Retirement Blues

I don’t understand why men are so boring when they want to fuck you.

The man in question is my checklist incarnate. Tall. Clean cut. Boyish charm with the promise of mischief in his eyes that belies his age (within a comfortable two years of me). And so it starts the way things do when an influx of out of towners invade a small-ish city. Busy, well-traveled boy spots local girl. What passes for fliting in 2022 (an exchange of Instagram handles) ensues. His mission is clear: he wants to secure companionship for the night. Mine…less so.

I’m testing a couple of theories.

After living in isolation for the last two years, can I still do this social thing?

Twenty-five year old me is pleased. I am not a dried up spinster bitch, after all. I’m traipsing around downtown Cleveland with a pack of (vetted) strangers seeing where the night leads. I’m reintroducing myself to downtown Cleveland in all its gussied-up glory. The twinkling yellow lights of the Theater District. Our three tall buildings decked out in maroon and gold for our surprisingly good Cavaliers. Not even the skin-ripping lakefront winds can dim its sparkle.

I end up in a bar with Charles Barkley. I shake hands with Kenny Smith. I’m laughing, soaking up conversations about office politics, and watching a group of Gen Z influencers I’ve never seen get stopped for photos every ten minutes. I run into people I used to see when I was a social butterfly. I feel like a clunky caterpillar but the people around me still see wings.

And Mr. Tall and Cute takes occasional breaks from talking shop and tapping away at his phone to tell me how pretty I am.

This leads to the second theory I’m testing.

Am I done with all…THIS?

“This” being the whole men and dating thing. I’d like to call it quits. Jimmy from That Thing You Do! style.

Years ago, me and a friend discussed retiring (or at least taking an extended break) from the game. “Hanging our pussies in the rafters, we called it to the glee of our since-disbanded group chat. Back then, it was an act of exhaustion. “We shouldn’t be TIRED of this at 33.” These days, my body releases a giddy sigh imagining a post-retirement life full of creative and intellectual pursuits, friendships, full nights’ sleep, and multiple self-induced orgasms. My lust for life is as present as it’s ever been. It’s romance in 2022 that dries me out.

My friends argue that I can live my juicy solo life and leave the door open for a Hypothetical Unicorn Man. I cannot. Finding joy in my life exactly as it is requires total commitment. What they call “possibility,” I call a distraction; pesky little drafts that draw my attention to that tiny crack I’ve left in the door just in case someone walks through.

But flirtation is part of socializing and in testing my atrophied muscles, I’ve decided to play Princess Jasmine on a Magic Carpet Ride for the night. So, here I am. Sipping Jameson and wondering if Aladdin will say anything more compelling than “I couldn’t stop staring at you.”

He did not.

Which brings us back to the original question: why are men so boring when they want to fuck you?

Is it the outcry of “I DEMAND ABSOLUTE WORSHIP” from every corner of the internet that tells men endless gassing, instead of genuine interest and curiosity, is the way into a woman’s vagina heart?

Maybe it’s this new iteration of my body. Do the tits womanly curves make them forget I have a brain?

Or have two years of reading smutty romance books warped my perception of what’s charming/engaging in real life?

Whatever the case, a sport I once enjoyed and excelled at has become tiresome and tedious. With every empty compliment, I want to slow blink and say “Got it. You think I’m fine. Thanks. What else?”

Retirement looks better every day.

Published by

a girl named rob

I used to be "skinny black girl." I'm now a slender woman on the other side of 35 with no new moniker who is not quite interested in writing under her given name. Still writing my life, a day (or some months) at a time. Also, still black.

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