I was bad for him because he needed a nice girlfriend who didn’t let him cum on her face while I was still naked lying next to him was a clear sign of brute misogyny rearing it’s nasty self-hating head? We would rest on his mattress on the floor (YES he was an adult male with a mattress on the floor) as he made me hold him and point at his bookshelf telling me how smart he was. Look. Yes, Yes I see that you own books, unlike mine oh so judgable these must be way more worthy of praise. Good for you for reading, pat pat on the ass. Oh of course there is the one you wrote. All 12 copies of it. You’re a star! You’re so important! Can I have one? Is that why you have so many, to give the ladies a consolation prize as you shove them out the door? No need to usher me into the streets tomorrow morning, I’m leaving at 5am before you wake up. I don’t want to deal with talking to your stupid face before I’ve had my coffee. Having to placate you during this forced pillow talk is draining enough.
That’s right. I had hit the female-fearing misogynist’s jackpot. This man was not just an Insecure Alpha, he was also unaccepting of being objectified the way he did every other woman in Chicago, and in his simplest form all he really wanted was a mother figure to tousle his hair and tell him he was special. In finally grasping just how oppressive this is I have been able to shed light on almost every other man that I interact with on a daily basis and all the losers I see my friends struggle with in their romantic lives. Everyone has to face the facts - women don’t need men anymore. At this age most of us who are still single are so by choice. And we’re typically pretty exceptional people for having spent most of our adult lives focusing on improving ourselves and our careers over finding a mate to feel complete. This horrifies our male adversaries. Not only is a woman who may outshine him threatening enough, but one who doesn’t need him to survive? What happens to his sense of self-worth? Most men are raised to think that their value is in their ability to provide and protect. That it is masculine to be dominant. While some of these traits are sexually exciting and attractive in a partner the reality is that they are attractive in everyone. I seek out strength and power in my female friends just as much as I do in lovers. But traditionally it’s been taught that the male’s primary purpose is founded in his ability to lead and control. A very long time ago their physical supremacy led them to believe that they held all-encompassing power over us. Hey, they were strong enough to enforce it. Our brains lost their value, ridiculous feats of benign masculinity developed into impressive signs of superiority. The male way of thinking that’s actually rather narrow and one-sided became our code of logic and reason defining the difference between the pragmatic (strong/male) and emotional (weak/female) instead of linear (simple) and complex (evolved). But suddenly women all over the world have been finding empowerment with the use of our abilities for abstract reasoning and multi-dimensional intelligence. Really our abilities to do whatever the fuck we want. Though the fight for advancement still remains the awareness that we deserve it is widespread. With the overwhelming evidence that we no longer need personal teachers, leaders, or protection, some men are losing their fucking minds. When we’re all on an even playing field, what’s a guy to do when he doesn’t have a leg up?
What misogynists aka most men seem to imply with their behavior is that we exist on a scale with one another instead of separate independently moving planes. On the first model when one person makes any sort of gain it automatically lowers the other. And if you can’t build strength individually you can do so by actively weakening your partner. There’s no room to mutually grow, but our successes supposedly devalue our other for not being as successful by definition. We are set into competition instead of a support system. In this regard I’m finding that each new man that enters my life or a friend’s can’t deal with the idea of dating a woman who matches or even outshines him. Instead of appreciating and respecting our advancement there becomes a fear that our triumphs imply a masculine failure. We aren’t existing on these separately operating planes where our relationships are to each other as thinking feeling humans and not as dated symbols of femininity, masculinity, power, weakness, or success. Still bound to be primarily identified in such simple terms there is no chance for equality. This is misogyny at it’s core. And don’t be fooled by the flattery of fear - a man who is driven to awestruck compliments in which he places himself on that scale with you by confronting his own feelings of unworthiness. It all means the same thing. He’s uneasy with your visible light. He may fuck you in ways that make you feel small. He may throw out snide comments to make you feel stupid. He could slut-shame you post-sex when he feels unimportant. They lose control. For the very fear that they are losing their control.
I didn’t handle the situation with this mediocre man writer very well. I went a little crazy. Maybe really crazy. Of course it never helps being in a difficult relational dynamic when you’re mentally ill. And boy was I struggling with my psyche at the time. But my total ignorance of what was really going on led to an all out assault on this guy through Facebook and text messages. I wasn’t sure what I actually wanted. I had his intentions all wrong. I only knew that something was unjust and I had to correct it. It took a very long time and a forced rejection for me to stop the harassment. I avoided Lincoln Park for fear of a run-in and the inevitable embarrassment for years after that. It wasn’t until I started rereading the real-time documentation of this relationship in my Book of 2012 that it finally clicked. Not only was this man scared shitless of a woman so independent that she needed nothing but his dick, trying desperately to put her back in her place to prove his worth then attempting to get affirmation with coerced cuddling and coddling post-coitus, but most men feel the exact same way even if they don’t act like such unabashed assholes. When I’m told that I’m intimidating because of how impressive I am while a man’s trying to get in my pants it’s not because he’s excited to meet someone of such caliber. He’s actually admitting that he would be more comfortable talking to a woman who was less impressive, easier to get a handle over, maybe more appreciative or even scared herself of what he had to offer. When I pass men on the street and they look away in panic it’s not really about a striking image, but rather for the fact that I am looking right at them. I’ve heard that a lot of women are afraid to acknowledge men out in the world for how much harassment we have to endure daily. I’m never bothered by it and instead challenge first with a smile and confident step. This could be the very thing that freaks them out. If I’m not offering up the sidewalk what am I really saying, that I own this land? Can a woman own anything? Can I own their dicks too?
In retrospect I’m not so sure that all the other men who seemed like such nice guys were actually as thrilled by my power as I thought. Some were dead-set on influencing me with their own life-views, some constantly needed validation and got pretty testy when it wasn't offered after provocation. Others were up-front about their feelings of inadequacy thinking this would soften me to more sex. It did. Because as I’m pretty clear about I’m never that concerned with how a man’s trying to pick me up, I’m down to fuck if I think he’ll be good at it. Overlooking all of the ways in which he is terrible is my specialty.
