There’s something about being at Oxford that makes every man think sex with you is their right. It isn’t: it’s my right. By which I mean that it’s my right to give them the right, a right that I will give away or occasionally lease out to whomsoever I choose. I guess what I’m saying is, I really hate it when men text me, ask for my number, or smile at me. Because that’s what they mean.
So I ran out of fonts to name my men after ticking off my 22nd nationality – Ecuadoreans, if you’re wondering, are nothing to write home about! So I picked spices next. There’s no particular reason, there’s just lots of them. Of course, as soon as I switched, a man came along who was one of the most annoying I’ve ever met. I can’t think of any particularly irritating spice – you know, I’ve never sat down and thought, “tarragon really fucks me off”. So I settled on Wattleseed. Okay?
So I went to Park End’s traffic light party. And, yes, I was wearing hotpants and a bikini top – it is October after all, so the days of G-strings are gone with the September breeze. And, yes, I did pick “green” as my sticker (ironically!). They didn’t tell me how many to take, so I took a round twenty, stuck five on each boob , and arranged the rest into a smiley face on my midriff. A waggish friend tried arranging them into an arrow pointing downwards, but that just made me look like a slut.
So I was under-dressed. What do you expect me to wear, a burka? But that doesn’t give men the license to be lecherous and pathetic. On the way in, one man opened the door for us with an immense grin, and said “evening ladies”. He didn’t say it, but I knew what he meant: “I reserve the right to have sex with each and every one of you” - as though that simple act of opening the door meant he could ask me to drop my knickers there and then. This went on through the night – a “you’ve dropped this” here, a “is this your insulin” there. Men.
So - so far, so demeaning. Of course, after a while, I started to think that no-one was taking me seriously, and also I was bored. So I strode across the room, picked the first man I could find – this was Wattleseed - and kissed him for over a minute. Then I left. Now, any woman would just accept this for the fun it was and move on, yes? Not this person. This male person.
So then I looked across to find him leching and slobbering his way towards me. Like men will always do, he’d misread the signals.
“Hey, I wondered if you maybe wanted a drink or something?”
So I tried to ignore him, to put him out of his childish masculine embarrassment.
So I ignored him again. A bit annoyed now.
“LOOK”, I burst out. “I think it’s quite obvious that I have a boyfriend, okay? So please stop coming over to me and REPEATEDLY trying to have sex with me, and don’t you EVER THINK of sending me any texts or phonecalls, because I won’t answer, alright? People like you make me sick. Why can’t you all just take a hint?” The string on my bikini top came undone, but I managed to tie it back together while still glaring at him.
“Okay, I’m sorry if -“
So that was the last straw.
“SECURITY!”, I screamed. Sadly I did it at that point just between tracks where the music’s a little quieter, so all of the room was turned to look at us. A bouncer grabbed him by the neck and marched him out.
“Sorry about that, darlin’”, said the bouncer. But him I did have sex with later, though. You can’t win them all, can you? But it got me thinking. Why is it always the ones we like the least who cling on the most? Well, maybe not always – sometimes the ones that hang on most become your boyfriend, so that’s a big exception there. I suppose what I’m saying is, “Why is it always the ones we like the least who annoy us the most?” And that’s a rhetorical question, as no-one knows the answer.
So later, I picked up “Moby Dick”. It turns out that that book was about something entirely different to what I thought. I was expecting something that, even if not involving actual dicks, I could use as an allegory for my relationships. Turns out I can’t. Except maybe I’m the whale, and all of the men on boats are trying to capture (have sex with) me, and I’m trying to escape (most of them) because I’m not all that into them. But then in Moby Dick the whale kills them all and drags everyone below the sea in a giant whirlpool and everyone dies. Well, maybe that still works.
Don’t try to harpoon me, right? Cos I’m a massive whale.
Until next time,