Sometimes you don't ever really know the person you're dating until you break up. In my case last summer it took about a week of unsatisfactory hang outs, obsessive back and forth texting, a single great fuck after which one tall faux-feminist motherfucker waved goodbye while telling me I was both not competent enough for him and the most attractive person who existed and No - let's get real it took the whole fucking disaster of a full season squeezing that lemon only to get but 4 drops for me to realize that I was dating a man with the emotional thermometer of a Sixteen-Year-Old Girl. (You do have to love those Male Feminists though. They almost get it right almost every time. And then their sad chauvinistic mommy issues surface and you realize when a guy doesn't need to overcompensate for a small penis he'll find something else to blow way out of proportion.)
Sweet Sixteen and I didn't have much chemistry. We figured that out early on. And instead of finding the correct person to blame for it as we both tried to do during this conquest sometimes you just have to accept that people don't always click. Intellectually. No matter how smart they both are. Or think they are. Or were educated to be. This can be confusing for some when the sexual chemistry works. When it's actually pretty hot. When a woman who never cums almost cums or a man tells you he thought he hallucinated when you gave him head. You're supposed to get along when that stuff happens right? Most people think so, though I may be in a category of detachment that's way out on the spectrum because I tend to not mix sex and personal connection. I’ve had wonderful sexual chemistry with men while not being able to stand in the same room fully clothed for more than 10 minutes. (Cue Ida Maria's - I like You So Much Better When You're Naked). Really these have been my longest lasting relationships. It’s a great way to simplify things. Everyone’s needs are being met because really – there’s only one need on the table. What took me so long to grasp was that this tall motherfucker had a secondary need that started to take precedence and really cut into all of the time I could have spent getting laid.
Neither one of us was seeking a traditional relationship. But we knew we sucked socially! I thought that straight up fucking was agreed upon! Unfortunately I met a man who could not deal with what late night status said about him. Because when you are not a fully formed adult you may not understand that being a Fuckbuddy doesn’t actually say anything about who you are as a person, it says something about the chemistry between you and another person, which passes no value judgment on your own self individually or out in the real world. So he roped me into earlier nights with engagements in public spaces - parties, bars, etc. I refused to give him anything of myself or ask anything of him. I didn't care. We sucked together. He couldn't handle it. He got frustrated and angry, berating me and spitting harsh insults from table, to car, to front fucking door. His need for validation overpowered any logical connection the two of us had a capacity for. All I wanted was that goddam sex dude. This man was 6'4", the sheer power he had over me physically was irresistible. If coerced well enough I could tap into some seriously satisfying domination. I Just. Wanted. To Fuck. But after repeated blow outs over my disengagement followed by beautifully thought out attempts at rekindling it began to feel more like I was dating that troubled teen who more than feeding a sexual curiosity or romantic conquest just needed a little goddam recognition. She was tired of being looked over. Maybe because she never had been. Maybe because she had worked so hard to earn all that praise for being so damn special. Everyone knows Sweet Sixteen is the prettiest, smartest, most accomplished chick in the 11th grade. All the boys want to take her to Homecoming and NOT because she puts out, no. But because she’s got it going on. All AP classes and captain of the volleyball team. National Honors Society. Coalition. Editor of the Yearbook. Plus that golden blonde hair and perfect bangs. Ooooweee. Who would even think of disrespecting such a Grade A Babe. That stylist fucked her over. She did. She must have been jealous because after all that preseason training Sixteen is skinnier than her. It was a sabotage. A Bang Sabotage! Everyone is out to get her now. There’s no way this motherfucker who isn’t even interested in getting to know her is going to get a piece!
