I went out with Ed last Tuesday night. Tuesday nights are guaranteed to spell out unsexy. U – N – Nothing sexy happens on a Tuesday – Ever. Unsexy. We had a nice time, sure. A really fun, great conversation kind of evening. Over a glass of wine and spaghetti, we talked about home and family and college with ease and some humor.
I actually wanted to transfer to another school after freshman year, I said, hoping to be vague about my first year indiscretions which had led me nearly to leave my small university.
Freshman slutties? he asked in reply, assuming me to be one of those girls who’d spent freshman year disrobing half the lacrosse team.
I had been.
No, I wouldn’t say quite that, I said. Because there is no time to reveal to a man that you’re dating that you ever had the ‘slutties’—the first date being the worst of all times to make such a disclosure. We all just make mistakes freshman year. This wasn’t a lie. This was just an omission of truth. Plus. ‘Freshman slutties?’ It doesn’t even have a ring to it. Not like ‘freshman fifteen,' a typical first year weight-gaining phenomenon I had also understood well. I’ll think on it.
The next day it came to me. Frosh floozies! It was perfect. It had alliteration. It had pizzazz. I texted my inventive catchphrase to Ed. He’d surely appreciate my ingenuity a day later.
That’s great, he wrote back. Glad to hear you’re still thinking about it. But I think we could get a little dirtier.
WHAT?!
At what point had I indicated that I was ‘that kind of girl?!’ Had my mere allusion to sex the evening before made him think that I was a promiscuous, loose, sexting type of lady?? I was insulted. I was offended by his presumption about my character. I mean, I am a sexter when the mood strikes and the situation warrants it. But for godsake, at least a kiss usually precedes that kind of raunchy writing.
I asked a male friend about my predicament this weekend. A lovely, respectful, married man whose opinion I trust. Well, you brought up sex, he said. The conversation which followed was inconsequential. What it came down to, it seemed, is that a girl’s not safe mentioning even the word sex around a virile man. He will mistake this for an advance. He will mistake you for the kind of girl who slinks around in lingerie and puts her number up on bathroom walls. Ugh. Men, the lesson was learned, are all likeminded and that mind spells S-E-X. Even with a nice girl. Even on a Tuesday.
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