For a first date, the evening was moving along beautifully. Real casual: a slice of pizza and a movie. I had decided to wear my leather jacket over a light winter sweater, with a pair of chunky, librarianesque boot heels–because what’s sexier than a librarian from the wrong side of the tracks, ya feel me?
The dialogue was fantastic; we reminisced about growing up in the 90s, expressed our great obsession admiration for Jay-Z and Beyonce respectively, and all around just seemed to make each other laugh. Eventually we were discussing our professional aspirations, as you do on a first date, and he said one of the sexiest things I have heard in a great while:
I think my honest to god dream job is to find a sugah mama and be a stay at home dad.
I can’t tell you why this turned me on the way that it did, but the thought of this baby-faced 29 year old as Mister Mom with a burp cloth on his shoulder and a frying pan in his hand brought a smirk to my red-painted lips. He winked at me confidently and excused himself to the restroom. My left eyebrow arched inquisitively. He was playing to my career woman ego, and it was working.
Once you move past the awkward dating dance, and actually become intimate with another person, everything changes. At 28, I’ve dated enough guys to know the type of person I’m drawn to, the type of person I actually need and, most importantly, the type of person I want to be. But, it doesn’t end there. When I finally found a person I’m compatible with, a whole new set of complications arose.
I moved in with my boyfriend a little over a year ago – he was my very first domestic partner, and I his. Before I made the plunge, my seemingly romantic decision was shot down by countless cryptic warnings on the woes of living with a guy. “You will constantly be cleaning up after his disgusting habits!” He is neater than I am. “He will expect you to cook for him all the time.” He cooks for me regularly. “He will try to control everything, even what type of peanut butter you buy.” We both prefer almond butter.
I am a feminist.
Personally, I think anyone—man or woman—with a brain should be a self-proclaimed feminist. WTF?! isn’t exactly the forum for ranting about human trafficking or maternal health, so I’ll rattle off a few reasons closer to homepage: If a guy has any sort of performance issues, it’s worthy of medical attention and ads on the subway, but if a woman can’t orgasm during sex, well, she’s just a woman. Or, the age-old question: Why are men who sleep around pimps, but women who sleep around sluts? And why is “pimp” positive, but “slut” negative?
But despite my confidence in feminism, it is this same outlook that has given me trouble in the World of Dating. After all, how can I demand that men treat me as their equal counterpart, but simultaneously hope for preferential treatment on dates?
And so, at least for 4+ years in New York, I eschewed romance. Or rather, I accepted its absence with a smile and successfully convinced myself that I didn’t care. Sure, we can meet in Hell’s Kitchen and walk till we find a place. No need for you to plan anything. Sure, we can split the bill. I’m an independent, working woman. Sure, you can text, gchat, Facebook message, or email me. I don’t need to hear the sound of your voice.
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