We were somewhere around our second bottle of wine when I made the startling realization that Amy’s unexpected British accent had faded into something more typical and American. Picking 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?

You’re there because your perceived value matched her barest threshold- stripped to its core through years of careful revision; weathering her expectations down to the essentials that she would have scoffed at as a younger woman- grade-D, but edible, meat- but edible, the part you’d like to emphasize.

She’s there because she wrote back. 

But it was when the accent disappeared entirely that I realized the true depth of the situation: Amy’s out with me because she’s a fucking lunatic. The damaged pair of Air Jordans- manufacturer’s defect– looks okay in pictures, but get up close and you’ll know why they’re on clearance. And I’m the stupid motherfucker who likes that kind of thing; the normal girls are boring type; I want the curve ball; the crazy girl. I want the hyper-emotional; I want the bizarre. So, of course, the 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 Amy how much she’s gonna throw in and she tells me 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- false offers through gritted teeth. Say you don’t have money and think it’s all a big laugh. She got me there. Amy 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 Amy 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 apartment, and Amy wants to be fucked. I concede. My refusal to wear a condom displays my dominance- not that Amy had asked. She demands silence as she climbs on top- this is the only way I’ll cum, she tells me. Fucking in silence; thoughts drifting. Don’t move too much, she insists, it might take a while. This is what people kill and die for.

The new American dream. Gone are the days of marrying young. Our stock is bred for hedonistic exploration. Gotta pump those numbers up. Someday in the distant future, you’ll hit a threshold, arbitrary to others, but a number deeply significant to you. One that eases the mind; that you’ve had enough– wild oats sown. There may not be new land to explore, flags to bury in virgin soil, but enough penetration and you can think you’re a conqueror. An ego large enough to effectively manage a long-term relationship, using every bit of knowledge you’ve picked up along the way to help guide you- even if most of it is horrifying. That’s the plan, if you could manage to stomach it- or maybe just ride the Hindenburg down to its destiny. Marriage is a bad contract anyway; odds skewed toward the house; signed under duress- don’t you love me? An entire generation of men, in hiding, refugees from modernity. Horatio Alger snorting the last remnants of the sexual revolution on the way down with the ship.

Amy wants to stay over and I say “no.” No. Women don’t understand “no.”

And in a flash, reality hits hard. This was too heavy for me to handle at 3 a.m. on a Monday morning. I was confused, paralyzed with horror, and would only agree to deal with my new 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 her asking me to retrieve her glasses after sex. She wanted to collect herself, this much was clear, but it was when I got a better look at the particular pair of glasses that I felt a deep sense of dread. The dark reality of the situation; I had a goddamn 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. Amy 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. Amy 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 it 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 said she had been raped because her boyfriend fucked her and then broke up with her- a misalignment of personal goals; an informal verbal contract broken. This was rape, she explained. Son of a bitch. She got me again. Women don’t understand the word “no.”

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