I am bathing in cum and cocks and quickly established rapport. Arms entwine, I writhe and buck, I swallow jizz like it’s water from The Fountain of Youth.
Some men I’ve written about I have left behind. Some are still orbiting. I am in a holding pattern of desire and the knowledge that I have something they all want: Me. A sexy, forthright, intelligent, kind woman with an insatiable appetite for men and sex and all things hedonistic. I am of high value; dick is abundant and low value.
I wish I can say I coined that phrase, but it was Madeline Holden who did, not me, and Alana Massey wrote a detailed piece about the “Dickonomics of Tinder,” a razor-sharp look into the changes in dating economics in the 20-teens based on that idea: Dick is abundant and low value.
This is not to be confused with men as abundant and low value, because of course men have value, but their need to stick it in, to share it, to wave it in front of my face has very low value. I walk on a ground paved in dicks and have bouquets of them on my bedside table. I’m drowing in dick.
Dating isn’t unlike a very long afternoon spent at the mall dodging the obnoxious foreign men stumping skin care at the kiosks and occasionally climbing a broken escalator; passing the temptation of the grease-infused fare at the Food Court and relentlessly hunting for the pair of jeans that fit just right.
Unlike a day at the mall, however, dating is a lonely affair. No girlfriend can come along to boost your sagging resolve to only buy the pair that fits and not compromise. You must be your own best friend and repeat Dick is abundant and low value and keep looking.
These days I have developed a three-pronged approach to dating and every man I speak with knows it before we ever agree to meet. It goes like this:
I am looking for a kind, intelligent, and well-hung man.
It’s simple and men are blown away. Is it so rare to own such simple needs?
Of course dick size has no correlation to a man’s character, that’s not up for debate, but I refuse to bite if less than all three are in play in one male body. Of course every man seems to think he’s well-hung, but I’m one of those who has actual measurements in mind so I have run into some disappointment there. But because he has also been kind and intelligent I have enjoyed my time with him anyway. It’s almost like getting the wrong order at a 4-star restaurant. I’m still on the winning end of that shit stick.
I also say that in no way does my agreeing to meet up mean that I am meeting for a sexual encounter with a man. The men who come at me with the attitude that I am a prize, something to be earned, will win a chance at speaking with me face to face.
Recently something interesting happened on Tinder. A man said that the picture I had that framed my breasts as the focal point meant (meant!) that I wanted sex.
I asked him if he were serious, explained that it was actually unfortunate cropping and that the picture was really there to illustrate my figure, not my breasts. He confirmed he was completely serious.
I wrote this in response:
Even though I say in my profile it’s not code for anything? So are you saying that had you seen me on the trail that day [in my workout clothes] you’d have thought, “That woman wants sex [because she has breasts and she’s – gasp – not hiding them]”? I understand that a lot of men get confused about when women want to have sex, but don’t confuse consent or intentions with the way her body looks or how you respond to it. I’d also like to add that there’s nothing wrong with looking for sex if that’s what I wanted to do, but there sure is a lot of judgment there if I were, isn’t there?
He un-matched me, but not before I took screen shots of our chat.
I posted the conversation to my Moments (a mechanism through which I can share an image with everyone I’ve matched with for 24-hours) and the Likes began pouring in. Seventy-one in all and I had less than 200 matches at the time, so over a third of the men got what I was saying. In addition to the Likes, lots of thoughtful conversations were had with dozens of men over it. A couple of men said something like, “I didn’t think you were looking for sex. I thought ‘If she ever lets me touch them, I’d like it a lot!'” and others apologized on the man’s behalf.
I was encouraged by the number of feminist responses and the general attitude that they also believed I was allowed to express myself in a way in which might indeed be provocative (it totally was) without being an advertisement for hooking up (it really wasn’t).
Which brings me to my dissoluteness. I am absolutely looking for sex, but not through a single image on Tinder. I reserve the right to use my words and in-person actions to communicate that. It’s somehow unsettling to think that a man would make such a direct connection to an image of my body, a connection that could lead to a very dangerous miscommunication.
Besides, we are all “looking for sex” on some level or another be it tender love-making with The One or a debauched night on someone else’s memory foam bed.
It’s a “wax on, wax off” approach. You come at a sexual, sentient being in an “I will only take what you’re willing to share” kind of way and she will very likely stick around and let you touch her boobs. You come at her like she owes you something because you have dick and she has tits and she will tell you you’re a dipshit and then post your idiocy for all to see.
It’s how we date in the 20-teens.
I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to sustain the level of men I have today, but one thing’s for certain: My value is much higher than any dick and I won’t settle for less than agreement in this. I won’t work to convince you I’m worthy. My value is much too high to waste my time.
[Ed. Note: I realize that this post has pockets of ambiguity; it was hastily written. To be clear (as I’ve addressed in a comment) I’m not at all angry with men; I like to think that I understand some of them, even. This post is about finally believing my value is higher than what I valued it before, that I’m allowed to have my needs, that I’m allowed to be discriminating. It’s not me vs. men. It’s me vs. me.]