He will never write a song about you: New uses for hickeys, the perils of hooking up with guitarists

So, there was going to be a Part 3 to my existential crisis, which had definitely run its course, and it was a really healthy piece about self reflection and growth; but you know what? Nobody cares about that. And if you do, you deserve all the kindness and to find someone’s wallet, which you would likely return, continuing the cycle of good karma I may never be a part of. (Just kidding! I don’t endorse theft! Please don’t cancel me! Return all wallets, unless it belongs to a despised politician or ex.) 

Instead, this reflection, albeit late, will focus on my deepest despair, my darkest misery — dating cisgender men. 


Why do it? Why bother? Do I not love myself? I felt a small fire under my ass, different from the usual fire resulting from only consuming spicy foods and hot chips (which keeps the butthole toned), and suddenly thought: “I want to be loved, or at least get really good consistent dick from someone who isn’t married or embarrassed to be seen with me in the daylight and will feed me his cum out of a dogbowl.” 

I did not know this was like Squid Games for trannies. I donned my oversized coat to make me look smaller, applied my most demure-looking makeup and set out amidst my ennui to ride the carousel of dick the world presented to me. I began responding to DMs I’d let sit and invitations I’d declined out of fear, and hoooooly shit. I should’ve stayed home. 

Just because *I* am in therapy and attempting to work on myself does not mean other people are: that is the lesson. Your self-acceptance and acceptance of others, your maturity and communication skills–all of this will be useless against the hordes of people with unresolved mommy/daddy issues (disclaimer: i am a huge proponent of fatherless behavior), communication issues, and gaslighting tendencies. It turns out even moderately intelligent dogs have higher standards.

I had committed a small atrocity during the summer (putting someone else’s husband on a leash), which prompted my therapist to advise me: “Why don’t you just get your own?” At the time, I thought this advice was revelatory. Why don’t I? I’ve healed emotionally, I’ve recovered from trauma, my maladaptive coping skills have diminished. I even almost went on a date with some random guy who kept trying to get me to go hiking (which I could and would never do because I do not own lesbian shoes, and neither do the people who would have to form my search party). So I decided to remain as open to possibilities as possible, for one as jaded as I. 

For a long time, I established a very mean girl-esque persona to keep people away from me because I attach to anyone and everyone immediately and have an unbreakable habit of believing anything men who are at least 5’11 tell me. (It probably doesn’t help that I describe my fashion sense as “modern damsel,” which implies I need rescue and am vulnerable.) In my attempt to change my outlook on people, I softened considerably, which made people think, I suppose, that it would be easy to manipulate me. (Spoiler: it was). 

Without my veil of haterism to keep men and their icky thoughts at bay, I ended up going home with a tall horny stranger which, for the record, was absolutely not my fault because he was tall and had sad puppy eyes and what was I supposed to do? Say no? That’s illegal in the United States, and as a patriotic cisgender American caucasian woman, I cannot defy the laws of the Eagleland or I will be burned at the stake and diagnosed with what four out of five Japanese doctors would describe as ‘hysteria’.

In my attempts to keep said tall man, I covered his neck in hickies, which my friend described as the ultimate trashy strategy. It was also seasonally appropriate (vampires are very trendy right now) and effective, because until the bruises went away he would not be able to sleep with other people, because who, realistically, is going to have sex with a man covered in hickies they did not produce?  I also threw in a ball gag, and somewhere in the midst of passing out drunk, used a leash? Yes, the leash was there, much like the delusion I would be texted back for my efforts.

In the end I was left only with body bruises — the first I have ever received, as I am a delicate maiden — and a bruised ego. And it was, obviously, my fault. He had certainly told me he was a guitarist, which is all you really need to know to know someone’s going to ghost you. So remember, as winter approaches, and it becomes increasingly difficult to resist the urge to tell someone your pronouns are hole/holeself, perhaps… make sure they aren’t a musician first. You will thank me later. They will never write a song about you. And do not deepthroat guitarists. They do not deserve it. 

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