by Cazzie David
I guess after the miracle that is birth control pills and IUDs, men became accustomed to idyllic raw sex, so the idea of wearing a condom became unthinkable, like going back to coach after experiencing first class. It’s gotten to a point where I feel like birth control pills aren’t even used to prevent birth anymore, just to prevent condoms. You’d think condoms cause actual pain from the reputation they have, but the reality is, they’re not that bad; they just, as one guy explained to me, “reduce the sensation.” God forbid the sensation is reduced! I honestly feel good about taking a daily pill that screws with my hormones and messing up the natural order of my body so men can have more sensational sex with me.
It turned out that being single was less having guys wrapped around my finger and being fun and independent and more feeling a destructive combination of disgust and shame. When I told my friend that I had come to the conclusion that sleeping with people doesn’t actually make you feel better, she let out a condescending laugh.
“Wait, obviously everyone knows that . . . you didn’t know that?”
You would think your friends would tell you something of such great import to save you from such deep regret, but another thing I learned during this time was that friends thoroughly enjoy when another friend does something stupid, because it’s fun to hear about their ill will and also makes them feel better about their own past mistakes.
Anytime I hooked up with someone, I’d feel fine about it for the next eleven hours, like an I’m-cool-I-do-what-I-want feminist badass. The possibility that I didn’t feel so cool about it would creep into my mind right as I was trying to fall asleep the following night, but because I’d still be on a high from the rush of it all, the onset of shame was easy to demolish. I’d think, No, fuck it. It’s fun. I don’t give a shit, and fade away into the night with that as my last thought. But as soon as the sun rose the next morning, so too would the irrepressible mindset that everything that had happened was, in fact, disgusting and/or humiliating. The second I’d open my eyes, I’d get winded by the overpowering force of psychological mortification that came in the form of flashes, both auditory and visual.
Flashes, also known as the prelude to shame spirals, can be triggered by just about anything and can best be described as the distant, sexualized cousin of PTSD. Auditory flashbacks, specifically, usually are derived from a word that made you cringe, like them saying Sexy in a way that was very unsexy. Flashes can last for weeks and can appear whenever: when you’re in the middle of lunch with friends, exercising, reading in the quietude of your home. They are impossible to control and difficult to make disappear. I had to repeatedly hit myself in the face with the book I was reading to eliminate one such flash that got more distorted by the second, like it was on a projection in a fun house.
One of the reasons being in a relationship was so easy on my psyche was because nothing about having a boyfriend was embarrassing. There was no overthinking anything I said or did, because once people decide they like you, they’re in. They then stay in for all of life’s unavoidable humiliations, like your mom yelling at you, mispronouncing a word, or your cat pulling your tampon out of the trash and playing with it like it’s a mouse. But before someone is your boyfriend or girlfriend, everything is fucking embarrassing. The scale can be tipped in any direction at the drop of a hat. Like, you can literally drop your hat and be embarrassed by how it happened, about how you picked up the hat, et cetera. Anyone can suddenly become unfuckable from just about anything.
Dating is by far the most challenging activity for a person who is inherently hyper-ashamed about everything already, but I keep doing it regardless, as I seem to have the sex drive of a teenage boy and am incapable of surviving the day without male approval. I’ll get shame spirals from the most benign of circumstances, like realizing a guy and I had the same conversation on both of our two encounters. The simple act of going to dinner can incite flashes because there’s “trying” involved. I’ll shudder at visions of the two of us sitting at the table trying to outdo each other’s witticisms. You can only imagine how long it took me to get over an instance when a guy who I was obsessed with was driving me home from a date and put his hand out, presumably for me to hold. I went to hold it, despite my disbelief that this boy would want to hold my hand, and a second later when he realized our hands were entwined he said, “Oh no, sorry, I was gesturing for you to pass my Juul.” I of course said, “I know, I was kidding.” And he pretended to buy it, but I didn’t know what was worse, him not believing me or him believing me and thinking that was my sense of humor.
Shame, as one would expect, leads to self-loathing. And because nothing makes me more embarrassed than being single, nothing makes me hate myself more either. This is because when you’re single, no one likes you. It’s pretty much the definition of being single, because if someone liked you, you wouldn’t be single. There’s the occasion when you have like seven guys in love with you, but that really only happens once they sense you’re on your way to becoming not single again. And I guess you can be single by choice, but I always find that dubious, because why would anyone actively choose not to cuddle, develop a perfect sex flow, and have someone to make fun of movies with? That said, it’s hard to come to terms to the reality of my particular circumstance of singledom—the type where you want a boyfriend but are also emotionally unavailable, so you seek out other emotionally unavailable people who will inevitably disappoint you in their lack of commitment. A lovely and never-ending cycle of emotional unfulfillment.
