Thoughts about the self, and living solitary
Sometimes I wonder if it is not simply in my makeup to live without romantic love, to pry and long and go without until it becomes not a lack, but a strength. If my history, childhood, relationships with the men in my life as a young’un and dating experiences have all turned me into an antiromance machine. Without buying into bullshit heteronormative constructs of necessary partnership, without seeing a lack in myself, without settling for someone whose company isn’t fulfilling, and without willing to subvert myself under masculinity. There are so many men who I see acting upon and unquestioning the right they feel they have to my body; to gazing on it, to owning it, to touching and using it, to manipulating me into surrendering it. The last few sexual encounters I’ve had have been like that: I would be okay with casual sex IF YOU TELL ME THAT’S WHAT IT IS, but fooling me into thinking we’re dating so I’ll fuck you and then disconnecting is so much more hurtful than just straight up saying I’m not looking for anything serious, but I think you’re hot and we should bang.
I don’t think all sex is necessarily manipulative, or that ALL MEN behave that way, but I’ve experienced it overly much lately. Perhaps working at a bar I see too much of this, and it’s always worse when inhibitions have been lowered by alcohol. The other night I had to get off my stool and put it between myself and a customer who was WITH HIS GIRLFRIEND, who had gone outside for a cigarette with my coworker, who just started leaning into me and then putting his hands all over me. Barf. I told my coworker, who I quite like and respect, and he brushed it off like, 45-year-olds of both sexes hit on me all the time, part of the job yo. He didn’t get it, because how could he? And yet. The skin-crawling horror of unwanted hands upon your body, and so often guests, when requesting something, or discussing something, or telling me how great I am at my job, usually any of these in guise while hitting on me, put hands on my shoulders, hips, back, arms, legs, waist. I’m not furniture. I’m not a string of worry beads.
I’ve stopped attempting to date using the internet, as I found it too exhaustively disappointing and consumptive of my needed-elsewhere-energy. Perhaps I am the documenter, the unbeliever, the questioner. I doubt power dynamics and counsel other couples and love fiercely, but never a lover. If ever I meet a man I can have as good of a time with as I do with my best friend, then fine. Cool! That’d be nice. We’ll see.