That is the least sexy thing you could say to me. Nothing about you is sexy when you are the reason I am awake—you are basically an iPhone alarm with a pulse. And I don’t want to fuck my iPhone. At least not at seven a.m.
But I get mine. For a while I had a fling with a guy who was so good-looking I think he was as confused by his interest in me as I was. The physical stuff was always great, but his perpetual expression was one of profound confusion. He obsessed over my body, but it seemed like it was because he was trying to locate the homing device that was scrambling his brain. I felt like saying, “I know, buddy, I don’t get it, either. But . . . for now let’s get you back to work!”
Something amazing happened to me when I hit my mid-twenties. I don’t know how it happened—I didn’t even notice it at first—but I stopped liking guys who didn’t like me back. In fact, I stopped liking guys who were bad people. I wish I could impart some concrete advice about how to achieve this, because I have to tell you, it’s incredible.
When I first realized this was happening I didn’t want to mention it to anyone. I didn’t even want to fully acknowledge it to myself. I thought I might jinx it or scare it away. How many times have I thought, Wow, I guess I’m just at that point in my life where healthy foods are more appealing, only to end up facedown in a plate of melted cheese and maple syrup.
I thought I was destined to fall for assholes forever. Misanthropic and fifteen years my senior? Sign me up! Makes misogynistic jokes but thinks I’m “feisty” for calling him on it? It’s love! I’m still not certain I’m out of the woods—you never know where life will take you until you’re awake at four a.m. dissecting text messages from a guy named Jordan who has a The Wolf of Wall Street poster in his bedroom.
But I think I might be done finding shallow and sad people attractive. It’s paradise. Pretty in Pink was wrong; you can fall in love with Duckie.
A couple of years ago, I brought my boyfriend to a friend’s weekly Game of Thrones viewing party. As the episode began and we all settled into our seats, two of the male attendees started whispering to each other.
“Oh my god, dude, you know who’s on this show now? Diana Rigg. Wait ’til you see her.” They seemed positively gleeful. These two grown men were giggling like bitchy cheerleaders at the fact that a woman who was once a sex symbol had the audacity to turn seventy-five and (gasp!) be on TV!! I reeled from witnessing this exchange, and as I prepared to ask just what the hell that was supposed to mean, my boyfriend chimed in.
“Oh, Diana Rigg, man! She’s been on the last few episodes; she’s brilliant in this, right?” My sweet boyfriend didn’t even notice when the two men shot each other smug “That’s not what we meant, buddy” glances.
When we left I told him, “You realize what you’ve done, right? You just expressed that it’s possible for a woman you don’t find sexually attractive to have value. I think those guys might think less of you now.”
“Really? I hate those guys. So that would be great.”
? ? ?
I’ve still got stuff to work on. If a guy can convince me he has the answers or a better plan than me, I will follow him anywhere. I’ve fallen for it more than once. It’s not easy to pull off, because I happen to think most people are idiots, but if you can do it, I’m in trouble.
I would follow a confident woman just as blindly. However, in my experience, women are less comfortable pretending to know what they’re doing when they don’t.
I’ve been on the other side of it, too. I’ve met the guy who is young and talented and wise beyond his years and still looks to me for advice. What an ego trip that is. It took an older man saying point-blank “I like giving you advice” for me to realize that yes, that’s the bit you like. Not being helpful to me, but the sound of your authority reverberating in the ears of a younger woman.
It’s not that deep down I want someone to “take care of me,” it’s that I’m exhausted, and occasionally overwhelmed by self-doubt. I’m steering the ship, but I don’t know what I’m doing. None of us do. But it would be so nice to believe that someone out there did, and that maybe they could take the wheel for a little while.
It’s a seductive feeling. It would be great if it were real. But I guess I’ve got to count on myself. Which is not great news.
* * *
I. Some dudes like to say that men have the instinct to spread their seed, while women are supposed to protect their reproductive organs from everything but the best sperm for the strongest potential offspring. By that logic every woman in the world should be saving herself for Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson and never let any of you shitheads touch her. Seriously, you guys should stop using that argument.
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