Ernie and I had a lengthy conversation the other day, as we do almost every day, because we can never just get by with the “hey, how’s it going” check-in and have to complain about how much work we have, and boys, and The Big Issues abroad in the world today. We spent the bulk of this particular conversation handicapping the likelihood of a given boy, who had asked for her number at a party and had programmed it into his cell phone under the name “Frenchy,” actually using said number to call her. After forty-five minutes of exhaustive discussion of various factors both aggravating and mitigating, we finally settled on a double-or-nothing bet: either the boy would call in two days, or he wouldn’t call at all. It’s kind of sad that we’d spent three quarters of an hour arguing the fine points of the subject, but even sadder, we’ve had the same conversation in different permutations thousands of times. Why? Because we still do not understand how boys think.

I shouldn’t say that, because I try to give boys the benefit of the doubt and assume that, in nine out of ten situations, they think the same way that I think – and because, every time I come up against a guy behaving badly and think to myself, “Typical boy,” I can also remember an instance in which either I or one of my friends behaved the same way. So, let me emend that statement. I do not understand how boys think, when they think that we think something that we actually don’t, and I do not understand how boys don’t think when maybe they should, and I do not understand how boys came to believe that we think all the time about things that not all of us think about. Confused yet? Me too. So I’ll just slide this soapbox over here, climb up onto it with a cup of coffee, and set about correcting a few mistaken impressions about the way we girls think, and afterwards, maybe all we heterosexual boys and girls can get together and buy the world a Coke and stand-up comedians will stop it with the toilet-seat jokes.

I’ll begin with flirting. I did not just jounce off the back of the melon wagon; believe it or not, I have already figured out that you did not look at me, intuit somehow that I, as a fellow English major, would prove a sparkling conversationalist, and cross the bar with your bottle of Rolling Rock to have a dialogue about the Romantic poets. Also, I know I have breasts. Guess what? I heard about them before you did. I see them every day in the shower. It’s okay to look, to glance at them – I wear a 36D, it’s tough to avoid. It’s like the elephant in the room. Two elephants, little ones, wearing lace. I understand. That said, my sternum has zero interest in your line, so don’t address yourself to my chest. Check me out if you like – I’ll do it to you, I assure you – but you’ll have to drag your eyes up above my shoulders and spend a little face time with my eyes and hair. I don’t tweeze my brows for fun, people. Make eye contact.

And make the line convincing. Again, I know why you came over here. They didn’t bus me in a from a convent. Just talk to me. Throw me a compliment. Express an interest. Throw a few topics against the wall and see what sticks. Don’t ask me what I do for a living if you don’t care; don’t ask me where I live if you don’t want to see the place. If after five minutes you want to chew your arm off, say you have to go to the bathroom and drive on through, but whatever you do, give me some credit. I’m biologically programmed to get laid, the same as you. Acknowledge this. Flirt. Don’t try to get all Woody Allen with it – I know where you came from and I see where you’re going. Come. Go. It’s fine. We’re all on the same page here.

So you’ve decided to stick around for another beer. Great. Warning: I’m smart. Don’t get all shirty when you find that out. You don’t have to want a smart girl, but you do have to keep your passive-aggressive comments about my Ivy-League degree to yourself. It isn’t 1954. I don’t have to come off all vacant so I can trap one of you, thus earning the privilege of coming off all vacant and not showing you up in front of your friends for the rest of my natural-born life, so if you can’t keep up, don’t expect me to drop back and keep you company. I know a lot about baseball, too. Women enjoy sports. Get over it. Besides, relationships start off with more tenuous things in common than a mutual confusion as to the reason for Wally Backman’s existence. I know lots of stuff. But I can act dumb. Not the “please instruct me in the ways of the world, o superior male” kind of dumb, but rather the “let’s eat Swedish fish and walk next to each other on the sidewalk and try to kick each other in the ass” kind of dumb. Don’t think girls should act like that? Yeah, we’ll call you – next! Cringe when a girl belches? Act like girls should cringe when you belch? I didn’t spring fully formed from the head of the Junior League – next! Think all we XX types live in a fart-free world of lavender-powdered undies and Bride magazine? Get therapy – next! It’s the twenty-first century, bro. Get with the program. I don’t act that different from you, and if that grosses you out, perhaps it’s you who has the problem.

Still here? Lovely. Okay, we’ve gone out to the street. We’ve started walking aimlessly around in the city at two in the morning, or maybe we’ve hopped into a cab and we’ve only given the driver one address – whatever. I know I have tattoos and a pretty free attitude and I act pretty aggressive from time to time, but I want you to remember something: I don’t owe you anything. Don’t assume you’ll get some until you’ve already gotten it. If I just want smooches, I’ll take those and no more. If I want more than smooches but no sex, I’ll take that and no more. Learn to hear me. Tell the little head to listen up. You hear “no,” put it away. I won’t say anymore, because you should know better so you probably do. But I ain’t playing. If I want you to stop, stop. You try to go there without permission, I’ll hand your dick back to you. Don’t test me.