I’m done overlooking. I had a lot of fun in my twenties. But the formula I always stuck to suddenly turned disastrous once I hit 30. Maybe it was a shift in my own worldview. Or it’s the rapidly changing attitude that we’re seeing in men around this city. But I’m becoming increasingly aware of how difficult it is for dates and potential fucks to keep their cool around a woman who is smart, self-sufficient, and doesn’t need to rely on a relationship to feel fulfilled. I know there are men around who would be thrilled to meet someone like me. Excited. Enthralled. Not threatened but rather interested and genuinely impressed. There are those who feel pride when they are coupled with another powerhouse rather than eclipsed. It’s rare, maybe even more so in the Midwest, but it exists. For now I’m just going to keep grinning at each passerby, scorpion hand glaring, black eyes shining and monster boots stomping. I’ll wait for a tall clean-shaven secure man with a stride to match to look right at me and smile back. Maybe he’ll even have the confidence to speak up. And say something that’s not indicative of an insecure baby who wants a dimwitted fuckdoll who will wipe his ass and tell him he's special on a regular basis. Yeah I’ll wait for that man. Until then I’m stuck with whale-eyes and shell-shocked terror. I don’t mind. For just as they fear - they are and always will be secondary. Sorry guys, we've done our part, time for you to start evolving too.
In 2013 growing tired of vehemently harassing a late-night lay who had made me feel stupid and reliably slut shamed me every time before and after sex, not really knowing I only needed his attention in order to Scorpion Sting his ass, I decided that I was finally ready to give up on the bullshit and try dating. The only problem was that I was going through a period where I didn’t like people very much. In fact I pretty much hated everyone. Each man I encountered was worse than the one before. No one met my standards. I’d fuck an arrogant preppy confident enough to pick me up knowing I was sober while he rambled on 6 cocktails deep, but each time while attempting a second go I found myself gravely disappointed with either his mind, the way he treated me, or even his next performance. Frustrated and rather lonely I realized I needed to start thinking about what I wanted in the first place. So I made a list. Of all the things that I was looking for in a man. Who he would be. How I would know. Until I meet this guy it’s one night stands with those drunken assholes only. They’re not worth the effort for anything more. I wrote about him a few nights in a row. I imagined he was British, thinking I was moving to London in 6 months, assuming all of those traits fit perfectly over there. I probably didn’t catch on that I just had to get the hell out of Lincoln Park. A few days later I met him. Not British. Not tall. Not clean shaven or dressed anything like a gentleman. We only talked for 5 minutes. But I knew I had to see him again. So I texted immediately the next morning. And made a new best friend.
I never really understood relationships. I had a hard time connecting with people. Anyone. For an entire lifetime. So when I made a list of my Perfect Man there were only two mentions of how he would relate to me. The most obvious was that he’d be a giver in bed - meaning he’d fuck me exactly how I liked to be fucked and he’d get off just as much knowing that he is pleasing a woman. The second was that he would understand my work and I’d finally have someone outside of my school to talk to about it. When I met my new bestie I didn’t dare discuss my own sex life knowing the danger in the topic, but I was in the middle of a big project that involved anonymous sexting so that naturally came up. He was really impressed - that this woman was exciting enough to sext with strangers. So I never talked about art again.
It didn’t matter. I’ve never connected with a man, a woman, a human being, to the degree that I did with him. We’d get together on a Friday afternoon, talk and talk and talk and on Monday morning someone would have to go to work. Sexless sleepovers were normal, cruel as it was. He had a brilliant mind. Mathematical and pragmatic, sure. I still adored his quick logic and insight into other people, myself included. He saw things in me, intellectually, that no one had ever seen before. Maybe the scientific side of my brain too that everyone had ignored due to how strong my creative pulse beats. Eventually the subject of sex did come up. It was inevitable. I was recounting the first time an ex lover slapped me, how it happened naturally from escalation and was the most erotic feeling I’d ever had. It must have been a thrilling tale, because he paused briefly with a pensive look in his eye, then leaned forward in his chair, struck me across the face, waited nervously for my reaction, I lunged at him, and the rest is history.
While we dated and I began to accept feeling feelings, I noted all the boxes he checked on my Perfect Man list. Loud, confident, the raconteur center of attention. Smart. Heavy drinker. Sexual giver. Similar taste in music. Will have dance parties with me in our underwear in the middle of the night. Makes me laugh. Laugh hard. The 6 months we spent officially together may be the best time I’ve ever had in my life. But when I lost my shit that one weekend and abruptly broke it off because he didn’t return a few text messages I found myself in a position that I hadn’t expected to be in half a year prior. And so devastated by what I had done, for the next 18 months while we struggled to make a decision, I continued down this derailed path I had unknowingly chosen at the start of our friendship. My world got pretty dark. Desolate. Empty as fuck. He was the only thing I had in my life and I didn’t even have him. The whole time I never understood that all I needed to get back was what I had given up the first night we hung out. Me.
We all have friends who do it. And we talk shit about other women when we see them doing the same with men we wish we had for ourselves: Enmeshing. Copying. Suddenly liking all the same things. Even looking similar. Logan Square itself is made up of an entire community of women appropriating men’s tastes and predilections. We judge and make fun of this but I’m not exactly sure that our assessment is on the mark. I’ve always thought that the motivation for melding with a man is to gain acceptance. To be liked. To be cool. Really I think women may just want to be agreeable because most men aren’t capable of understanding us and it’s harder for them to meet in the middle. We have to cross over to their side a little so things can run more smoothly. I’m not that shy in my claims that men are great big babies. They’re simple. Linear. Narrow. The female mind and emotional spectrum is so complex and multifaceted that there’s just no way she’ll ever be fully understood. And that’s fine. That’s why we have each other. That’s why men have Bros. But it worries me that we change ourselves or sacrifice things all together with the intent of coupling up. It’s evidence that we’re still living in a culture where male priorities dominate. That mathematical logic is valued over the abstract and multi-dimensional thinking that women are capable of. Emotional intelligence though studied and written about to much acclaim is still devalued and criticized when expressed through a female voice and rewarded when a man is strong enough to show he has depth. It’s from this pressure to be both desirable as the submissive woman but like-minded with your partner that we start to give up the things that make us exceptional and unique. Is love worth it?
