I moved to Montreal two and a half months ago. Before I moved here, I promised myself that I was entering my hot girl era. No more moping over the boy from home who texts me when he’s horny or high, or both. No more yearning for a significant other. No more neediness. This decision was catalysed by the reality of my situation – what is the point of looking for romance in a city you’re living in for five months? So, I thought, let’s have fun. I flirted and reorganised my dating profiles and generally ‘put myself out there’. But something went wrong. I started feeling sad.
When I texted my last sexual partner asking if he wanted to hang out again, he replied ‘I met a girl last night and I like her so I think we’ll leave it at that Evie’. It had been two days. In the two days since we’d slept together, he had found the love of his life and wanted nothing more to do with me. Suddenly my hot girl era didn’t feel very hot. I felt used and empty and cheap. But I also didn’t feel like I deserved to feel those emotions because that is what I had signed up for. I had advertised myself as available and apathetic so hurt and indignation felt unwarranted. The guy before that ghosted me. He was a fucking anti-vaxxer with a life-sized tattoo of a sushi knife inked down his arm for Christ’s sake. So why did I crave his attention? Why do I still crave his attention? Even just a one-word text would be nice.
It’s hard to avoid thinking that I am the common denominator in all of these situations, that I am the one scaring these men away. Obviously, this is a toxic train of thought. It may be worth reflecting on shitty taste but not a shitty personality, never a shitty personality. We all have bad habits; things we do that we know we shouldn’t. Yet we do them anyway because it makes us happy temporarily. Sex is like a drug: there’s a dopamine rush and a comedown. My hot girl era has finally got me questioning whether the comedown is worth the dopamine rush. Obviously, everyone is different, some people are more thick-skinned than others. The danger is trying to kid yourself that you’re something you’re not. I have realised I am not a ‘chill’ girl; I am really not okay with being fucked and chucked. But it’s not just about being ‘cool’ or ‘chill’, it’s about deserving more than the bare minimum. Every time one of these useless blokes inevitably disappoints me, he chips away another tiny part of my self-worth. Then, in an effort to replace that self-worth I seek out a different version of the SAME MAN, men who are walking cigarettes, in the figurative and literal sense.
A few days ago, I started chatting to a guy on Tinder, a remodelled replica of every ghost of my sexual past – a tattooed, mulleted, stoner ‘synth musician’ (musician being a vastly generous title). My friend laughed and warned ‘the red flags are there, sweetie’.
Suddenly I realised, I’m not sure I have the energy to be treated like trash again.
I’m not saying we should stomp on the hands and hearts of men or that we should all join nunneries (quite frankly I’m not sure they’d have me). I’m also not saying ignore what you want. I have been hurt by people I didn’t realise had the power to hurt me until it was too late. It will no doubt happen again, as is life. Sex is fabulous and I will probably drunk-dial Mr Synth Musician at some point in the near future. But I think, perhaps, it’s time to start living my best hot girl life and demanding the respect I deserve. These changes don’t happen overnight, but I reckon self-awareness is a pretty solid first step to the beginning of a happy ending.