The Dating Game (Part I)

“I’ve decided that I’m going to be celibate for an entire year.” “Are you going to be celibate because you’re anti-sex or because you’re anti-men?” I looked peculiarly at my therapist. It took me a minute to diagnose that question. To dissect it piece by piece and examine what she was asking. It was as if you were sticking your hand over a flame. The closer you got realizing that this question was actually valid, the closer you got to the flame. Once it hits you, you burn. You pull you hand back quickly. “No. I’m not anti-men.” “Are you sure you aren’t weaponizing sex to avoid getting close with men?” At this point my therapist had thrown me in the flames and obviously didn’t care I was burning alive across from her. This conversation is what I’m pretty sure had just occurred before someone conjured the phrase “If you can’t take the heat, get out of the kitchen.”

Our session continued and ended. I honestly can’t tell you what that session was about, but that one question stuck with me. Like an anchor to a ship, it weighed me down. I called a friend immediately after and told her the same opening lines for this piece. All she could say was “Damn, well are you?” Was I anti-men? I was a proud member of the “Niggas Ain’t Shit” club, and I firmly believed the quote. I had developed a sense that eventually no matter how charming a young man was, that eventually there was a flaw. Not smaking or snoring. But “fuck nigga tendencies.” Eventually the calls and texts would slow then stop. He’d disappear. He’d become rude, uncaring, uninterested. He’d be a whore. A flaw would present itself. It was a cycle. Cupcake phase in the beginning. Everything is perfect. You can brag on this one, and the second you let your guard down, he flips. The charm is gone and the negro is full fledged in fuck boy mode. “Maybe it’s just the guys you pick.” Well let’s argue. I had “talked” (I hate this generation) to a nice variety of young men. Even expanded the age gap one time to see if maturity ever hits. The pessimistic answer: it never does. The realist answer: it never does. I could write a novel on the young men of Nashville, TN, even jump states and I found no one to break the mold of that cycle. So no it couldn’t just be me. Not my taste, not my type. Just men. That was how they were. So the philosophy became: Guard your heart. Have no expectations. Know that this will not end well. Hold on, when the waters get rough, remove yourself before the crash. I had become so good at this philosophy I once ended something via text and quickly deleted the number so I couldn’t hit him with an argument. Arguments show you care. Arguments are how they are able to get you back. Don’t argue. Less paragraphs. More “oks” or “damn that’s crazy”, better yet more leaving them on read and on to the next. If you can’t beat them. Become them.

While reflecting on who I had become, my therapist was right. I was anti-men. Men disgusted me. I was angry at all of them. I categorized all of them, and the fact that the ones I encountered did fit the mold of the cycle did not help subdue my anger. Was I becoming an old hag at the ripe age of 22??? Destined to live alone. No husband? No kids? Alone? I rationalized with myself that I was just taking a break. A break to find me. A break to figure out why I attracted the wrong guy and a break to realize true warning signs of when to leave. My friends and cousins were telling me I was being too harsh. I should play the dating game. See what I liked and didn’t. Don’t give up on men. All I could think about every time I got this “pick yourself up and try again” speech was the meme of Michael Jordan with “Fuck Them Kids” typed across his face.

I don’t know if the talks got to me or I was sick of spending my own money on food, but I decided to start dating again. I had only one condition. They had to be older. As a student of science, research was my niche. Every novice scientist knows that a basic experiment consists of three trials. I had performed over three trials dating men in my age group so I resolved to aim higher to see how the men down the line lived. Maybe my failed attempt the first time, was just a bum trial. My cousins were against it, but it’s all for science right?