I didn’t change myself for love. There was no absorbing of another person’s hobbies or interests with the goal of getting closer. I’m a bad liar, it extends to even pretending that summer fedora is acceptable in public. I never attached myself to his priorities, but instead I sacrificed some of my own so that I could feel more relatable. He didn’t ask me to. He was impressed with me the moment we met. Continued to be the more we got to know each other. But I simply wasn’t comfortable outshining him the way I did naturally, so I dimmed my light so we could share our glow. I dressed down. I left out conversation that I knew he’d never grasp. I dropped the topic of my creative pursuits. Eventually I dropped those pursuits all together. I had found my Perfect Man. I wanted to be compatible. I was desperate for it to work. He checked all the boxes! So what if I had to uncheck a couple of mine so we could be the right match. We overlapped in so many others, it hardly felt like a significant loss. At the time it was more important to have a companion. Completely ignoring my crippling fear of commitment that continued to creep into our daily interactions I vowed to make it work. He made me happy. For once I had found a man who wasn’t shit.
My lifelong identity as an artist was erased for the 3 years that he was in my crosshairs. Not having any clue what to do for a living I started from scratch with no real passion or drive and endless half-assed plans with no experience in anything other than the only trade in which I’ve ever been trained, the very thing I had given up to feel more level with him. My brain slowed. My energy lulled. I entered a mind-numbing depression that went unnoticed for far too long. My only priority was getting him back as if his smiling face would save me from my misery. It was the kind of codependence that I had feared since my earliest days of boy-journaling in the fourth grade. I never thought I’d actually let a man influence or replace my core sense of purpose. And after suddenly getting it all back a couple weeks ago, jumping into a new project and finally using my hands again - I can’t help but feel a little shame in how I lost myself to love.
Am I any better than the woman who copies her man? Starts liking sports, drinking whiskey, and dressing more masculine? I see twinning couples all the time. They’re everywhere. You know those ladies had a much different look and book of hobbies before they realized they had to start creating similarities with their guys in order to keep the connections alive. Even so they could find more ways to hang out. God forbid we try to get them to do something that interests our feminine minds. It’s hard to believe that I even altered my own wardrobe to create a balance between us. It no longer seemed appropriate to always look polished the way that I did. He doesn’t do it. I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable with all of my efforts. The same way that I stopped wearing giant heels so that I wouldn’t be taller. We may preach our lady power but a lot of us still hand it all over because frankly men are too sensitive. It’s easier to make them feel special. And in a society where women are criticized for being dominant or outspoken we may even feel protected from scrutiny if we just let him have the upper hand. Even if it's as simple as having the ability to physically look down at us instead of up.
Well I’m done with it. What blows my mind in the whole matter is that I didn't want to be in a relationship from the start. And I still don’t. Why I felt that I needed to be the perfect companion to ensure a commitment is beyond me. It can only be the result of spending all that time swimming in a sea of mediocre assholes and without warning falling right into the hands of a wonderful, caring, fun, and happy man that I just liked too much to ever want to give up. But my biggest mistake of all was believing that he was my dream guy simply because he fit the traits of a fantasy I had just solidified that very week. Fantasies are fine. Knowing what kind of man you’re attracted to helps weed out the shitheads that aren’t worth your attention. But relying on check marks can get you into trouble. In fact, why make that list to begin with. Why not make a list for myself. Why not know what I’m willing to give up and what I absolutely will not sacrifice? After all I met my sexual fantasy last spring and spent our whole relationship trying to force him into those boxes not getting that I could have just been fucking him. Men take all shapes and sizes. Yeah there are way more Bros out there than any of us would like to believe. But it’s not our job to keep shifting with each new set of preferences that comes with the next partner. We’ll only be able to stay satisfied when we focus on our own shining lights. Wasting valuable energy on anyone else’s only ends with rendering us dim. And if you meet a man who would rather have a dull, simplified connection than bright and complex just because it makes him feel valuable - move on. You don’t need a list for the perfect man, that he knows how to see you is really the only requirement. We’re all worth love, but only for who we are at full capacity. And it’s no one’s decision but ours to demand it. Once we all start doing that well - we’re women - we can have whatever the fuck we want.
My middle brother is a big giver. Any birthday or special occasion where a present is customary he can’t be satisfied with the meager offering appropriate for a single buyer such as small material objects or memberships to a wine or cheese club. He needs to make a gesture. Something meaningful, loving, sentimental and maybe a little grandiose. I’m not sure if he’s more concerned with bringing all four siblings together to feel more connected to our disconnected family or if he simply can’t justify spending all that money himself. Either way every year about a month before Christmas I receive the inevitable email proposing a new group gift that is sure to excite the shit out of our parents. Most the time we all avoid answering for so long that it’s never brought to fruition. But about 5 years ago he suggested one that stuck, that felt fun, that was really for everyone: let’s convert all our home videos to DVDs and blow Mom and Dad’s minds.