You know when that happens, right? When a girl or even the occasional adult woman gets her bangs trimmed and maybe though usually not in reality they are a touch too short? The emotional instability skyrockets and you are dealing with an irrational hot-blooded ticking time bomb that needs to be handled with pure tenderness and understanding. All she can think about all day is how much her life has just changed with this shitty fucking bang trim. She looks totally different, everyone can tell. Can you tell? Are they too short? You'd tell me if they were right? Be honest. No no no girl they look great. They’re perfect. You look beautiful. In fact you look EXACTLY THE SAME. But I felt like that oblivious boyfriend who just didn't get it. And with every flash of ambivalence I'd unwittingly be critiquing those baby bangs, (which were probably uneven too), and I'd have to pay for being such an inconsiderate dick. Sweet Sixteen can’t hold onto positive affirmation for longer than a couple hours. Maybe even 30 minutes. When I tell her “I can tell you’re an interesting person. It’s because of this that I want to fuck.” If I give any hint at any given time that maybe I’m not actually interested in her mind, maybe all she is is a good lay, the insecurity comes flooding back. With a hacked signature look she must not be as powerful as she normally is. It’s not that her looks are her identity, you know she’s not vain, right? She’s no narcissist. She cares about ethics and brains, you have to know that, you do. So stop being such an asshole and judging her bangs, why are YOU so vapid? What’s YOUR damage??
I hate to throw Mommy Issues on men being that my Daddy Issues are such a powerful force in my own dating life but really because of this it’s the only type of damage that I attract. Sweet Sixteen should be a case study for adult men living their emotional lives driven by deep seeded fucked up relationships they had with their mothers. It was so easy to manipulate him by playing mean mommy (only messing up when I became horny older boyfriend) I almost didn’t know I was doing it. We had a formula. He would act out against my dismissiveness of his value and need for just sex, I would then send long emasculating lectures in which I obliterated his self-image as a feminist thinker and fully formed datable man, perhaps Dick Shaming while simultaneously objectifying him as a human dildo, and on schedule every time after about 3 weeks I’d receive a beautifully thoughtful text of a picture related to one of our experiences together that had to do with my personal interests. (Say a Prince Tshirt on Ebay that mimicked a totally unrelated poster I have on my wall, a Solomon Burke record in a jukebox titled Got to Get You Off My Mind, Burke being the artist I put on the first time we made out in my apartment, etc.) It was the kind of dedicated romance you’d expect from a teenage girl, personal and loyal to what I had given him, as opposed to sending new information about what he could improve to make up for any wrongdoing, as you see in most men who have been shamed into the doghouse. I was both a disappointed mother that he wanted to please and that smooth older boyfriend that she thought might actually want to hear about how hard she had studied for her last French exam and that Stephanie didn't study at all but still got a better grade and it’s probably because her mom went to boarding school with Mrs. Borgeois and Sixteen's parents grew up working class so they didn't get to go to boarding school and have class privilege and late stage capitalism is fucking us all which is why we should elect Bernie Sanders over that sexist hypocrite Hilary Clinton. PS Gentrification WHAT. Yeah I didn't care. I'll read it later on your Facebook profile. Just like, take off your clothes. Your bangs look beautiful. More beautiful than they're ever looked. You're a great artist, and like, really smart. Can you slap me and choke me out a little now? It's getting late.
From start to finish I was in contact with Sweet Sixteen for about 6 months. We had sex 4 times. 4 TIMES. I take a lot of responsibility for pushing his buttons and maybe really hurting his feelings. I’m a bully and frankly it seemed to be the only thing that worked. When I put him down after an irrational outburst he took a couple weeks to think, came back desperate for validation and then I’d maybe get a session out of it. But holy fucking shit did I work my ass off to coax it out of him. That’s the thing with those fiery teenage girls. They’re blood is pumping with hormones. You never know how they’re going to react to even the slightest provocation, whether kind or cruel. You may be wondering why I wasted so much time with him for such little gain. There are two main reasons, because really just saying the sex was good is meaningless – good sex is easy to find. The first, which I don’t think is uncommon, is that I tend to hold onto men until a new one comes along. No matter how terrible he is it’s nice to have a focus. Second – the more I realized what an idiot he was the more I kind of liked him. Every time I’d receive a snippy postured retort or read a horribly juvenile Facebook post I’d be overwhelmed with a protective warmth that I don’t know I’ve ever felt for anyone before. In our text exchanges that jumped from hostile explosions to my quick disarming of his misled anger I felt a tenderness that I never got to experience throughout my long history of a dating strong confident Alpha Males or at least really good fakers. I just wanted to lie on his chest, put my finger to his lips and say “Shhhh baby everything’s ok. Relax, you’re fine, everybody likes you. I like you. You're good enough. And smart enough. And goddam Special. And please don’t worry about a thing - your bangs look fucking perfect.”