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.
Meet and Greet
Get to know who and what and how I'm fucking.