The other day I was speaking to a friend and he told me that he saw my ex-boyfriend on-campus, at his university. He approached him and they started talking. When yours truly came up in conversation my ex said, and I quote, “She plays hard to get, but she wants it.” I am at once confused and offended by this statement. The implication that I am “hard to get” is, frankly, insane. I would love to be “got!” I most certainly want it! Why else would I interact with men? What more could they possibly have to offer me?
This interaction between two men I haven’t spoken to in over a year led me to spiral into terrified confusion: had I been giving off the wrong impression all these years? How many late-night grinds at the club had I missed out on? How many shitty men had I lost, never to be seen again! The thought was too much for me to bear.
In a panic, I cry out to my boyfriend: “Baby, I want it! You know that, right?” To which he responds, “What the fuck—” to which I respond by stripping in the living room to the sound of “Boys” by Charli XCX because he must know I want it. Every man from now on must know! I cannot bear another wasted conversation with a man knowing that he thinks I am genuinely interested in anything beyond what is in his pants.
In my head, I start going through everything I’ve ever done, desperate for signs that I had, in fact, made my sole intentions with the opposite sex clear. It wasn’t that hard for several of my ex-boyfriend’s friends to make out with me while we were together (not yet exclusively), right? And at high school parties it wasn’t that hard for subpar men to give me subpar kisses by the subpar DJ, right? I sigh, trying to reassure myself: perhaps it wasn’t that I was hard to get, but that he simply can no longer get it. No matter how many different ways he tries, or how many people he smack talks me to — he cannot get it. And trust me, it’s not that hard.