Assholes Abound

Mollyanne Ritter
Aug 27, 2017 · 5 min read

Rowland was a coworker and we bonded over our mutual hatred of the giant corporation we worked for. This was not a rare sentiment amongst our fellow employees so I didn’t think much of it, but he would talk frequently of how connected we were and how refreshing it was to find someone else who “got it.” He also made a touching amount of effort to continue the friendship even after he had left the company. We hung out almost every week: going to lunch, taking long walks, talking about our lives — pretty typical friend stuff.

When my partner of six years and I split up, Rowland was immediately supportive. He amped up his friend game and texted me throughout the week to make sure I was okay. He assured me that he saw me as family and would be there for me no matter what. But he also started making not-so-subtle remarks about his attraction for me.

“You deserve so much better, Molly. Do you even know how beautiful you are?”

“The type of woman I am looking for is intelligent, funny, shares my political and religious views, tall, athletic body-type, blond hair, likes to layer flannels over everything and wear combat boots.”

“Oh hey, I just wrote this song. It’s not about you or anything. I just used you as a muse and I’m going to play guitar and sing it for you. Yeah, it’s a love song but it’s not about you. Like I said, you just inspired it. But uh… what do you think?”

In true, “nice guy” fashion, Rowland never came right out and said what we both knew — that he wanted to date me — so I ignored his cringeworthy hints, preferring to let both of us save face rather than presume to tell him I wasn’t interested in case I was misreading his clumsy signals.

One day, over burgers, Rowland was particularly blue. He hadn’t been eating that month because he believed the reason he didn’t have a girlfriend yet was that he was fat.

“I’m smart and funny…” Debatable.

“…old women are always telling me how handsome I am, so I know I have a good-looking face…” Old women also wear Dennis-the-menace hairdos and one-size-fits-all blouses that they bought from gas stations.

“…and I know how to treat a woman…” Because there is nothing women love more than anorexic, socially-awkward guys who aren’t brave enough to admit their feelings but have no problem serenading them with sentimental love songs.

“…so the only thing I can think of, for why I don’t have a girlfriend, is that it’s my weight.” What else?

So, instead of eating them, he was pushing his home-fries around on his plate with this slack-jawed sad-face expression while I tried to cheer him up.

“What’s wrong, Rowland? Talk to me.”

*Forlorn sigh*

“We’re not leaving, by the way, until you eat some of that burger,” I reached over, speared a couple of his potatoes, and popped them in my mouth. “So, you might as well tell me what’s up.”

“I’m just so tired of being alone.” He looked up at me and the pain in face stopped my breath for a moment. His chin twitched and a tear ran down his cheek.

“Oh, Rowland,” I grasped his hand across the table and squeezed. “I’m so sorry. You’re going to find someone though. Someone who is crazy about you.”

“No, because girls don’t like nice guys. They just want assholes.”

“What? That’s not true. Why do you say that?”

Rowland pouted at his cheeseburger. “I see it all the time. My friends who treat women like shit are always hooking up with beautiful women, but I’m a genuinely nice guy and I don’t get the time of day. Women always say how they just want somebody sweet who will treat them with respect, but then they go and date these douchebags, like Rob, while guys like me, who do treat them with respect are totally alone.”

I blinked and shook my head, taken aback by his mention of my recently-ended rebound relationship. Granted, Rob was a douchebag, but that’s why I’d ended it. “Women do not want assholes, Rowland. It just so happens that assholes abound and are difficult to avoid.”

“Well, then why don’t they like me? If they’re so sick of being treated like garbage, why don’t they give a nice guy a chance for once?” He slumped back in his chair and glared out the restaurant window. His eyes still glistened with gathering tears, but my compassion had vanished.

“Do you think we like the abuse? With few exceptions, we don’t know which guys are going to treat us like garbage until they’ve already chewed us up and spit us out.” Leaning back, I tossed my napkin on the table and crossed my arms. “You want to know why women don’t like you? It’s not because you’re a fat and it’s certainly not because you’re a ‘nice guy.’ Women — just like anyone else — are attracted to confidence. We like men who know who they are and aren’t afraid to go after what they want. And it’s incredibly sexist and victim-blamey to insist that we want to be abused by our partners. It is not our fault that so many men turn out to be abusive, and we do not owe relationships to men just because they’re ‘nice’ to us.”

That was the last time I saw Rowland. According to mutual friends, he met a woman the very next day and started dating her.

I still think about him every so often and shake my head at how close I’d thought we were. Journal entries from that time gush about how grateful I was to have him as my friend. As frustrating as he must have found it, that he’d been so nice to me and I still wouldn’t date him, my frustration that I’d shared so much of who I was with him and he still found value only in my potential as a sexual partner was greater.

By hanging out with me only until his relationship/sexual needs were met, Rowland effectively communicated that I was not an inherently valuable, whole person in his mind, but instead a romantic object. He had reduced my worth to what I could do for him sexually and romantically and when I failed to serve the purpose he had assigned to me, he complained that I must be broken and found a new romantic object. Having no further use for me, he self-selected out of my life. He never called or texted again — this person who saw me as family.

Unobjectified

Recovering from patriarchy and objectification culture

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Mollyanne Ritter

Written by

Did all the right things as a kid. Doing all the wrong things as an adult. Feminist, Socialist, Writer, Sandwich enthusiast.

Unobjectified

Recovering from patriarchy and objectification culture

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