I remember watching a lot of those tapes as a kid. Most of all I remember making my own. I loved that camera. First teaming with my little sister and a couple of hamsters filming a symphonically set video about an agile criminal and equally nimble detective nipping at his heels I then moved on to more dynamic soundtracks with gripping scenes and dance numbers performed enthusiastically by my girlfriends. We shot talk shows, music videos, fashion runways, life stories of each other on our birthdays, candid footage just fucking around on sleepovers. Shortly after The Blair With Project came out a friend and I made The Drunk Bitch Project and brought the camera with us one summer night walking through dark neighborhoods from party to party, lens and spotlight shining back at our faces whispering accounts of our journey and levels of incapacitation. Basically - we were typical teenage girls. And true to form, replaying movies with the group a year or two after their production was cause for celebration and endless laughter. However over time as I’d sift through the big drawer in my parents' bedroom for one of those tiny cassettes, all labeled with clever titles or my name and date, I’d pop them into the VHS surrogate tape, push it into the VCR, turn on the TV, and dark shaky footage of a boy’s hockey game would start to scroll. Oh. Not ever of me playing hockey. The sport I was never able to successfully quit as a teen due to hostile guilt trips and fatherly disappointment. Only my two older brothers skating around on the high school varsity team which was also filmed professionally at every competition. And really I don’t remember them ever watching those homemade tapes. I seem to recall that they all went over plays before practice with their own damn coaches. Pretty sure we had plenty of blank tapes too. At least I know we weren't struggling enough to not be able to drop a few bucks on another pack. But this was my father. He loved that camera. Under the guise of parental attention and love he’d use it at his favorite tool to diminish and abuse the object of his narcissistic sadism. It was so subtle and twisted that it took me 31 years to even understand what was going on.
In 2011 on a highly anticipated Christmas morning we presented my parents with 10 DVDs packed with home videos, upon which they teared and thanked us and Oh My the love and beauty of our close-knit family! Each was titled with a few words indicating the content, one in particular that read Carrie and Friends. Apparently my sister did not take her responsibility as the only child with access to my parents’ house seriously and when gathering the tapes she made no effort to watch them or even look at the labels, instead just threw everything in a plastic bag and handed it to the poor man commissioned to do the converting. HE watched every single one and did his best to organize it all. Something about the idea of a person outside of the 6 of us seeing our family history made me cringe a little, not entirely sure why. But during the first viewing session I quickly found out.
There was enough wrong with the first portion set in Paris when my parents were a young couple raising their first child, both in how my father used the camera to control and belittle my mother and how as we watched it in present day he continued the trend by mocking what he saw on the screen from his comfortably poised spot on the couch. It was seeing those years that sparked the massive amount of writing affirming my reasons for never wanting to get married or be in a serious relationship. And for losing all respect for how those two pretended to love each other. However the most damaging videos came after. When I entered the picture. When my mom ceased to be the target of abuse and all attention was directed at me. Not only was she relieved of her position of victim, she actually teamed up with him to ensure that I would keep it. It was a quick transition for her. She must have been thrilled. For the earliest evidence I saw when sitting around the television that night was at just 2 years old.
It was Pizza Bagel night at the Wayne house. Why such a uninteresting event like my mom slapping some tomato sauce and mozzarella on a few bagels and sticking them in the oven on a Tuesday night deserves documentation seemed unclear. You usually see home videos when a parent wants to capture a meaningful moment with his or her family. A vacation that brings everyone together, the first snowfall of the year when everyone’s packed into little snowsuits slipping around on sleds, dance recitals and plays, Christmases, birthdays, reunions with all the cousins. Sure we had a few of those. But the majority of that filming was of the family just doing regular shit, usually focused on me, talking my ass off because that’s what I did, and suddenly being asked a weird question like “how do you tell the difference between the male and female donkey?”, ignoring it to continue my story because I’m 6, and being interrupted and asked a second time. Having seen this particular video at the kitchen table eating fake pizza a million times as a kid I had never fully appreciated that it wasn’t just filmed out of boredom or some fascination with the accessibility of technological advances in the new camcorders we had in the 80s. It was a direct and intentional act to abuse a fucking toddler.
As in almost every video we've watched the scene starts on my oldest brother who immediately says something indicating his unabashed sensitivity like warning us about eating too early for fear of burning your mouth. Lame, you little nerd. Where’s Caroline. I’m in the high chair, quiet, shyly looking at the camera. Meanwhile, as always, middle brother is practically shouting “Dad, Dad, Dad, Dad.” He’s got something to say, film that kid! He’s brilliant, he always has something clever to say! But as per usual he goes along ignored and we come to this little girl, basically a baby, and the questioning begins. He doesn’t waste much time on bullshit like “How old are you?” I’m not a moron, telling him two with a couple fingers to match isn’t that complicated. So we move on. My father wants to know what happened today. He asks my mother, who sounds as if she's sitting across the table. She describes that I had a rough one. We were out and I threw a fuss. The tone of their voices was condescending and cold. Mocking in a way. The camera never moved from my face. What else happened? "And she pooped." You heard it. Little Caroline shat her pants. In public! So now she’s mad, wants to go to sleep, but isn’t allowed to until she eats her dinner. "Is this true, Caroline?" Motherfucker you know it’s true. The two of you discussed this already when you got home from work. I looked directly at my father, behind the camera, face crunching, mouth turning down, and started to cry. "Oh stop it, now you know you’re not really sad. Are you really sad?" My brothers jumped in telling fart jokes and I cracked a smile. Suddenly my mom was warning me not to eat the dump truck and spoon feeding me yogurt while the boys rattled on about magical fruit. The scene cut to those two idiots fighting with plastic dinosaurs. I had successfully eaten dinner and been put to bed.
