When I was in high school sprinting left and right, trick stick handling and whacking that ball during field hockey practice my coach Maria used to yell, “You got it Scary Wayne!” Jogging to the sidelines I’d get a high five and an encouraging “Great play Scary, keep it up.” Though I’ve since ditched the muscles, aggressive stance and competitive glare I’ve made up for this fear-striking posture in my stylistic presentation as an adult woman. Head-to-toe hard femme black clothing with matching midnight hair, boots so stacked that a lady of five foot three could tower at 5’10” if I so choose, a ghost white face with bright red lips courtesy of Nars’ Dragon Girl semi-matte pencil, and the never-concealable no-it’s-not-my-sign Black Scorpion Tattoo sprawled over the top of my hand. I’m a scary fucking female. I get it guys, I get that I look like I’ll eat you up after we have sex in order to harvest enough nutrients for my little unborn hatchlings. That my sting might zap and paralyze you after you’ve just laid down your head, your body limp and relaxed after a mind-blowing orgasm when you’d otherwise be in for a nice quiet session of some comfortable cuddling. I know what I look like. I know the message I’m sending. I don’t Hashtag Scorpionwoman because I saw a cool bug in a shadowbox on Etsy. But do I care? Aren’t you supposed to take your dick out too? I’m sitting there on that barstool with no other men around, don’t you think you could maybe try making a move? Is the inevitable forthcoming rejection written on my face? Do I really just look like a cold-hearted Bitch?
I’ve looked basically the same my entire adult life, and it wasn’t always like this. So my hair has seen many shapes and colors. My tattoos took time to build up. But my wardrobe never veered far from that dark icy minimalism that usually has men asking if I’m from New York. Dragon Girl has always remained a staple, I buy it in packs. My shoes – come on. So what is it about my current state of mind that has me trapped in this Vibe that keeps men at a distance? Upon much discussion with a friend we decided first and foremost that I needed a new vibrator. Get myself off. Wake myself up. Activate! Well goddam am I activated now after our field trip to Early To Bed and most necessary purchase of the year. More than thinking and writing about and analyzing sex I just can’t stop fantasizing. I’m physically ready, I’m primed. I want the dick. I want those invisible dicks I welcome them. I may actually want to see one up close. Gentleman, show me your dicks. What are you afraid of. Come on, just show me the goods!
I’m not putting men off because I’m confident. Or strong. Or that in reality yeah sorry your dicks are still invisible. It’s because I’m mad at them before we even make contact. I may even be so mad that I’m a little scared. There’s a difference between being angry at a man and thinking he’s stupid. I say often that I can’t take most men seriously. Growing up in a boys’ locker room while we all confronted puberty together brought me face to face with the true ridiculousness of the male psyche. They were my best friends, my companions, my confidants, all the while never having the ability to come even close to the power I held over each and every one as the exotic tit-sprouting hair-brushing fast-talking creature that I was – the Female. I may not really be able to take men seriously but I love most things about them, find inherent male behavior endearing and prefer to have as many in my life as possible. My closest bonds have been with men, perhaps because of the way I learned to interact socially as a young girl. So this feeling of anger is new. I’m not actually mad at the lingering looks, the catcallers, the sidewalk bikers (no I am actually really mad at those guys, bikes are for the fucking street, we have lanes painted on them just for you, asshole) I’m really mad at a couple specific men who may or may not have really fucked me over. I’m mad at my ex boyfriend for waiting a year and a half to get back together with me, hanging out weekdays but not weekends, keeping our relationship on hold until the time would be just right, then two months later breaking it off in a text message three days before I was supposed to spend Christmas with his family. I’m mad at him for ending up with someone so far beyond stupid and incompetent and below my level of operating that I can’t even comprehend how he could go from having conversations with me to learning a completely new language in order to communicate with her. I am so mad at him for gazing at me when we tried to meet for coffee as friends, gazing like a pathetic little puppy then later telling me we can’t do the friends thing because we’re still connected. And for trying to help me via email with the other big tall motherfucker who I’m really mad at for being totally insane and yelling hurtful sadistic unfair shit at me when I’m just trying to get a piece of ass.
