Your compliments look good on me.
29. "Say My Name (Max Liese Remix)," Odesza, featuring Zyra, 2014.
Polyamory puts you in a unique position as a woman. You attract and repel, often simultaneously. Some men sneer at a woman in this position and you'd better believe that given half the chance, they'd also love to fuck that woman. I'm guessing it has something to do with entitlement, like if someone's up for having sex with more than one person, that must mean they want you, too.
Off the top of my head, I've been propositioned by: a married man, a former coworker, a stranger on the Internet, a close friend of a boyfriend.
The married man has a child. He attends church regularly. He uses the word "slutty" to refer to women in shirts he thinks are cut too low. He complained recently when a beautiful woman hit on him. It seems she threatened his self-control.
The former coworker refers to himself as a "recovered manwhore." He used to screw a different woman every night, but he's past all that. That's what he told me while trying to hit me up recently. He was known for throwing parties while he worked here and everybody went. Except me, because I was never invited. Not once. Not a single time. Not even as an afterthought. But having recently learned more about me, he's decided that we should hang out and get tanked and see where the night takes us. Alone.
The stranger messaged me privately. "I've been looking at your page. I bet you're just pretending to be in an open relationship to seem cool. People are so fake. Hit me up if you're not fake. We can have some fun."
The boyfriend's friend was disgusted. "There's no way your boyfriend is okay with this arrangement," he said. "People just don't operate that way." He felt I should feel guilty, that I was cheating, that I was incapable of love, that I was a bad person. He made sure to tell me these things in no uncertain terms. Within fifteen minutes, he informed me coolly, "The next time I see you, I'm going to bend you over something, grab your tits, and fuck you until you're screaming."
And so it is that this song, with all its imperfections, caught my attention earlier this year. "Nobody knows it better / Than that girl in the corner with the scarlet letter."
I held the door open for a woman with a cast on crutches earlier. She kept telling me how pretty my skirt was as she slowly fought her way out of the bathroom. Feeling that I should do more than say, "Thank you," over and over, I finally added, "That's very sweet of you, because it's almost ten years old now." "You can tell it's from another time," she said, "but I couldn't tell when. The ribbon around the waist is so different from anything you'd see today." I marveled at the thought of "vintage mid-2000s" clothes.
Click to viewPolyamory puts you in a unique position as a woman. You attract and repel, often simultaneously. Some men sneer at a woman in this position and you'd better believe that given half the chance, they'd also love to fuck that woman. I'm guessing it has something to do with entitlement, like if someone's up for having sex with more than one person, that must mean they want you, too.
Off the top of my head, I've been propositioned by: a married man, a former coworker, a stranger on the Internet, a close friend of a boyfriend.
The married man has a child. He attends church regularly. He uses the word "slutty" to refer to women in shirts he thinks are cut too low. He complained recently when a beautiful woman hit on him. It seems she threatened his self-control.
The former coworker refers to himself as a "recovered manwhore." He used to screw a different woman every night, but he's past all that. That's what he told me while trying to hit me up recently. He was known for throwing parties while he worked here and everybody went. Except me, because I was never invited. Not once. Not a single time. Not even as an afterthought. But having recently learned more about me, he's decided that we should hang out and get tanked and see where the night takes us. Alone.
The stranger messaged me privately. "I've been looking at your page. I bet you're just pretending to be in an open relationship to seem cool. People are so fake. Hit me up if you're not fake. We can have some fun."
The boyfriend's friend was disgusted. "There's no way your boyfriend is okay with this arrangement," he said. "People just don't operate that way." He felt I should feel guilty, that I was cheating, that I was incapable of love, that I was a bad person. He made sure to tell me these things in no uncertain terms. Within fifteen minutes, he informed me coolly, "The next time I see you, I'm going to bend you over something, grab your tits, and fuck you until you're screaming."
And so it is that this song, with all its imperfections, caught my attention earlier this year. "Nobody knows it better / Than that girl in the corner with the scarlet letter."
I held the door open for a woman with a cast on crutches earlier. She kept telling me how pretty my skirt was as she slowly fought her way out of the bathroom. Feeling that I should do more than say, "Thank you," over and over, I finally added, "That's very sweet of you, because it's almost ten years old now." "You can tell it's from another time," she said, "but I couldn't tell when. The ribbon around the waist is so different from anything you'd see today." I marveled at the thought of "vintage mid-2000s" clothes.