(Sup? I’m still not sure I’m doing tumblr right, but I have a new blog, where I already posted this- resistingmarriage.tumblr.com - but in case ya missed it, here it is.)
I had three chances to get laid last week, and I’ll be honest- I really wanted to. I can tell, because I have three types of shower gel in my shower. One that smells like a Laura Ashley dress converted to an aroma, (good to use before a trip to Grandma’s house,) one that I only use because I got it for free, so there’s no sense in buying more soap until it’s gone, and one that smells like Raspberry AND Vanilla combined! It’s so delish. I know I want to get laid when I hop in to the shower and use that one. (Or if I hop in the shower at all.)
Obviously last week was a super bust. I think my bing bang started to build a fence around itself after that date. And I did meet up with an ex-Tinder a few days ago- I won’t tell you which one, but I can confirm he still looks like Steve Burton from General Hospital. But we’re definitely just buddies. It’s not kinky. However, I also had a date with an old friend of mine, whom I haven’t seen in ages. I’m not really sure if it was technically a date, but we definitely locked down plans to grab drinks together. I was really looking forward to it. We actually slept together a long time ago, so in the back of my mind I thought, “well… we’re both currently single… so it could happen again…” Plus, the bonus of sleeping with someone you’ve already slept with is that your numbers don’t go up. It’s a repeat offense. Deluxe.
The “date” occurred as most Toronto “dates” do. Two people walking through the city, one pushing his/her bike, while the other person reminisces about the bike they recently had stolen. We stop at a few Bloordale bars. (Bloordale- The new Queen West.) The catch up session is going good. We discuss being single, give each other advice on what would improve our “singlehood,” all the while dropping signals that we don’t mean with each other, obvi.
We take a seat at Northwood, one of my favourite spots in the hood. Sometimes I even write there, cuz the table in the back left corner has an outlet under it. The beers are good and hoppy. My favourite kind. My “date” is flirting with the bartender, which is fine, cuz technically, this is not a date. She drops the “B” bomb, subtly bringing up the fact that she is happily taken. He still gives her his card.
Now that I am for sure friend-zoned, I’m happy to get on with normal, platonic friend bonding stuff. I begin to babble, about my horny, yet epic fail of a week.
“I’m telling you, there’s a certain time of the month that women are horny. We can’t control it. It’s not the time of the month we’re best known for, but I’m pretty sure it’s the same time of the month chicks trying to get pregnant are really givin ‘er, ya know? It’s those middle days, right in the middle of your cycle. One week you’re fine, going to bed with Netflix as usual, the next, you wonder if it’s possible to sit on a doorknob. It’s so weird.”
And that’s when he said that one sentence that no girl wants to hear…
“That’s cuz you’re a whore.”
It hits me like a stun gun. The word paralyzes me… I guess I get it… I get why you might call me that. I don’t always make perfect choices in my personal life. I’ve been on over 50 Tinder dates in the last year and I obviously didn’t shy away from telling everyone. And I know I have a perverted sense of humour, that maybe invites people to think I can handle being called this word, but I can’t…
I have no idea how to respond to this statement… (Accusation?) I figure I have three options:
- Laugh it off. Maybe use proper Improv skills by “yes, and…” -ing him. “Yah, and keep your eyes open for my new show Whoreders!”
- Get super defensive.
- Never hang out with someone who calls me this again.
But if you’ve ever seen me do improv, you know I can actually stutter in the moment. I’m not always sure I’m saying the right thing. So in my most earnest Elle Woods voice, I respond with,
“Umm… I don’t really think I am. I know I went out with a billion guys last year, but I barely slept with any of them, and the dudes I slept with are actually awesome. I’m quite proud of them… And just because I talk about sex openly, possibly all the time, possibly too much, doesn’t make me a whore… at least I think…”
“I was just kidding!”
Oh… that was just a joke… of course. I’m just a comedian, who’s used to being surrounded by people who write such brilliant stuff, I’m hysterically laughing. Now you come along, impairing me with this vision that people see me as a disposable vessel for a man’s penis. But to you, that’s a joke…
I don’t really know why the word Whore hurts so much, but it just does. Theres other words like it, but they don’t bother me. My friends and I growing up used to call each other sluts all the time. We were all hard-core virgins at the time, so it didn’t really make any sense. Just the thought of sex made us giggle to death. My friend Tania even remodeled a Barbie and named her “Slut It Up” Barbie. Then she gave it to my cousin for Christmas. We laughed our asses off, plus we finally found a good reason to tease Barbie’s hair. Then you gotskank, hussy, ho, cum guzzler… I hate to say it, but I can handle those ones. If I had my choice of sexually active female catcalls, I’d personally go with “Floozy.” I like that one. Kind of sounds cute, like I didn’t mean to do it. Even “Hoochy Mama” has its catchiness. (Thank you, Seinfeld.)
But Whore? I can’t… Sorry. That’s just me.
I googled “Whore,” just to be sure “Woman who loves Taylor Swift, fancy cheese, and only makes minimum payments on credit card bills, who would ideally like to have sex at least once a month” didn’t pop up. (Cuz then I’d be in trouble.) But this is what popped up:
(K, that little accent circonflexe thingy is supposed to go on top of the “o” but I can’t figure out how to get it there with my keyboard.)
1. a prostitute.
synonyms: work as a prostitute, sell one’s body, sell oneself, on the streets
I don’t wanna burst his bubble, but I’ve never even sold jewelry on the streets. Great. Now we have women who don’t know the definition of “feminist,” we have men who don’t know the definition of “whore.” How are we ever going to perfect our compliments/insults if we can’t grasp simple English? No wonder everybody at work looks confused when I call them, “Dildos.” (I’m calling you PLEASURE PIECES, MY LOVES!)
Don’t worry. I didn’t start crying and run out of the bar. (I had a full beer.) We continued onwards with the night, but when we ran into my date’s friends, I decide to make my exit. I make an excuse that I can’t drink more because I have to bike home. (A bike can be your best wingman. Plus he’s super fun to ride at the end of the night.)
When I arrive home, he texts me his address. He wants me to come over for “fun times.”
I politely decline.
Because I’d hate for someone to call me a whore.