It’s hard being this curvy and hot and great at cooking when I don’t want to be a housewife.
With the start of cuffing season, it has become even more apparent how wasted I am living in a largely post-patriarchal bubble as I do. If only I desired to be the big-titted emotional footstool of a deeply compromised man. Imagine his delight and surprise when I, a white woman, cook with spices.
The cool fall air brings out my wardrobe of skin-tight black clothing, which people actually get to see because I am finally able to leave the cold and darkness of my basement where I’ve been hiding all summer. (The sun genuinely hurts me and makes me sick. Men love this.)
I am besieged by offers on Tinder, some of which I entertain like I would entertain guests at my tastefully decorated house party: coyly and with undetectable passive aggression. It’s a consistent hit!
So who am I to elicit such a response? Picture a young Molly Weasley in all black with a snatched waist and openly bisexual. Just your average 22-year-old looking for love.
My dating life has been a high school boyfriend, a freshman year girlfriend (who I did not know I was dating until she told me we were), and a series of first dates. There were a few meet-cutes I thought might stick: the beautiful woman I made out with at gay club who got green lipstick *all* over my face, the non-binary person I “wasn’t good enough for,” the pompous guy I went out with once a year through college, the woman with long twists and sensuous brown eyes. When I met her, I thought it would be a long-term thing, but I was too afraid of sharing myself, and she wanted to move quickly. That was the last time I made an honest effort.
All these guys have been conditioned to want a Goth GF. And now that they are older, these Gen-Zennials are looking for a Goth Wife — preferably one with child-bearing hips who isn’t afraid to dominate them but would never talk about it in public.
I could be that Goth Wife. Just imagine it: my fat ass bouncing around the kitchen while I make the richest, most sinful lemon carbonara he’s ever had, engaging in some level one pegging, finishing off the night by teaching him how to communicate his wants and needs in a constructive way — which he ultimately ignores. Ahhh, peace — predictability.
Circling back, you might wonder how one’s ass could bounce while making carbonara, because it’s not a very labor-intensive dish. To that I say: You haven’t seen what I am working with. But despite all of these juicy assets, I am no one’s Goth Wife. I am not even anyone’s Regular Wife. I don’t want to be.
So when I make lasagna in a low cut top, I do it for myself. When I adjust my beauty routine to look more like Morticia Addams, it’s for my own pleasure. When I say I want you to park that big Mack truck right in this little garage, I’m talking to my dildo.
The truth is: I am attracted to men sometimes, especially if they have some unique gimmick going for them like being tall or having a personality, but they are not who I want in the long run.
It is hard being this curvy and hot and great at cooking when I want to be with a woman. In me, men see an opportunity, and queer women often see an imposter. Femininity is something to be sexualized and not respected in straight and gay circles alike. Femme women have struggled to find their place in queer landscapes, and I am no different. It’s a pickle.
I want to be in a relationship, and I think I’m emotionally ready for one, but it remains to be seen if anyone is ready for me. Modern dating is hard — even harder when everything on the inside contradicts what people see on the outside: a jumble of insecurity, vanity, passion, apathy, cynicism, sincerity, masculinity, femininity, and a little of something there is no word for.
But dating men is a hobby I can’t shake, mostly because women only like women who can code PYTHON and build rocket ships, and I’m just not that good at math. It’s hard being men’s dream girl when you don’t even want a man.
When you’re seemingly perfect for one kind of person you don’t want and wrong for another you do, where does that leave you? I can’t change who I am, and I won’t lower my standards, so it leaves me precisely where I am: alone. For now, at least.