Friday, May 3, 2013

Welcome to 1962!

So I've decided I want to take more of an involvement in this blog. Mainly I want to use it as a creative outlet, but I also don't want to pass on the delightful potential for bitching, so I'll use it for that, too. As I currently have no subscribers, I have no obligations to anyone but myself, and as a result will be saying "fuck" with an almost religious fervor.

I titled today's post due to an event I recently endured, one that is so stupid that it almost defied belief. We are talking 1980s After School Special levels of villainy. And irritation. Let me preface this tale of warning with some history: I am currently thirty-five, almost thirty-six, and single. As I would like to get laid sometime this decade (and am trying to do so after finally confronting and defeating the specter of childhood sexual abuse) I am ready to find my man and no longer date a series of sociopathic man-babies looking for a teat to nurse on, and God help you if it's not as naturally buoyant as silicone. Barring that I'd like to find someone to play slap and tickle with.

So I'm tentatively on a few dating sites, figuratively putting my feet in the water, and I meet a a very attractive guy who seems like a lot of fun. He's not really boyfriend material, but that's okay because he was upfront about not wanting to date anyone exclusively. We were attracted to each other, and got into a few instances of playing kissy-face-ass-grab. I was enjoying myself. We were both upfront about wanting to go to bed together, and it was headed that way, I just wanted to get more comfortable with him before I decided to ride that pony home. I made that clear to him on our first date (and through a series of text messages), and it seemed like we were on the same page. Sex was inevitable, we just had to fit it to my time table.

I know how it looks by saying "my timetable", but there's a reason for that. Letting a person physically into your body is frightening. I'm glad that he was ready to go for it, but I straight up was not, and he was not going to get on top of me while we were both naked until I was absolutely comfortable with it. So my previous statement stands; we're working sexually on my time table.

But apparently The Boy decided that pressure and shame were his two greatest weapons in the War to Breach My Vagina. We were talking on Saturday night, when he announces that we're to bone that Thursday. I told him no we were not, for a variety of reasons, starting with the fact that I did not want to bone on that up-coming date. I told him it that 1: I was not yet comfortable enough with him to do that. 2: I deeply hate being pressured, 3: I was working that night, and 4: I was on my period. I know some people enjoy period sex but I am not one of them. I am fucking angry when I menstruate, and I tend to be in a lot of physical discomfort. This is not a justification of my saying no, however. The fact that I said "no" was grounds enough for him to decamp and attempt new negotiations as this peace treaty had caught fire before it had even been penned.

Instead this brilliant man who is a lead role in a field of engineering texted me saying "I'm starting to think you're just a fucking tease!"

After two dates.

I'm not going to lie, I went nuclear in my head. My blood pressure must have spiked in a big way because my face turned bright red, and I was so angry I was sweating. I am not a naturally sweaty person-- my bangs might get damp on hot days, and I develop swamp tits but that's the peril of wearing a bra more than my own natural moistening tendencies. I had sweat running from the creases of my knees and elbows my body temperature climbed so high, so fast. To my own credit I did not blast him with every foul word I could think of (and after a life time of studying that is not a small list). Instead I calmly explained my position, but with the caveat that if he didn't like it he was free to walk away. He then delivered the Half-Assed Apology, and I detached because I know myself well enough now to get that temporary distance is a necessity when I have a shock that feels like it blew the top of my skull off.

And the more I thought about it, the angrier I got. Not the flash-burn Insta-Rage that flares immediately and then burns out almost as quickly. Instead it was the slow-growing, ever-rising anger that takes its strength from cold fury instead of burning wrath. And the same question kept occurring and re-occurring: who in fuck does this guy think he is?

How completely self-centered and fundamentally broken do you have to be for an approach like shaming someone into screwing you not only seems like a good idea, but an avenue worth exploring in its entirety? How dissociated do you have to be from your partner to want to have sex in such a degraded fashion? How incapable of empathy do you have to be to still be able to get an erection at the thought of cowing someone with societal pressure into spreading his or her legs for you?

"Pretty fucking." is the only answer I've been able to come up with.

Do you see why I compared this to an after school special earlier in this writing? Seriously, all this needs is me in a big bangs and a bulky sweater and him as the sociopath foot ball star for this to be some kind of "WARNINGS AGAINST RUNNING WITH THE FAST CROWD!!" piece of Hallmark channel hysteria.

But what upsets me the most in this entire event is what my two friends Cindy and Lauren pointed out to me: he's used this before, and he tried it on me because it worked. He successfully shamed some poor woman or women into putting out before they were ready by implying that she had somehow promised something simply by dating him. That dog will not hunt, monseigneur. Not on these grounds. I just thank God that I am comfortable enough in my own skin that I knew to say no and point out how shitty it is to try and pressure someone into something they don't want or aren't ready for.

I haven't told him to go fuck himself, but we haven't talked since the Half-Assed Apology, and it's been almost two weeks, so I'm not really holding my breath that he'll have the sac to contact me again. If he does then all attempts at calm, reasoned explanations are going to get chucked right out the damn window, and I'm going to light into him with a righteous fury that will have him cursing my name for years to come.  

Plus I totally have pictures of his penis.

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