The emotionally unavailable people I hook up with are especially captivating to me because they behave the exact same way in front of me as they would if no one was there. The way they spit into the sink or pull their jeans down to put on sweatpants, the way they yawn without caring what their faces look like, the things they look at on their phones—they don’t mind if you peek at their screens, they have nothing to hide, you’re not their girlfriend. Nothing is for your benefit; you might as well not be there. You’re like an Amazon Alexa, there only to listen and observe or in case they feel like asking a question.
Meanwhile, I do nothing the same as I would if I were alone. I ration the glass of water a guy gives me before bed to last through the night because I don’t want to ask for more and seem high maintenance, nor do I want to trudge through his house and open his fridge without permission. I am excessively alert and aware of every move I make, critiquing every motion like a basketball coach on a Telestrator. Once I leave, I will continue to overthink and review my words and actions until he texts me, whether that be minutes, hours, or days later. It is not until I get that text that I can stop reflecting about my time spent there, as a text is the only confirmation that I did not do anything to make this person like me any less than he did before I came over.
There are two stages of being single: texting and not texting. I remember the different eras of my life not by year but by who I was texting at the time. Not getting texted—meaning a large gap between someone you’re obsessing over texting you—is inevitable, but that fact never stops the train of a million reasons you believe might be why he’s decided not to text you anymore.
Was it because my air-conditioning was broken and we both woke up sweating and he had a terrible night’s sleep and now he doesn’t ever want to sleep over or even see me again because he can’t get past how physically uncomfortable the situation was?
Was it because I was joking about how insecure I am, but he’s actually really turned off by insecurity and didn’t think it was funny at all and instead thinks I’m crazy?
Did he mistake my sarcasm for me being full of myself? And he thinks it’s completely unwarranted for me to be full of myself because I’m such a loser?
Was it because the lighting was bad when we FaceTimed and that was the last impression I left on him and now he can’t remember what I actually look like except for the image of that horrid little square?
Did he see through my “I don’t care” attitude and can tell I’ve s
pent a lifetime being obsessed with boys?
Does he think I like him? ’Cause I fucking don’t. At all. How do I make him know how much I don’t like him so he likes me again?
Shockingly, these are still not the most deranged thoughts you can have when someone stops texting you. The truly insane ones come after the overly optimistic, hopeful ones. The ones you still have, despite them being another devastating cliché, because you are obsessive and the thought of someone not being totally obsessed with you is less than ideal. You know these either from having them yourself or from every romantic comedy:
Maybe he’s actually in love with me and that scares him?
Maybe he just doesn’t want to get hurt?
Is it possible he doesn’t know that two weeks have gone by and he’s just busy and he does like me but isn’t texting me because he can’t hang out right now?
Is it possible he’s scared to get rejected by texting me first, even though I was the one to text first the last two times?
I’ve made myself so crazy from not being texted I’ve actually come up with fake reasons for why I’m checking my phone just so I don’t judge myself.
Fake me: Hmmm, I should probably check what time it is again.
Real me: LOL, Cazzie, you know exactly what time it is. I can’t believe you think we’re going to believe that. You are adorable. You really think he’ll have texted you in the last five minutes? HAHAHAHA. LOSER! HE’S NEVER TEXTING YOU AGAIN, STOP EMBARRASSING YOURSELF IN FRONT OF YOURSELF. My inner cadence is an internet troll’s.
It doesn’t matter how much better than the other person you know you are; power imbalances do not take such trivialities into account. The majority of the guys I interacted with had something freakishly off about them or some baggage from their last relationship. And although I’m certain I have more baggage and trust issues than they ever could, I still manage to behave more normally than any of these weird single dudes. There’s one guy who would text me all the time but wouldn’t hang out with me. There’s a guy who would have sex with me all the time but wouldn’t text me. There’s that guy who will just kiss you but never fuck you, and I’ve heard about the guy who will fuck you but not kiss you, although I’ve been lucky enough not to encounter him yet.
Speaking of guys—by far the biggest myth I was ever told about them is that “guys will do ANYTHING for sex.” In my personal experience, this could not be more untrue. Many guys won’t do even the bare minimum for sex. Some guys won’t even come over for sex. There are guys who won’t even send a text for sex. No, this doesn’t say more about me than it does about the entire male gender.
A prime example: For my twenty-fifth birthday I went to Mexico with my sister and six friends. A guy I was seeing at the time (the one who would have sex with me but not text me; I was obsessed with him) just so happened to have a trip booked there, staying fifteen minutes away, with his friends for the same weekend. I know I have little credibility at this juncture, but this was in fact a coincidence. I did not follow him there. Not that I am above that and not that I haven’t done that before.
On Friday, we made loose plans that we’d try to see each other either that night or Saturday night, both acknowledging that there was a chance that we (he) might not be able to make it happen because we (just him) were going to be busy with our friends. I decided in my mind Saturday would be the better night for me, based on the tan I’d have by then, but obviously if he were to text me later that night, I wouldn’t say no, because although some guys won’t do the bare minimum for sex, I, a pathetic, attention-seeking girl, will do the absolute maximum.