But that probably won’t happen. I’ll just assume that we came home and had sex, and the earth probably didn’t move – or not so we noticed – because, really, we barely know each other and whatnot, or maybe we know each other From Around so it’s sort of giggly, or maybe we even know each other A Long Time, so it starts out giggly and then it gets all solemn like a hole is about to open up in the universe or some damn thing . . . anyway, there’s nudity, there’s stubble burn, things have started to happen. Don’t get all bent out of shape if I suggest a few things. I know my body – nobody knows it better, and if you don’t want to try what my body likes, we’re wasting our time and I could get back to reading that book I borrowed from Wing Chun and should have returned three months ago instead of lying under you and going through the state capitals in alphabetical order. Don’t get all defensive. I didn’t expect you to know; it’s not posted over the bed or anything. Relax. And if you’ve got suggestions for me, let’s hear them. I don’t read minds. I’m not an escort girl. You want a spanking, you’ve got to put it out there. Another thing: size doesn’t matter. Really. No, really. No. Really. I don’t care. Really, I don’t. Very few of us do. And I don’t care that much if you can’t get it up, or keep it up, once in a while either. Truly. Trust me. I’ve had other boyfriends; I’ve had some sex before. I know it happens, and it’s not a deal-breaker. I’ll be a little disappointed, but mostly because I know you’ll freak. Don’t freak. Go to sleep, put it out of your mind, watch the late movie. I don’t keep records. I don’t send your name to some mysterious top-secret national performance database. It’s okay. I mean it.

I do care that you have an orgasm. I think that you think that I think that it’s “easy” for you, but I didn’t just get here. I’ve had a few partners. I know a few things. And I want a few things in return. I want, in short, to have an orgasm of my own. Not a huge effort for you if you follow instructions, but if you who fall asleep immediately after climax, I reserve the right to bar you from the hot seat in future. Say good night, Gracie. You’re out. The same thing happens to women sometimes. Once I’ve had my fun, I’d like to go directly to sleep without passing go or collecting a post-coital cigarette, but if you haven’t had your fun yet, I’ll hang in there until you have. I expect the same courtesy from you, or at the very least a game-day effort in that direction. And if I don’t get that courtesy, believe me, my Sharpie pen and I will testify to that in every bar ladies’ room between here and Canarsie, and we’ll use your last name. It’s a two-way street. Start driving.

You know how I said earlier that I’ve had some sex before? I’ve had some sex before. I know what goes on and how it breaks down afterwards. Take my advice and obey your instincts after the deed is done. I’m not stupid, and even if I start acting willfully stupid because I’ve now become attached, I can still handle – and deserve – candor. If you don’t want to stay the night, don’t. If you do and I want you to leave, don’t take it personally. Don’t say you’ll call if you know you won’t. It’s a lie, and it hurts. Don’t assume I’m all marriage-minded now that I’ve seen you naked. Some women get that way; most of us just want to brush our teeth. You don’t want to see me again, don’t see me again, and tell me you won’t. It’s fair enough. I’ll appreciate the honesty. Sincerely. If you want to see me again, but only for sex, there’s ways to communicate that too. And believe it or not, I may not want to “date” you. I may just want to sleep with you. We’re not all highlighting copies of Cosmo over here. I have a lot of work to do these days and not much time for moonlight and meeting your parents. Now, isn’t this an education? I am NOT THAT DIFFERENT FROM YOU. You have to get this through both heads. We are the same in many ways. Of course I take sex more personally; I have you INSIDE OF me, literally IN my body, and that’s a medium-sized deal. But it doesn’t mean I’ll start writing my first name and your last name in curlicue script on my social studies notebook.

Sidebar: If you don’t want to hear that I’ve slept with other people, including a guy whose name I didn’t know and a man twice my age and possibly a couple of your friends, don’t ask in the first place. I don’t want to know that you’ve slept with anyone else; I know that you have, because I wasn’t born yesterday, but I don’t really want to hear about it, and I certainly don’t want to hear you squalling, “You slept with HOW MANY PEOPLE?” Again, it’s the twenty-first century. I’m a hottie, and I give it up now and then. Cope. Let it go. Those other guys aren’t here now, so don’t invite them in; they don’t belong here. I don’t mind telling you about them – about my exes, about boys I used to sweat. That’s part of my past, it made me me, but it’s in the past and now you get to reap the benefits in the present, so don’t tweak out over something that’s already done.

But you probably wouldn’t do that either. So, let’s say that you dig my scene and we start going out, but for whatever reason, after the hormones wear off, it’s not going so well and you want out. It’s so simple. Sit me down, tell me it’s not going so well for you and you want out, and break it off. Don’t fuck one of my friends so I’ll dump you. Don’t disappear for five days and act like a moody asshole so I’ll dump you. Don’t steal from me so I’ll dump you. Because you’ll get dumped all right, but you’re not fifteen, so grow up and act like a man, not a weasel. Be a grown-up and tell me the truth. I can take it. Yeah, I’ll cry, and I’ll throw out the stuffed animals you won me at the booths at San Gennaro, and I’ll talk a bunch of (probably untrue and totally irrelevant) trash about your bitty-ass little penis with my girlfriends, but I’ll get over it. I’ve gotten dumped before. I can take it. But do your own dirty work.

I know a lot of boys don’t have sexist beliefs, or act like big old J.Crew-wearing wheels of Gouda in bars, or date-rape girls, or get all freaked out about sex when it isn’t a big deal. But it never ceases to amaze me how many boys just don’t get it and don’t seem to want to – that I don’t want special treatment, or different treatment, or for them to think of me as something to conquer or protect or fool – and they act all double-agenty about trying to go to bed with me. So I just wanted to let the few, the proud, the idiots know that 1) you haven’t fooled me and 2) you needn’t have bothered trying. And now I feel a lot better.

As you were.

Take Back The Night.
Advice on flirting.

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