What I had witnessed here was a grown man making a direct and successful attempt to humiliate his own daughter, nearly an infant. Why was he recounting my traumatic experience that had already happened earlier in the day, then refusing me my emotional response when this made me upset? Recording it, putting me in the spotlight, in front of my older brothers, and bringing my mom in on it? A tantrum and accident was in no way shameful or deserving of guilt or punishment - it’s actually normal for a 2-year-old probably still going through potty training. Truth be told, my parents never properly potty trained me. I can bet this was my father’s task, as he took the responsibility out of my mother’s hands to cut my hair and teach me how to adult shower during my toddler years as well. When I was in the 8th grade I developed a severe bladder infection. So bad that I had to go to the ER. While visiting with the nurse he asked off-hand if I was wiping back to front. I was. I WAS! Of course as a 12-year-old girl and almost to this day it only reflected upon my own embarrassment. Not at all on what terrible fucking parents I have that they can’t teach a child the most important act of personal hygiene there is. That they endangered my health as a result. I don’t doubt that my dad had this basic human function in mind when assuming the role to teach me and instead used it, much like in that video, as a way to control my sense of dignity and self-worth when I was supposed to be learning autonomy like a normal growing child. Similarly that event at the kitchen table was nothing less than child abuse. Sadistic, intentional, sociopathic abuse of a virtual baby.
I have concern that this doesn’t sound like damning evidence that my father is a sociopath. That someone could read this story with a lighter heart or even just infer stupidity or bad parenting. But my parents were in their 30s when I was born. They already had two boys who were doing just fine. They had money, education, and came from healthy supportive families and communities where all the information they could have possibly needed for how to raise a child was accessible. Yet I still endured a lifetime of systematic manipulation and pointed humiliation, singled out individually from the rest of my siblings, continued even after my little sister came into the picture. My dad is a smart motherfucker. Brilliant in a way. Being told how much I was loved, worshipped, for as long as memory allows, and having no physical scars to prove otherwise, makes it very hard to claim that I was born to a ruthless predator who may have even hated my guts. He hates a lot of children. He makes fun of them in their absence. For being ugly, stupid, fat, annoying. Why the animosity towards innocent little kids I don’t know. But this constantly posed a challenge to how I could remain off the list of the unknowingly damned. It felt like I came close sometimes. I even felt like I was Number One. The insults he threw at me were harsh and biting. Calling me selfish, manipulative, worthless, a liar, all counterpunched with how much he loved his most special daughter, more than anyone else in the world ever will. It was constantly dismantling. Always confusing. I never for a second believed that I was worth a damn. And any anger I felt as a teen was directed away from him and turned inward at myself.
It’s hard to learn that you have lived three decades under the assumption about not just one person but an entire family, including yourself, that is 100% false. But it doesn’t seem that difficult to know why I never really got it. Though I was abused daily in one way or another, even if just by having to look at naked pictures of myself as a toddler framed on our walls, I was so brainwashed by both my father and my community as to what it means to have a good life and what real abuse looks like. And by the way - it doesn’t exist here. I could have at least garnered sympathy for the fights we had in high school, the words he used, the time he slapped me and choked me on my brother’s bed. But it was the underhanded incessant torment that laid the foundation for how he was able to control me and cause constant suffering, and that would have never been obvious enough for others to hear my case. I had everything. What did I have to complain about? In a place where showing emotion is a sign of weakness, emotional abuse goes unrecognized, and is that much easier to enact. The camera was the most damaging, subtle, and painfully imbedding tool my father was able to use in this case. It gave him insurmountable power. It produced images that are permanent, even if lost or destroyed, he made the gesture that a moment in time had been captured, frozen. He had control over what was seen and what was ignored, and he never had to be exposed himself. He remained the eternal voyeur, focusing all attention on his subjects whether or not it was invited. He asked the questions. Which already had answers. And it was all displayed in the halls of his expensive home or on the screens of his big TV for the rest of the family to see and be continuously reminded of who ruled the kingdom and who was the weakest subject. That camera was a weapon. And it assaulted me on a regular basis. Even as an adult I wasn’t able to escape the evidence it produced, whether accidentally brought to my attention by an act of good will on my brother’s behalf, or the intentional taunt of parading images nothing short of child-pornography in front of the entire family. My father is a sociopath. Plain and simple. I won’t accept a rebuttal. I can only keep sending the message.
I stopped watching the videos with everyone else after that night. I told myself it was because of how turned off I was by my parents’ marriage. And then wrote for a week about hating committed relationships. But what I felt in seeing that footage was deeper than anything that could just relate to a connection between two people outside of myself. I didn’t want to know what else was going to surface in those 10 seemingly unending DVDs. So I holed up in my bedroom hoping to find a little joy by watching my own collection. Of course disappointed about the countless missing gems of cinematic genius, I still was able to get a great deal of pleasure from seeing my always happy girlfriends strutting down the catwalk and performing the Sister Act 2 medley. Included was a really heartwarming bit of myself hanging out with my two best guy friends that offered a lot of insight into my relationships with men versus women as an adult. Thinking at the time that my dad was the closest connection I had in the family, as he’d always presented it, I went to talk to him about this, just needing to get it out. As I started up on “Because most of the videos with the girls are just us dancing around in costumes…” he looked at me and said “Yeah I know, I watched it, it’s not very interesting.” Not as bad as when he read all of my journals from high school after I had already started writing in a new one for college, even if I had had a hospital scare, leaving the pages marked and two long lists written both by him and my mother of dates specific to those entries and a bloodwork report folded inside before storing then returning them years later, this was yet another intrusive violation of my deepest privacy. And frankly something that he shouldn’t give a fuck about. The old perv. But just like being behind that camera and directing videos intent on making me feel small or diminished or humiliated, he took the time to either place ownership on my very personal memories by watching and critiquing, or by erasing them all together with shit that wasn’t even going to be used. So I’m sorry to say, ladies of NC, Supermodel Sue never survived. Neither did Katrina Kool or the brilliantly scripted Jive Turkey. One of you had a copy of the Mambo Number 5 video though, thank god for that. Please send it to me, because I’m pretty sure my dad taped over that one, too.