He said he would check in with me later, but in order for me to be prepared to meet up just in case (JIC), there were a few things I had to do and plan my day around:
1Meticulously shave all areas.
Massage a lovely-smelling combination of lotion and oil into every inch of my skin so it seemed like my natural scent as opposed to me actively trying to smell good for him.
Smooth down my curly-ass hair with blow dryer/straightener/products.
Put on an inorganic deodorant because organic deodorant is the same as no deodorant, and you save those noncancerous odors for friends and family.
Put on the new underwear I’d bought specifically so he’d think I had more than the four pairs I had already recycled multiple times with him.
I also needed to figure out the sleeping arrangement for my entire group. Every bed in the house we’d rented already had at least two people in it; mine had three (me, Romy, and my friend Molly). Before we got to the house (honestly, before the plane even took off), I figured out what the assigned beds would be JIC. So once everyone got settled in, I asked Molly and Romy nicely if they would by any possible chance be willing to squeeze in with the others for one night if he came over. They agreed because there is a place deep down in every person (except for the guys I sleep with) that understands the intermittent desperation to fornicate.
At my birthday dinner that night, I still didn’t know if he was going to capriciously decide to come over, so I didn’t eat as much as I would have liked to; JIC I would be having sex later I didn’t want to be too full to fuck. So even though I would have loved to enjoy my b-day dinner by shoveling down chips and tacos and cake and margaritas, I didn’t. And even though I would have loved to spend the entire meal not thinking about whether or not this piece of shit was going to come over later, I couldn’t do that either. Because as much as I wanted to enjoy myself in the moment, I wanted to have sex later more. And it’s apparently impossible for me to do both.
After dinner, my friends asked every twenty minutes whether I’d heard from him yet.
“No! Don’t you think I would tell you all immediately?!”
“Well, should we switch rooms just in case?” Molly and Romy kept asking.
“No, we’re not switching rooms just in case. That’d be humiliating if he didn’t end up coming.” But doing everything else JIC wasn’t?
I watched as all my friends enjoyed themselves splashing in the pool and drinking red wine in the Jacuzzi. I didn’t go in, JIC, because if I did, I’d have to start the showering process all over. So instead, I sat there soaking my feet, starving, anticipating a moment that I knew now had at best a 20 percent chance of happening.
When the clock struck eleven and my sister brought out another bottle of red wine and frozen peanut butter cups, I performed the very undignified act of texting him, to which he quickly replied:
Ah, I can’t tonight, but let’s do tomorrow?
Fine! I wanted tomorrow anyway! It’s not like I would have spent my entire birthday differently, physically and mentally, if I’d known.
Unsurprisingly, Saturday went exactly like Friday: mental preparations and somatic deprivation. Still, I was convinced that this time, it would be worth it. Around dinner, I got an update that he wouldn’t be able to meet up until much later and asking whether I was fine with that. Fine with that? Obviously, I was fine with that. I have no self-respect, and one of my favorite pastimes is waiting around for a guy to come fuck me! Sure, totally, see you then!
Waiting is another stage of dating. Waiting for a text, waiting for someone to come over, waiting for the power to shift. This particular night, I waited for all three until the wee hours of the morning. Molly and Romy had already gone to sleep squished in different beds with other people, and my remaining insomniac friends had started to retire one by one. I, the boy-crazy, shameful loser that I am, waited up until three thirty in the morning for this fucking fuck. I’m so pathetic that I didn’t even wait and then fall asleep while waiting. I waited until I got a text that said Ahhh, hanging with the boys ended up going late and he was so tired.
Tired.
Tired.
Tired.
He was tired.
So he got tired; he’s only human!
Disturbingly enough, this wasn’t the first time I had waited until the crack of dawn for a guy to come over. I say to myself, One thirty is t
he cutoff (which is already degradingly late), but then two a.m. hits, and then two thirty, and I’ll make a new cutoff for three thirty by convincing myself, That’s still kind of earrr-ly. In New York, they stay out until six in the morning!
I’ve never had a guy wait up for me. Not that anyone has ever explicitly asked me to wait up for them. If I knew a guy was waiting up for me, I’d feel so bad that I’d probably give him minute-by-minute updates on exactly why I was keeping him waiting:
So sorry, I’m going to be ten minutes later than I said I’d be, my friend is my ride and isn’t ready to leave yet!
Sorry, now it’s going to be fifteen more because I have to go to the bathroom and there seems to be a long line!
Someone came up and started talking to my friend. Waiting for them to stop talking.
Traffic! Three more minutes! Don’t hate me!
I was too embarrassed to tell everyone the next morning that he never came over, so I said he’d arrived after everyone went to sleep and left right before everyone got up. Which, in retrospect, made it seem like he was even less interested in me than if he hadn’t shown up at all. It was also the wrong thing to say, as my sister made me wash all of the pillowcases and sheets so she could sleep in the bed again that night. If you weren’t already convinced that I’d do anything for a guy, I would clean perfectly clean sheets for one.