To All the Men Who Are Exactly Like That

Image by Andrew Smith via Flickr

When you see me for the first time, walking down the street, be sure to shout that I have a nice ass. If I refuse to acknowledge you, say Geez, learn to take a compliment, bitch.That way I’ll understand that you’re trying to flatter me, and that my overwhelming insecurities are just getting in the way. So keep trying to get my attention with Smile, baby and Can I get your number? Go ahead and throw in an obscene gesture too. I’ll appreciate it. After all, I have low self-esteem and your compliments really make my day. It doesn’t matter if I’m wearing a shapeless parka that covers the entirety of my body. In that case, just say Let me see your tits! That way, I’ll remember you when I walk to work, and I’ll think, Gee, I’d really like to date that guy who catcalls at me on 55th and Broadway.

Over the next few weeks, stare intently at me as I walk down that same street on my way to work. Keep courting me by shouting obscenities about my body in public, but be original and don’t repeat yourself. There are several things about me that you can objectify — my thighs, my legs, my hair, my arms, my shoulders, my face, my eyebrows. Be creative. Some days, I’ll walk by with my girl friends, so you’ll have to yell even louder. My friends will curse back at you, but don’t worry. They’re only testing your masculinity. Real men understand that women’s opinions don’t matter. On the days that I walk with a male friend, walk closely behind us and follow us for three blocks until we enter a private apartment complex. Then, curse at me through the glass doors and tell me that I’m a slut. Don’t talk shit to the guy I’m with though, because you respect him for being able to tap that.

In the fifth week of our courting, pull me aside on my way home from work and drag me into a dingy coffee shop. Buy me the cheapest cup of coffee, black, and talk about yourself. Don’t let me interrupt. I might attempt to contribute to the conversation, but let me know that your opinion holds more value, and that I should wait until you’re done. By the end of your speech, make sure you’ve made at least seven racist comments and twelve derogatory remarks about women. If I say something that goes against your opinion — especially a comment that relates directly to my experiences in life — wave it off and say That doesn’t matter because I’ve experienced otherwise. At the end of our impromptu date, go ahead and grope my breasts and slap my ass as we say our goodbyes. After all, I was asking for it by wearing that low-cut summer dress. It was entirely my fault, and I can’t possibly hold you responsible for your actions when my existence is so distracting.

In the seventh week of our courting, deliver me some wilted roses from the Duane Reade around the corner. My coworkers will coo and smile at your thoughtfulness, and they’ll tell me that I’m a very lucky girl. Afterwards, meet me at the bar with my girl friends, and bring your group of friends too. Waving around their PBR cans, they’ll say to me Come on, he’s such a nice guy. Give him a chance. He’s got a steady job and he’ll treat you real good. At the end of the night, tell me I’m a goddamn tease and insist on coming home with me. Let me know that it’s my fault that you can’t control yourself, and make sure that I can smell the whiskey on your breath as you whisper vulgarities in my ear. I’ll be really attracted to you then.

The next few times we meet up, be sure to tell everyone that I’m your girl. Tell my friends. Tell your friends. Tell the clerk at the grocery store (because he was totally checking you out, babe, you say). When the other guy on 55th and Broadway catcalls at me, give him a wink and a smirk. He’ll respond with a Niiiiice and validate your masculinity. When we go out on dates, be sure to order for me. In fact, don’t even let me look at the menu. I’m not capable of making decisions. Tell the server, She’ll have a side salad and a water. Then, order a burger and fries for yourself. Be sure to get grease all over your fingers and sauce on your lips. Tell me to give you a kiss goodbye at the end of the date, and run your sticky fingers through my hair as you pull me closer.

Over the course of our relationship, I am nearly perfect for you (and I say nearly because you like to remind me about how I’m not good enough for you as you compare me to those girls in the pornos you like to watch). I have a thin waist, double D’s, an ass like Nicki Minaj, and lips like Jolie. But don’t worry; I’m 100% real. I don’t even wear makeup (unless you want me to). And when you come home and see me looking haggard, wearing sweats, and eating chicken noodle soup from a cup, don’t worry. I still want to have sex with you. I’m never too tired to please you. I have absolutely nothing better to do than to make you happy, especially in bed. Don’t worry about pleasing me. Everyone knows that women can’t have real orgasms. That’s why they have to fake it all the time. I get emotional satisfaction by knowing that I’ve pleased you — that’s my kind of orgasm. So you go on ahead and do your thing. I’ll even lie in the wet spot afterwards.

And if you want to spend our anniversary with your guy friends, I totally understand. The only dates that are important are the days when your favorite team plays. I should never expect that I come first in anything in your life. In fact, I’m in the kitchen right now making you a sandwich as you and your guy friends watch buff men in skin-tight uniforms collide into each other on national television.

And when I come home angry because I was passed over for a promotion at my workplace for a new guy with a community college degree over my honors diploma and years of experience, tell me No, honey. That’s not what happened. You’re just not qualified for that kind of job. If you got that promotion, everyone would think you slept your way to the top. And I’ll listen to you explain my career choices to me. After all, what the hell do I know? I’m just a woman.

Try to make me feel better by taking me out to dinner, and treat me to a Caesar salad instead of a side salad as a consolation for the promotion that I didn’t get. Explain to me that it’s normal for women not to be promoted because men are experts in everything — politics, law, science, math, and medicine. Tell me that it’s always been this way, and that there’s no point in me getting upset about it. Now how about you stop being so moody and we can have some fun tonight. Then, if I snap at you for grabbing the waitress’s ass, say Cool it, honey. Guys will be guys. And if I dare question your actions, explain to me that It’s natural for men to want more than one woman. Don’t be so ignorant. Just look at all the animal species where the males have a lot of mates. It’s proven by science. I’ll forgive you then, but if I ask you not to do it again, say Nobody likes a bossy bitch, babe.

Then go on a diatribe about that poor kid who got my promotion. Tell me about how hard he must have worked to get into a community college and to find a job. Say, I really relate to the guy, you know? It’s a struggle for men these days to prove themselves. He must have been really qualified to get that promotion, no offense, honey. And then talk about how much it sucks to be a guy because Girls have it so easy. I’ll totally understand how unfair life is for you.

And when I inevitably break up with you over some dickish thing that you did, scoff and say Don’t be so sensitive. Is it that time of the month again? I’ve never complained before because I didn’t want to be like one of those man-hating, lesbian feminists who spent their days getting off by bitching about men. But now I laugh in your face and you grow furious with humiliation. You’ll never find another man like me, you hiss on your way out the door.

A few weeks later, I tell a new guy friend about you, and he says, “Well, not all men are like that.”