Maybe I’m mad at myself. Sweet Sixteen lost his shit because I didn’t just tell him I only wanted his dick but I told him his dick was a problem and more damaged than his dick was his own mind and probably soul. Ray waited a year and a half to try dating me again because I continued to batter him with accusations then give him nothing of myself as consolation. While I’m the one who left him initially in a sudden, shocking, batshit crazy move out of nowhere. You know - right when things started to get really close and resemble intimacy. I never left him alone after that shitty fucking text break up last December. Even when he started dating someone new. Even when I was fully aware that she may not be that smart but she can treat him the way I never could. With a little care and affection, a little love and kindness. Like a real girlfriend should. Like a real fucking woman. Am I angry at myself as a woman? Instead of hating men I hate my lack of femininity? What does it mean to be feminine? Does it mean wiping that Bitch Look off my face and appearing as though I’d give a mean backrub and jerk you off ‘til the sun comes up? That I know how to hold hands and I’ll do just that while telling you how impressive it is that you do what you do for a living and look how you look after all that working out or running or eating meat or shopping all by yourself or neglecting to shave your fucking face?
So there I am sitting on that barstool chatting with Minette and during each of her bathroom breaks I scan the room just daring someone to do the right thing. What are they really seeing on my face? It’s not a dare. And right now it’s not confidence, maybe not even power. It’s fear. It’s the fear of my own sharp stinger striking the heart of the next available suitor. It’s the guilt and self-loathing knowing that this fate seems inevitable. I’m left with a look of self-consciousness and insecurity that if we start up a conversation I’ll be the one to freeze in paralysis, afraid of my own hurtful Scorpion Tongue. Of course a man doesn’t read why or for what reasons a woman may be feeling a little too aware of herself when she’s sitting there exposed in a public space. He can just see that something is off. Her energy is not right. Her expression seems worried, contemplative, a little frightened. It is my understanding that the men I’m looking for see the black wardrobe, high cheekbones and red lips, deceptively tall platforms, power tattoo, and knowing they are automatically starting in second position are drawn to the aura of the Alpha Female expecting to find nothing less than extraordinary. But none of this is possible when the face doesn’t match the aesthetics. When the vibe is that of weakness instead of strength. If I were put together like a normal girl I'd come off vulnerable, be a sitting duck for predators, that low hanging fruit for easy pickin's. However I just look cold, detached, and untouchable. The Bitch Face shuts me off from the rest of the world. I’m both protected and isolated, and in a room packed with men looking to fuck or meet or just talk to someone, I am totally alone.
What the hell can I do to get my face back to its natural state? Forgive the men I’m mad at? Forgive myself for provoking them into deserving my anger? Apologize publicly? Ok: I’m sorry Ray, I’m sorry Sixteen. I didn’t mess with you intentionally. It’s hard being the boss. Especially when you’re trying to make your man the bigger boss and he just won’t do it. He just won’t push off your power. So I’m sorry guys. I know we can’t fix our own shit but I’ll try better with the next one. I’ll try to watch my mouth. I’ll try to see a dick. I’ll try to keep that stinger at bay and let him live, breathe, relax, rest there comfortably maybe as I get comfortable too and let a warm fresh happy vibe wash over my face. The Anti-Bitch Face. The Scorpion Who Has Already Eaten So You’re Fine Face. Control is only possible when it’s backed by confidence. I may ask a question to all my ladies commenting on each other’s posts about their cursed Bitch Faces. Do you guys want to have a dance party in my apartment and take a bunch of Titpics of ourselves so we can remember how awesome we are? I think that might help. If we could turn back into Killer Queens rather than Worried Bitches we may be able to solve a lot of our social problems. Maybe then those empty fucking barstools right next to us will fill up no problem. No one will have to know what we’ve done. We just have to know that we’re going to do better. But like, if he does something stupid I’m still biting his fucking dick off. Is that bad? Just me? Still Scary Wayne? I'm cool with that. I've got the boots to match.