Kept Men

I’ve been going out of my way trying to make nice with people I used to sleep with, mostly because I’m on a karma kick and also because I’m feeling self indulgent and things like sexual revisitation do give me an ego thrill. My friends think that this is a horrible idea, but, hey, they’re allowed to think whatever they want, even if they’re completely right and I still decide to ignore them. That being said, this little walk down my sexual memory lane has been proving to be quite entertaining, because hanging out with people that I used to have crazy sex with and then not indulging that sexual tension has proven to be quite an interesting undertaking. Mostly because the digression into platonic friendship and the absence of sexual expectations has allowed me to spectate certain behaviors that my otherwise blinding lust would not allow me to see. And by “certain behaviors,” I mean: god damn, Bay Area men really do make women pay for their lifestyles.

On more than one occasion this week, I have found myself sitting casually in the company of a man who I used to fuck but now gets his life paid for by some (white. Why is she always white?) woman who I guess didn’t get the memo that you can get good dick for free, and, if you’re really good at what you do, you can get good dick to cash out on you, too. Now, this isn’t supposed to be an examination of the women who cash out on these hoes, because, hey, girlfriend, you get yours. I wish I had enough money to pay for dick on demand, but, wait, no, that’s not what I mean, because I probably have enough money to pay for dick on demand, but I guess I wish that I weren’t so jaded that the very concept of paying for dick on demand just seems like a total waste of money. I can’t really decide if it is or if it isn’t, but that’s coming from someone who funds a cocktail blog with a lot of other people’s money, so I’m going to reserve judgment in lieu of trying to not be hypocritical.

Anyways, back to the men in question. Well, yes, they are good in bed, and I know that sex is a commodity worth paying for. I’m just finding a bit of irony in the fact that during this feminist era, the gender norm of flipping the script is going that way for men, too. Although, being a kept man isn’t a new idea or even a product of feminist thinking. In the Bay Area, there is a long standing tradition of what Mac Dre referred to as “I treat¬†my bitch like an ATM card.” It’s something that is less morally objectionable than pimping, but is still, well, it is what it is. And it’s not that these men are bad people (at least, not for this specific action, because, yeah, they are kinda bad people, but for things completely unrelated to this scenario), it’s just that, hey, opportunity knocks. When you’re young and you fuck and charismatic to boot, then, sure, of course women will want to pay for a piece of that. I can’t knock the hustle.

What I can knock is: oh my god, we have the same hustle. So as I’m sitting there, bearing witness to game, I feel a pang of rage because – hey! That’s my hustle you’re using there, buddy! I’m pretty sure that women invented “please pay for my life,” although the sociological factors impacting that have more to do with things such as the glass ceiling and labor rights and property ownership and voting rights, whereas when a man does it, it can be reduced to a class phenomena and, in particular situations, a symptom of racism, white guilt, and the perpetual hustle in a capitalist society.

But it’s not even that. What it is, as I’m being cordial and polite and not hysterical or given to sexual tantrums and high demands for attention and oral sex right now. Right. Now! Um, what it is as we’re sitting there in the throes of being friends and not lovers, is that I always manage to say, “So, is this why things didn’t work out between us?” I just can’t help myself. He looks at me and laughs. I didn’t even have to say it out loud. “I think we’re both too expensive to have sex with each other,” I say in response to my own comment, recalling exactly the zero amount of times that either of us paid for each other for anything. For a split second, we both hang our heads in mutual shame, knowing quietly that, yeah, sometimes certain things such as time and attention can be purchased for an agreed upon amount of cash, favors, booze, drugs and food. Although that split second passes because, hey, we had sex with each other for free so we can’t be that bad! It’s not all sex for money! But it occurs to me that I might be the exception that has proved his rule, and vice versa. Also there’s something rewarding about getting sex for free from someone who sells it at a high price. It’s very satisfying.

Anyways, the moment of realization passes, and life goes on, although I have noticed that this whole time that we’ve been talking platonically and nonsexually about our lives, he has been using my phone to call her and paying for things with her credit card. This is a dangerous game he’s playing, mostly because as soon as he leaves, I’m gonna look that bitch up and laugh, because I got for free what she¬†rightfully paid for.