Though all of this should chill the reader to the bone, I still feel reservations about making direct claims of abuse. In a digital age where it’s normal to plaster images of our home lives all over Social Media I feel as though we’ve grown insensitive to how we document our children and share them with others. I know that most of what I’m seeing is meant as self- or child-congratulatory, but it still frightens me to think of the embarrassment it could likely bring to that kid as he or she gets older and realizes a picture or video of them is online and really not representational of what they’d want to be. Most parents, most humans, are not sociopaths. They’re not evil. They’re not motherfuckers who take joy out of hurting people. I simply urge us all to be careful with how we use our cameras. Exploiting children isn’t always intentional. And sometimes it starts with the purest of intentions. But images and videos are permanent. Privacy is valuable. And consent extends to all ages, and is even more important when someone doesn’t have the capacity to understand how to give it. That being said I saw a video on Facebook recently of a father playing with his 1-year-old daughter. It was only about 15 seconds long. He was teasing her. In the most obviously non-teasing way you could imagine. When she did exactly what he told her not to do he laughed and cheered and lovingly acknowledged that she won the game. Odds are she would have won the game whatever she had chosen to do. Because that man, someone I don’t even know, was a real father. I was overcome with emotion when I saw this, both sadness for my own history but more joy that these are the experiences that normal families have. It’s hard to assert that this baby will ever grow to be concerned that a record of how much she is loved has been seen by others. It’s so important to consider, a question we have to constantly ask ourselves, but I’m really not mad about finally getting my first healing glimpse at how real men relate to their daughters. Even if it was a total stranger, I felt a connection to family on Social Media that for once didn't freak me out.
The older I get and the more my friends start to have children it’s easier to understand that love exists. And that being set up in a game in order to lose from as far back as 2 years old is not how most people are raised. Our communities thrive when we set our children up to win. It’s the most basic right we can give to them - to feel like they deserve to be loved and to be who they are. To feel like this makes them capable of success in the first place. So please, go hug your kids today, tell them they're special, and yeah, you can even take a picture of their adorable smiling faces, say what a great one it is and brag to your friends. They’re your children. Love them. Take care of them. Let them know how valuable they are. They’re fucking kids. Give them everything. They goddam deserve it.
Readers will most certainly have noticed the lull in output on Elegant Hustler this month. This is not for lack of work or investment in the site. On the contrary, more content has been created in the past few weeks than at any time prior. But as foreshadowed in Hustler Rules about a month ago, the tone of this project has shifted a few degrees and left me struggling with how to present the upcoming essay.
Recently coming to terms with a history, rather an entire lifetime of parental abuse, has been both liberating and extremely hard work. There are multitudes of stories, insights, and personal anecdotes that not only heal me in expression, but heal others by finding someone with whom they can connect. The difficulty I’ve had in getting the ball rolling with my first story about a sociopathic father and complicit mother is that being a product of the community in which I was raised I am still conditioned to feel shame in what it means to call myself a victim. Rich, white, male dominated suburbs in the Northeast are run by rich white males. The women and children who express their suffering are either crazy, sluts, or troubled. I fell into all three of these categories growing up. I knew adult women, wives and mothers, usually divorcees, who fit the bill too. It seems like an obvious concept to overcome - that women must be silenced of their uprising against oppression or abuse so they are put down with oppressive and abusive labeling and brainwashing. However it fucking works. Not as effectively as anyone would hope. Though I know in my father’s case his only concern at every hospital visit was whether or not his secret was surfacing during therapy. How I was feeling, if I was in pain, never really came up. So maybe no one actually gives a shit if another teenager or mother of four commits suicide this year. Those guys are doing just fine.
However I’m not. I have been writing incessantly for the past three weeks. I’ve had a thorough game-plan worked out this whole time. But when I sit down to pull it all together my hands freeze. My heart skips. My shoulders feel just a little heavier. I’m stuck on the idea that in describing my abuse and sharing my life as a victim I am automatically put on dramatic female status. It’s not the story. It’s not the sharing. I'm good at that. It’s the fact that I am claiming it. And making an accusation. I worry that no one will really believe what I’m trying to say. For I grew up in a world, much like most of this fucking world let’s be honest, where when a woman decides to share that she has been abused, hurt, victimized, she has to fear that she’ll be called a liar. I know what total fucking bullshit this is. I know how backwards and wrong and terrible that makes us, our communities, the systems in which we keep trying to operate. Yet I can’t get my body to stop physically reacting to my plan to recount stories of my past giving damning evidence that I was raised in a house with two people who were soulless and daft enough to actually feel genuine hate towards one of their children and treat her accordingly. The misogynistic anti-female values embedded in every institutional fiber of my hometown are buried so deep inside of me that no matter how evolved and self-aware I am they continue to hold me back.
I’m expanding my Facebook community and starting to befriend more women who are brave enough to share their stories, their pain, and their struggles with the world. I see nothing but support and love given their way as a result. This should be a good enough start for me to finish piecing essay Number One together. Though my hands are shocked still and my stomach flips itself I have one driving force that is powerful enough to override my body’s resistance: the other survivors. We all need to know that we’re not alone. And that we’re not dramatic, or damaged, or Crazy. You can define the word Victim however you want, but you don’t ever have to deny it for yourself because someone is uncomfortable with your suffering. Just because some men don’t want to believe that women can be hurt, doesn’t mean that our pain isn’t real.
Please stay tuned for upcoming stories of a new nature. And of course I’m sure I’ll have to keep tossing in tales of Fake Doms and Megadicks to keep things upbeat. You know. All those Fake Doms. Or really just. Men.
Am I being too harsh on the dudes? Ladies, you tell me. There’s a rape-positive all male convention coming up in Chicago next week. A sociopathic predator who wants to pass legislation overwhelmingly restricting the control women have over our own bodies just won the Republican Caucus in Iowa. This morning I saw a public Facebook profile for a reverse-sexism group leader, claiming MEN are the ones being objectified, for EVERYTHING. Ok. Fine. Take off your clothes. Get in bed. Fuck me. Did you cum? Feel better? Bye.
