Are you mad at me?

I’m at work, and I don’t even have the time to respond to that need text message. But the only thing that goes through my mind as it flashes up at me is, “What kind of insecure bullshit is this.” Mostly because this is an incoming text message from someone I recently fucked, so, yeah, you know what this is about: me not being emotionally available enough to coddle his emotions, and initiate streams upon streams of text conversation, and ask things like, “Wanna come over?” or “Do you love me?”

I don’t know what it is about our society that says that men are callous creatures who are only interested in fucking, because my experience has certainly proven that is not the case. In fact, if anything, the messages that I received about sexuality when I was younger were that men were only looking from one thing from me: sex. I was also told that it was my job to make them buy me things and love me and put a ring on it before I put out, but I figured out a while back that I actually have a lot in common with men, and that’s that I only want one thing from them: sex. When I first realized that I loved to fuck, I felt like I had hit the jackpot because, oh, cool! Men will love me now! They won’t have to put up with all that emotional bullshit that all the other girls put them through. They can just sexually objectify me, it’ll be mutual, and then things will be cool.

But that’s not how it worked out. It turns out that men are people, too. Men are interested in what women have to say. Men want companionship. Men want to cuddle. Men want to fall in love. Men want to go out on the town. Men want all that shit, too! Perhaps to lesser extent than women, because women are coded to want those things from men more than men are taught that it’s okay to want those things, too. Unfortunately for me, I’m still saddled with a sexuality that doesn’t really want any of those things from my sexual partners, so when I got that text message, all I can think was, “EYE ROLL.” (Didn’t actually do the eye roll because I was at work, and I don’t want to get in trouble for having an attitude.)

I know that the “are you made at me?” text is in direct reference to our sexual activities and my immediate reaction, which was to shut down emotionally. I guess emotional distance could be perceived as anger, but I think what’s more frightening than that hypothesis is the truth: actually, it’s indifference. I know he’s not going to be happy when he figures that one out, mostly because it’s probably easier to think of me as angry for some unknown reason, because if I’m angry, that means I care on some level about the situation, even if it’s negative. However, I simply do not care.

But, now that he mentions it, I do have to wonder: wait, am I mad at him? I spend the next twenty five minutes scanning over memories of our sexual experiences with a fine toothed comb (which is difficult, because it’s like trying to trying to grab a grain of salt out of a cup of tequila with your bare hands: everything is drowning in booze and quickly dissolving). I try to think of some reason to be mad at him, mostly because, oh shit, if he thinks that I’m mad at him, it’s probably because he did something that would make me mad. Such as: did he stick his dick in my ass with no lube? No…I would remember that. I always remember that, no matter how fucked up I am, because it is so unpleasantly and so rudely painful. Did he say something awkward? If he did, I probably laughed it off. It’s weird that he would think that I’m mad at him, because I’m not a particularly sensitive or judgmental person.

Which is when I realized: he’s treating me like some day one girl who gets her emotions all tangled up whenever she starts fucking someone. Oh, god. I kinda want to text back, “No, because I’m fully in control of my emotions and my sexuality, and I consented to everything we did.” Because it’s true. He didn’t coerce me into doing something I didn’t want to do. He didn’t trick me into fucking him. I didn’t say “yes” when I really meant “no.” I know what I’m doing here. I said “yes” because I really wanted to do it, and if at any point I changed my mind, I would have asked him to stop. (Actually, I probably would have pushed him off me and started screaming, but, y’know, that didn’t happen, thank goodness.)

But then I begin to wonder: is this some weird psychological projection going on here? Is he asking me if I’m upset because, actually, he’s the one that’s upset? Is he mad about something that happened? Is he filled with regret? I mean, he shouldn’t be, it was his idea to fuck in the first place. But maybe he didn’t have fun, or it was bad, or he feels guilty about his girlfriend. (Oops. Oh, well.) Fuck.

So I try to diffuse the situation by responding with No. Are you mad?

He says he’s not, and then I realize that despite the fact that I claim to have a fairly masculine sexuality, at the end of the day I’m still a woman because I just spent two hours analyzing a five word text message and breaking down the psychology of the societal and personal motivations for saying something like that. God damn it. I think it’s time to start drinking so I can think about something other than a five word text message, such as trying to find someone at this bar after work who will fondle my thighs and tell me I’m pretty. Imma get on that. Later.