Love is testing me but still I'm losing it

I was lamenting to my friend Sean about my long drought. Before you go clicking away from another boring water entry, I mean a drought of a more personal nature… a bedroom nature. Sean and I agreed that it is ridiculous that I don’t have a boyfriend; I am presentable and pleasant enough. Since I’m a great girlfriend once I am in a relationship, Sean figured there must be something about my approach that I could work on.

“Meggie,” he said, “What do you wear when you are working on a guy?”

“You’re looking at it.” I said. “No,” he said, “Those are your clothes for doing chores and gardening. What do you wear when you are out where boys could see you?” When I gestured at my clothes again, he winced, which I totally didn’t get, ‘cause these are my new jeans. “Meggie,” he said, “When was the last time you dressed up?” “Oh! That was for the fall league party. I wore this tight red dress with four inch red heels and cocksucker red lipstick.” “And was there a boy you liked at the party?” “Yeah.” “What happened when he saw you in the dress?” “He jumped and spilled his drink. Someone must have bumped into him.” Sean patiently explained that no one bumped into him, and that if I want boys to notice me, I am going to have to wear girl clothes.

“Girl clothes!” I shouted. “That’s outrageous! They don’t have pockets, and you can’t sprint in them if you need to beat the light, and you can’t just throw them on from the previous day because they get wrinkled! Besides, the colors have to match and you have to wear jewelry, and that takes like twenty minutes!” I can patiently explain things too, so I pointed out all the ways that girl clothing is a repressive tool of the patriarchy to physically restrain women and keep them from full actualization by requiring them to spend their time on stupid shit like earrings. Sean didn’t argue, but he did force me to make an unpleasant choice between fighting blatant injustice and getting some horizontal actualization of my own.

Moving on, Sean asked me how I flirt with the guys I like. “Well, you know how I am usually friendly and smiley and I talk about dorky things? Just like that, only more.” “So if you saw a guy you liked…” “I would probably give him a hug like everyone else, and then tell him about the things I’ve been thinking about recently. Like right now I’m super into Geoffrey Chaucer’s blog, so I would be all ‘hah, hah, hah, and then, he makes fun of John Gower, hah hah’.” “And you still don’t score?” said Sean. “Remarkable.”

Sean told me that I have inadvertently crossed over into one-of-the-guys territory. He listed flirting techniques that might get me out of there. “Do you flip your hair? Giggle? Ask him to get you a drink? Smile demurely? Hit him on the arm?” Now THAT was interesting. “Hit him on the arm? Like a jab, or more of an uppercut? Should I kick him, too?” “Not like that”, said Sean, and he demonstrated with sortof an openhanded swat on the arm.

Gentle reader, I did taekwondo for thirteen years. During college I trained with the team twenty-five hours a week. It would be impossible to count the punches I’ve thrown or the hours I’ve spent with a heavy bag. I have broken boards and a brick with a punch. It has been many years since then, but I imagine I could still return to the gym and learn to box in a matter of months. Those skills aren’t entirely gone, but I am quite sure that I could never learn to swat men on the arm.

Sean persevered. “Meggie, is there anyone you flirt with?” “Oh yeah,” I said. “I flirt with lesbians all the time.” “What do you do?” “Oh, it changes. Sometimes I walk up boldly and look them up and down real slow, then nod, all satisfied. Sometimes I’ll smile shyly, and look down, and look back and blush. I’ll hold eye contact while I tuck my hair. Wearing a shirt that shows downtown Cleveland seems to make me clumsy, ‘cause I just keep dropping things…” “And do they like you?” “Oh man, dykes love me. They’re always hanging on me and asking for sugar. If I only liked the ladylovin’ I would be all set.” “Meggie, that’s it! You just have to do that with men.” “Do that with men… I could never… they would totally get the wrong id- HEY!”

So, dear readers, there is hope for me yet. Perhaps one of you is the dorky gentleman for me. When we meet, there is a good chance that I will revert to my awkward ways. If I am bringing up esoteric shit and asking about your dissertation, please understand that I am flirting with you. If, on the other hand, I am looking at you through lowered lashes and gasping at your wicked lines, please understand that I am imagining you as an especially butch lesbian. Either way, your prospects are good. Go ahead and put the moves on, ‘cause this drought has got to end.