Yeah. Men only feel objectified when they’re getting rejected for it. Women feel objectified when they’re in danger of being assaulted. Fuck this shit. I think I’m ready to write about my abusive father now.
Coming Soon: Home Videos: A Predator and His Weapon of Choice
We got this girls. Fuck we do.
Sometimes you meet a man and feel him before you know it. Not in your heart. Not really in your mind. Not in any profound or meaningful way that you can tell. Yet at just first glance his image sparks a certain fire that heats up your blood sending it rushing through your body pooling densely in just the right places and you’re sprung into stupefied action. I met a man like that last spring. I had no idea what was happening. It initially felt like hate. Such overwhelming magnetic hate that I had to point him out to my friends, make a snide judgment, then approach him unprovoked with the cheap insult. He hadn’t so much as looked at me prior, at least not to my knowledge. His appropriately bitchy response to my terribly bitchy challenge turned me on more. Though I’m not sure it was the attitude I was drawn to, it was more the tone of that powerful voice. His towering height, expressive face, his clean shaven and strong jaw which is so rare to come by these days - all of it was working without even my slightest knowledge. What I thought was an attraction to the psyche of a total fucking asshole was nothing but pure unbridled physical lust. He eventually sat down next to me, I’m sure by my uncharacteristically drunken state he felt more than invited, bought me a gin and ginger, and I rambled on like an idiot for the rest of our evening together hopping bars through Logan Square getting closer and closer to making it into my apartment, ass grabs and plenty of public groping not at all helping to uphold the claim I had made after last season that I was done with One Night Stands.
I didn’t sleep with him that night. By some otherworldly force of self-control all I gave up was a passionate makeout session and clumsy fondling between his legs in the cab, followed by another 20 minutes of semi-conscious typo-ridden texting. He was fun. I was into this guy. That close-up picture of a barely noticeable puncture wound on his thigh caused by a trip on the stairs came off as a really unsuccessful attempt at sending a Dickpic and I found myself, contrary to all moral objections, wishing he had been sober enough to hold his phone steady. What was going on? Since when do I want to see a dick? Get my hand on one?? Those things are for sucking and fucking, I know where I stand, I’m a woman of Principle. Being such a new and specific inconsistency I quickly brushed aside this unfounded penis appeal. Eagerly accepted an invitation for a drink the next evening. Pretended I didn’t fuck on first dates then waited for him to return from the bathroom posed in his room wearing nothing but a black lace bra and trixie. It was so lame. Was I suddenly 18 again? Was I even that insecure at 18? How could a mere man I didn’t even know make me so incredibly nervous? I’m a goddam pro! I’m a Scorpion Woman, aren’t I??
I must say, the fucking was pretty great. He didn’t bring any new acts to the show or inflict pain that was even close to what I’m accustomed to, he didn’t cause me any pain at all. What he brought to bed was himself. Frankly I was a little stunned at the level of pleasure I felt from sex that approached no extremes of my preferences as a true Sub. So while this was by far the most erotically I had reacted to a new lover, felt in more places in my body more intensely than in an entire history of dicks, licks, and finger tricks, all I could credit was his size and strength as the perfect form for power play and domination, just the way I like it. He’s tall. That’s it. His giant dick? I don’t care about dicks. Right? Why do I keep talking about his dick. It’s not like I want to see it. Or touch it. Or really acknowledge it. Maybe if it’s on my mind so much I can just bring it up in a negative way so that I’m still in control. Yeah. I don’t need that shit. His Dick, His Problem. Fuck that guy. Fuck that guy and his big beautiful dick. Did I say dick again? Is he here? Do I get to see it? FUCK!
Why did I not get it? Why didn’t I understand how attracted I was to this man? Is it because after growing warm to the looks of my ex after three months of friendship and the slap heard ‘round the world that sparked a long run of rough and wild sex I thought I had a thing for tattoos and facial hair? I didn’t. I don’t. I never have. Come on, I’ve never seen a man on the street and thought Oh damn let me see what’s under that black t-shirt and dirty jeans. Maybe I can get my hands up on his whiskey gut, run my fingers through that smelly beard. Fuck no. I loved my ex boyfriend. When I love someone he could wear cargo shorts, drive a Subaru, and walk around in Merrill Jungle Mocs and I’d still want to fuck him 3 times a day. Types are thrown out the window once you feel feelings. But lust. Physical Lust. That comes from a different place. This tall motherfucker. He was a sexual fantasy.
I never thought I had a type. Most who know me would raise quite the eyebrow to that statement. All those preppies in Lincoln Park for years and years, Caroline??? Your favorite game of Novelty Fucks??? Yes yes of course, the Lincoln Park Years. I had a thing. But everyone has a Thing at some point. I don’t know if I was suddenly nostalgic for the high school boys I never liked, trying to conquer them, conquer my dad, or if as I claimed all along the sex always delivered, was constantly available, and I never had to face the burden of cutting an unwanted string. I killed in Lincoln Park. Murdered ass on a regular basis. With my short blonde bob, red lips, tattoos, and daring black wardrobe I was a novelty fuck too. We all got what we wanted, until I got better at sex and they stabilized. Back to your Basic Bitches, Bros. This Lady’s got bigger dicks to fry. Thanks for the facials. All of you. You’re all like, really into cumming on a lady’s face. Good luck on that one with the next chick you meet at Stanley’s. Godspeed.
