Longtime reader, first-time writer, and I don’t really have any advice to ask for, but I just had to say something about your column about all the reasons not to fuck somebody [Dategirl, “All the Wrong Reasons . . . ,” May 3]. I couldn’t help but notice that none of the reasons you cite have anything to do with, oh, I don’t know, the feelings of the person you’re fucking who you don’t actually like. You know, like the feelings of the “Pity Fuck” who realizes that the reason you’re acting so uncomfortable around him and the reason you never call is because he was just a Pity Fuck. Or the Shut-up Fuck you mention, once he reads this column and realizes that your description of hyperlame bedroom antics is describing him. Ditto the Ex Sex story.
Nope, the problem is not how they feel; the problem is that afterwards these guys assume that you actually like them, or at least were genuinely attracted to them, and they just won’t let it go. Wotta buncha rubes!
What’s the word I’m looking for? Mean. Just really mean.
Rick
Take a second and yank them panties outta your keister crack, Rick. The incidents I described happened years ago, and there’s no way any of the aforementioned fellas are going to recognize themselves (except for perhaps the ex, but the jury’s still out on whether he can read at all, so I’m not too worried).
But your letter did get me thinking that perhaps I had been unkind to these mostly harmless gents. So I thought I’d turn the table on myself and describe what I think are some of the dubious reasons men have had sex with me.
The Last-Call Lay: Like the song goes, she’s looking better every beer. There was a period of time in my life when I was a big fan of the bar pickup. I’m not particularly proud of this, however (nor am I ashamed). I would go out, get drunk, pick up random men, and bring them home and encourage them to perform sloppy, impersonal sexual acts with me. These guys would wake up confused. Stilted conversation would follow, and then they would leave.
The Opportunity Pork: These fellas weren’t particularly interested in moi, but they also hadn’t gotten laid in so long, this was kind of beside the point. Never mind that they would normally only go for Nordic blondes with D-cups; I was agreeable and they were horny. That was all it took.
The Novelty Fuck: Back when dinosaurs roamed the Earth and I was in college, I had a foot-high Mohawk. The sides were completely shaved bald, and when I bothered to put it up, the ‘hawk was truly a sight to behold. But as we know from the song, punk-rock boys only like new-wave girls, so I was a little on the lonely side. At first I was flattered when random preppies and rich Arab heirs expressed an interest in me. Then I found out the truth. These straight guys didn’t think I was pretty; they just thought I’d throw them a wild one in the sack. Oh.
The I-Haven’t-Slept-With-Anyone-but-My-Wife-in-Years: She’s not my wife! She has boobies I never touched before! She smells different! She never yells at me! She put her finger up my butt while we were doing it! She gives blow jobs and seems to enjoy herself! (Please note that I’m not proud of having slept with the occasional married guy and have been paid back karmically a thousandfold.)
Holy crap! She writes that sex column! I’ve gone on several dates with men who (I found out much later) only wanted to date me because I write about sex. Far from flattering, I found having someone quote me to me over dinner deeply unnerving. My friend Rachel Kramer Bussel, who writes the Lusty Lady column for The Village Voice, has had similar experiences. “Generally, I get the sense that people either see me as some total wanton, horny sexpot and/or this girl they can experiment sexually with and then walk away as if I have no feelings whatsoever,” she commiserated.
So you see, Rick. I’ve gotten as good as I’ve given.
Not getting any? Write Dategirl at dategirl@seattleweekly.com or c/o Seattle Weekly, 1008 Western Ave., Ste. 300, Seattle, WA 98104.
