So, I met this guy a good while ago in another city. We lost contact, both ended up in New York around the same time some years back, decided to hang out. He's extremely attractive—face, body, smile, height, eyes, full package—so I’m pretty geeked about this. We’ll call him Ricky. Pretty Ricky what they call em.
Ricky invites me to a Halloween party that’s maybe two weeks before Halloween. I’m side-eyeing the hell out of the people who decided to throw this, because I don’t understand why people think it’s reasonable to ask others to dress up weeks before the time of. But on the same token, Halloween is my birthday, so I actually don’t mind being able to do something Halloween-esque before the day itself. That didn’t stop me from wearing a black and white striped dress and telling everyone I was hipster Wednesday Addams instead of spending money I didn’t have on a real costume, but I’ve seen White people dress up as literal concepts before, so whatever. Besides, it’s not my party and I can be lazy if I want to. That didn’t make much sense, but it did give me a newfound respect for songwriters.
Anyway, I see Ricky there. He’s drunkenly chasing a random White girl around for most of the night. By this, I mean she’s holding him by the hand and dragging him around, and he’s grinning goofily. Or as goofily as someone so attractive can grin. I am surprised, because he’d never struck me as the type to be that guy, but there are four floors of party and alcohol and cute people, so I don’t really sweat it.
The night goes on, I’m being offered free blue label scotch by the owner of one of the apartments, and things are going well; at one point, I start to feel happy that he hasn’t shown up in a little while. Eventually, I’m speaking with an aspiring French pastry chef, and Ricky sits down nearby, brooding. We’re not speaking English, so he can’t really join the conversation. I’m more focused on getting free pastries because I have very clear priorities in life, so he just sits there for a bit, and finally I break off conversation and speak to him. The girl pops up again, and he ignores the hell out of her. I ask if everything is okay with them.
“Who, her? I don’t even know her. She just wanted me to follow her around all night.“
“So you did?”
“I didn’t have anything else better to do.”
…Oh. I’m just kind of here for the pastries and scotch and this point, as I tend to be in most situations, so I don’t really question it. He’s clearly uncomfortable, though—the sort of discomfort you feel when you’ve grown up almost entirely around Black people and are surrounded by White people for too long—but seems a little too drunk to handle it properly and it becomes sort of a vague aggression. Eventually, I calm him down and convince him not to start a random fight, which he says he’s going to do because he’s a confused twenty-year-old boy with alcohol and feelings in his system. I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t have fought anyone that night, but I do think it made him feel less out of place, so that worked out, I guess. We go back to his apartment and get into his bed, where he politely informs me that he doesn’t give head to women, which—lololol k.
After he gives me head, things are feeling pretty decent, so I decide to let it go further than that. So, let’s just get something out of the way right now. My cervix doesn’t owe anyone money. It didn’t steal anyone’s bike. It didn’t serve anyone lukewarm potato salad. It didn’t run a Boston on anyone and talk shit for seven months. It didn’t sign Tyga to a record deal. It didn’t smash anyone’s moms and never call her—er, well, that one might have actually happened. REGARDLESS. I have to be honest—I enjoy a little rough stuff occasionally. I even venture into the realm of the masochistic sometimes. It can be fun. Thrilling, even.
This dude fucked like his mom came to school in rollers to beat his ass and then put rollers in HIS hair for all of third grade. Like his big sister stole his first girlfriend and tatted ‘dyke lyfe’ on his forehead while he was sleeping. Like he was trying to get added to the Method Man Torture intro retroactively. Things started off nice… And then… OUCH. Suddenly I’m on the receiving end of every piece of pent up rage for the world this dude has ever had. Completely unprompted. As I’m trying to get him to slow down, he finishes up. And by that, I mean he throws me off of him in a panic and sprints to the bathroom to pull off his condom and do it in the toilet. Apparently, he had some sort of weird anxiety about getting women pregnant… Okay. I guess maybe he’s super fertile like Future.
I join him in the bathroom to clean up. He looks down… Blood everywhere. “You on your period?” he asks.
“No, nigga.” He looks bewildered. I look Dorothy Mantooth after being taken out for a lovely seafood dinner and never being called again.
“Oh… That’s so nasty, ugh.” I look bewildered. We’re some bewildered motherfuckers, collectively. I get my shit and leave, because, NIGGA.
I found out weeks later that he was just embarrassed and didn’t know what to say, so lesson learned for him, I guess. Unfortunately, most women have probably experienced this at least once, to varying extremes. And I wish I could say this has only happened with younger guys, but I’ve been introduced to other people’s insecurities this way as well. I was even told by an older woman that I just didn’t know how to “take dick.” Apparently she is either Elastigirl or has trained her cervix to turn into steel—I’m not really sure which. I am sure that she, like a lot of people, needs to unlearn some things.
And look, I sort of get it. Every song on the radio is telling you to beat it up. Tear it up. Write a letter to its niggas saying it ain’t never coming home. Unfortunately, you are in all likelihood neither a rapper nor a porn star. And actually paying attention to the person you’re having sex with sort of helps, as a general rule. Seriously… My vagina is not a home for your emotional woes. Talk to your psychotherapist. Dry-hump a punching bag. I don’t really care. Just keep the uncontrolled aggression away from me and my genitals.