I hesitate to call a man in a buttoned up checkered shirt, fleece vest, khaki chinos, and boat shoes an image that could really have the power to get me hard though. If so it’s purely psychological. It’s about the symbolism, the history, or the potential future fucks. I never felt like I was objectifying those men for being pretty, really they all looked quite ridiculous, I sought them out as being such easily identifiable targets of exactly what I was looking for sexually. Simple to provoke into the perfect night of aggressive fucking and no expectations. Really the only way that I objectified anyone was in reading how they were going to objectify me. And though I did have an instantaneous reaction to the very sight of these men, the appeal was in the implications of that wardrobe, I’m not sure I remember what anyone actually looked like. It's not uncommon to typecast our attraction this way, falling victim to Image Lust more than the person underneath all that prepping. We tend to define a good physical impression by how we present ourselves stylistically instead of our real live humanness. I more often hear women comment on a man’s look than his actual looks. But attractiveness isn’t about a costume or a haircut. It’s bone structure and body shape. Eyes, nose, lips, teeth, and voice. Mannerisms, movement, and intonation. It’s physicality in form and at work. And it's different in each of us, including our fantasies.
He had it. He had it all. What was so dumbfounding is that it was nothing like anyone I’d ever been with. I thought I was supposed to like that dark and dirty burly man with the piercing eyes and black hair, some kind of broodiness with a sweet edge. Generically handsome. Undeniably handsome. Men that would impress my mom and my sister. Fuck those bitches. I found what I wanted. How did I not immediately know that he was exactly what I wanted. That he is a tall smoking hot sexyass motherfucker. Because he doesn’t look like John Hamm? No. You know who he was? He was the perfect mix of Jeff Goldblum and Jemaine from Flight of the Concords. And THAT is what I’m into. Those motherfuckers. Staring at the TV hoping this scene will last and last. Yes keep talking, keep fucking talking about whatever the fuck you’re talking about just don’t move out of the shot. We all know that Flight of the Concords got really annoying there at the end. But I watched it every week anyway to stare at that idiot’s face. Think about kissing that big mouth, maybe sitting on it for a little bit. His stupid glasses and his big sideburns. That dirty goddam adorable face. Don’t even get me started on Jurassic Park and Independence Day. Young girls really know what they like. By the time Life Aquatic rolled around I was even kind of willing to find animal abuse hilarious because of the beautiful man striking that poor three-legged dog. Fuck. Why was I so unwilling to admit that I had found an off-screen version of my dream guy? What was so hard about acknowledging that I finally saw someone I had to have and it wasn’t only because he was over 6 feet? Did I know what I’d also have to acknowledge as a result? I probably did. And I just wasn’t prepared.
I’m used to being the pretty one, ok? And I’m outspoken about the worldly power all women have as sexual objects. That we need to embrace this and use it to our advantage. That men are made fools in the presence of the female form. But I can’t have it both ways. I became socially incompetent around this guy. I didn’t know how to talk to him. We’d get together and words, sentences, thoughts, wouldn’t even form in my head nonetheless come out coherently enough to contribute to a conversation. Frustrated and confused I spent hours and hours writing about the matter trying to understand what the fucking problem was. I decided that he was brilliant. And that I was intimidated. Because in my masked misogyny I was more comfortable with a man having intellectual superiority, making me nervous, kind of shy, and resting assured in the fact that I’d still be able to maintain control simply by being sexually desirable. Because sex wins. Beauty wins. Lust conquers all. And I was still on top because of my badass female lady of the universe self that just wanted the dick you're not allowed to judge me fuck your male bullshit take off your clothes. Not only am I ravenous and I need to be respected for it but you still don't matter, thing that I am so desperate for. In reality the man just wasn’t putting out. Not one bit. It was all I was after, and he said whether or not I was going to get it. Who actually has the power in that dynamic?? Who was the one incapacitated by her own lechery? For the entire relationship after he ended up being not so brilliant I positioned and tried to manipulate, punishing him for expectations I never cared about, accusing him of Male Positioning, spitting insults and righteous feminist hate on his ass. Instead of telling him how much I thought about that perfect dick I mentioned he may have a complex about it. My complex. Being a slave to his cock and not being able to get a taste. What I did, how I felt, was complete double standard Insecure Alpha Female bullshit. And alas. We fucked 4 times. In 6 months. And I’ll never see his sexy ass again.
I firmly believe in the power of the object. I’ve built an erotic life on exploiting my image and getting fucked every which way as a result. But I was born with a great rack and a pretty face. And really, most men disgust me. It’s easy to balance the scale in my favor. Coming off of a relationship that was based so deeply in love and connection before all else I was not in any way prepared to be confronted with feeling this level of intense physical enchantment. Such overpowering attraction that I was angry about it. That man didn’t deserve what I did to him. But then again - he could have sucked it up and just fucked me. I mean. We weren’t going to date. Could you have just gotten your big perfect body naked and gone down on me with that gorgeous face and then taken me with all that power and then held me in bed while I touch your soft hair for a little bit? I’ll give you some of that mind-blowing head in between sessions. Or like, on a Tuesday afternoon. I may have unfairly compartmentalized him as disposable object instead of so valuable as to keep me from functioning like an adult, but it’s just sex. Doesn’t everyone just want sex? I’ve still got these tits and these eyes and lips. No? Guess it’s just me. Just a horny old perv lusting over the presence of a man so turned on I don’t know how to answer "How was your day?" Something in the Universe had shifted and we all got what we deserved last summer. A view of the other side. And maybe a lesson in goddam compassion.
I hope he’s doing alright now. And getting his fuck on well and often. Because that motherfucker was horny as hell too. The power struggle gets us all. Best to stop thinking about who holds what and just start banging. We all deserve to fuck and get fucked. When you see a beautiful face - go after it. And say something. Because they deserve to hear it. We all deserve to know how beautiful we are. I’m a bitch. A dumb hot bitch. My tits can’t make up for that. So I’m going to go watch The Fly now and think about myself. Think about how I treat men and how I’m going to do it better next time. What I need to start acknowledging and appreciating instead of expecting everyone to acknowledge and appreciate me. What I’ll try to give instead of constantly needing to take. I’ll think about all that vital shit a self-proclaimed sexually empowered woman is supposed to have figured out already. And you know also. Most definitely. Think about sitting on Jeff Goldblum’s face.