I can tell that he’s kind of afraid of me, just based on the way that he pulled back when my leg grazed his under the bar. As though he didn’t want to touch me too much or violate my boundaries, despite the fact that I was the one who leaned in lustfully. This is getting irritating. So I sit there and sip my drink, and then I let him buy another round, and I wait for the cues to come dripping in. But they don’t. Fuck.
I’m waiting for him to put his hand on my leg. To reach out and touch me. Just a hand on the skin on my arm, or curled up around my face. Anything. Any sort of touch right now. Anything to catapult us from the mundane, lonely existence of sitting untouchingly on bar stools in some bar in Downtown to something more exquisite, like the promise of a kiss to come at some point later. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t do that. He doesn’t grab me. He doesn’t tell me I’m beautiful. Instead, we sit here and engage in casual conversation. Intelligent, yes, we’re both intelligent, but I’m becoming concerned by the lack of sexual chemistry. Or, it’s not a lack of sexual chemistry, really, as it is an overbearing timidity in the physical department of this burgeoning – um, relationship? Friendship? At this point I don’t know, because I thought that the context of us hanging out was in some way sexual, perhaps romantic, but definitely not platonic. So I sit there and sip my drink.
What is it. I mean, I know what it is. I know why he hasn’t reached out and touched me yet. As he drinks more, too, and it’s not that he isn’t drunk enough. Or that he doesn’t have the courage. I wonder if maybe I should do something overtly sexual, even something tacky, like opening my legs and leaning in too close. Something flirtatiously oral fixation-oriented, like grabbing his fingers and sticking them in my mouth. Maybe I should make the first move – but, of course, the problem here is that I don’t want to make the first move. I want to be touched today, not touching other people. I want to be desired right now, and there’s a giant wall of feminism standing between me and this man right here. A giant wall of “respect my boundaries” and “don’t make her feel uncomfortable” and “forcing sex on a woman is bad.” Which is all good and dandy, but I don’t really have any boundaries right now. I wouldn’t be uncomfortable. The sex wouldn’t be forced.
I don’t know how I’m going to communicate this to him. I don’t have a lot of time left. But I can tell that he’s afraid of something, and that something is me. As I sit here with my lipstick and my fur coat and my funny things I say and my pretty face and what about that isn’t utterly fuckable. Damn it. I think I have to reassess my approach to this one. Being intimidating never really gets me laid, and there’s something so unsexy about conversations about feminism on the first date. There’s something so unsexual about feminism in general sometimes, and I would like to run away from these convenient conversations and start talking about something more raunchy. More appealing. More satisfactory for my carnal appetites, even if I have to compromise the feminist agenda to get there. Feminism is not getting me laid right now, so it’s time for a different approach. Maybe talking about sex positive feminism is the right route, or maybe pointing out that there are feminists out there that love to fuck men all the time, constantly. Maybe that will work for me.
But I’m running out of time, so I guess I’ll stick to these dry conversations about things that are not leading directly to me fucking him. For now.