Sexual Education: Consent

I sat down to write this piece a few times over the past couple of months and I just… couldn’t. They say writing about what is hardest is the most rewarding, cathartic, and difficult–explicable by the history of alcoholism and depression within “the arts”, but this topic was another beast. Perhaps because I don’t have an answer to the questions I’ll soon pose. Perhaps because some of the events are still “too fresh”. Perhaps because I’m not sure it’s possible to remedy.   I have a slew of topics that I sit down to cover and know it’s just not the right time to put the words down, let alone edit them, record them, re-listen to them, and for some reason over the last month that’s just how I felt about “this”. Maybe I didn’t know where to start, or how to say it–being a particularly sensitive topic, but it’s a conversation we need to start having more practically. However, I run best on spite and a sprinkle of wickedness and after a rather disappointing discussion with a group of professional and semi-pro athletes, many of whom are college educated black men… …I simply don’t understand what the fuck is wrong with men. These men doubled down on the fact that they think it is COMPLETELY fine to be deceitful, dishonest, and manipulative in order to get a woman into bed because it’s part of “your game”. EVEN AFTER I LOOKED RIGHT AT SOMEONE I’VE KNOWN FOR OVER A DECADE AND SAID, “WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YA’LL. THAT IS NOT “CONSENT”.” This is exactly why dating men for women is America’s “most dangerous game”. (Also, perhaps, why I like it.) Be like Megan Thee Stallion, don’t even tell these little bitches where you live. Don’t give them the damn time of day. They truly think leading with manipulation and dishonesty is absolutely completely fine and says nothing about their character. Ha. ha. Ha.  See, this is why I sleep well knowing all of the men I fuck will be haunted by the memory of me for years to come. I am content with knowing I’ll be victorious in the long game. At some point, whether that moment is while they’re taking a stroll through the park with their future wives, seeing a long blonde ponytail swish past in a breeze, perhaps the moment they hear the scream of a ghoul, accompanied by the melodious, maniacal cackle of a gaggle of witches bounding around in character for halloween, or the psychologically disturbing thriller that shatters box office records, they will one day think of me and recognize the power they missed out on due to sheer negligence. I smirk mercilessly knowing those days will come and I will be unphased, unaware, yet all the wiser because it is bound to occur. It is just so. (Unless, of course, they have a horribly disfiguring accident and the TBI makes them intellectually incoherent but the greatest likelihood is the former).  I’m not sure whether it was fresh off the remnants of Strider turning out to be a manipulative drunk sociopath. Seriously. Not an exaggeration. He actually admitted this to me. (Which, I was like… wow… the self awareness. What a perk.) If I die in Atlanta, let me direct you to his 70’s style retro house where he probably has women’s bodies buried in the vents like “Disturbia”. Kid has some issues. On to the next. Or the utter confusion at why the MLS player who ate me out for a solidly wonderful week and made it clear exactly how much of a “foodie” he was, would ever think JUST his penis was some kind of gift to my vagina (?). (Although, seriously…the work ethic? Commendable. Get yourself a people pleaser, ladies. Even if their stats say