We were somewhere around our second bottle of wine when I made the startling realization that Fake Winehouse’s unexpected British accent had faded into something typical and American. When I had picked her up that night for drinks at The Reptile Zoo, I told her I wasn’t expecting a British accent. She asked what I was expecting, and I didn’t have a good answer. You exchange a few messages with a girl on OKCupid and agree to meet for drinks; what is there to expect?
But it was when the accent disappeared entirely that I realized the true depth of the situation. I had cut right to the heart of it and was sitting on the main nerve; Fake Winehouse was a fucking lunatic. And I’m a stupid motherfucker who likes that kind of thing. Yeah… that’s me, the normal girls are boring type; I want the curve ball. I want the crazy girl; I want the hyper-emotional; I want the bizarre.
So of course the unexpected accent disappearing entirely from a girl who wonders why I think it’s funny that she’s “never been to Europe” is right up my alley. When the bill comes, I ask Winehouse how much she’s gonna throw in and she tells me that she didn’t bring any money. This was very funny to her. The accent was back. Son of a bitch.
As a girl, if you’re not gonna pay, this is how to do it. None of that passive aggressive shit. Say you don’t have money and think it’s all a big laugh. She got me there. Winehouse says something like, “well, do you want to fuck me or not?”
I say no, and we leave. No is always the right answer, if you didn’t already know that. That’s the game. The game is sub-textual. Your job is to frustrate and confuse. This makes Fake Winehouse whine about always getting what she wants, and how men don’t say no to her. She continues to spout gibberish. I allow it. This is funny to me. Always say no. Women don’t understand no.
We get back to my real shithole of an apartment, and Winehouse wants to be fucked. I concede- and why not? Crazy girls are the best in bed. I mean, it’s a cliche for a reason.
This is the new American dream. Humping as the American dream. Gone are the days of marrying young. Our stock is bred for college and a meandering twenties of hedonistic exploration. Well, personal choice, right? My married friends are caught up in the worst of relationship dynamics. She’s the boss kind of shit; keep your success under the radar, divorce can be tempting. I was born into this. You try to create meaning where you can; you fuck like a wild animal. An entire generation of men as refugees from Progressivism. Horatio Alger snorting the last remnants of the sexual revolution on the way down with the ship.
Winehouse wants to stay over, and I say no. No. Women don’t understand no. Winehouse is pissed.
And in a flash, reality hit hard. This was heavy, too heavy for me to handle at 3AM on an Monday morning. I was confused, paralyzed with horror, and would only agree to deal with my new wretched reality in terms of fantasy; an analogy. What happens when Batman ends up in bed with the Joker? It sounded like a riddle. I had made a grave error in judgment.
I didn’t think much of when she asked me to retrieve her glasses after sex. She wanted to collect herself, this much was certain, but it was when I got a better look at her glasses that I felt a deep sense of dread.
The dark reality of the situation; I had a godamn pair of problem glasses pointed straight at my head and the fucker was cocked and loaded. How could I not have noticed? I decide to slow down; to massage things. Let’s explore the issue. She seemed upset; we can talk. Winehouse was a therapist; she’s a professional. I asked her what her major was in college and she said
Women’s studies. Was this for real? Was I dreaming? I had read about this kind of thing on the Internet but I didn’t think it could actually happen to me. Winehouse knew what she was saying; she had a very deliberate grin, I was sure.
I was too smug to let her stay over. I wanted to think this was all insignificant. She was like an angry dog and I couldn’t let my fear show. I had to be pack leader. On the car ride taking her home, she mentioned a friend who had been raped because her boyfriend fucked her and then broke up with her. That was rape, she explained. Son of a bitch. She got me again. Women don’t understand the word no. They find it aggressive and hostile. She was good, really, you had to hand it to her. I am a stupid motherfucker.
In nearly every conversation about the Jodi Arias murder of Travis Alexander, after everyone agrees that murder is awful and unjustifiable, it is inevitably mentioned that Travis was just using Jodi sexually, and that soundbite is left alone to hang in the air. It becomes up to the individual to assess how justifiable it is for a woman to brutally murder a man for refusing to commit to a monogamous relationship after having consensual sex.
This transforms the Arias murder from something binary- she stabbed a naked man thirty times, slit his throat, and shot him in the head unprovoked and therefore she’s aggressively guilty- to a nuanced matter of her degrees of guilt.
Lifetime even made an awful TV movie about Arias which served as a thinly veiled revenge porn; Lifetime, the network for women. We are supposed to understand the Arias case as two wrongs; one only being somewhat more wrong depending on your perspective. Lifetime’s perspective is immediately apparent in the film’s title: “Dirty Little Secret“- a reference to their relationship, not the murder.
The Arias story resonates with women because women want to be the gatekeepers of commitment as they are the gatekeepers of sexuality and reproduction. Women also possess the socially endowed ability of selective agency; they feel entitled to the rights a man possesses, but if they’re caught doing something naughty, they should be exonerated because of reasons. This dichotomy can be seen in the macro public arena, or in small, personal micro examples.
I don’t think I’ll ever hear from Fake Winehouse again, and I doubt she’s mad enough to call Fake Rape on me, but that ball is squarely in her court and that’s a frightening idea. Welcome to a world that Travis Alexander didn’t live to see; a world where you can’t tell a woman “no.”
Makes you wonder who the real rapists are after all.
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