Be casual. Be a free spirit. Be really physically attractive!
Be bold. Be desperate. Be you. (But not, like, the real you. A much better version of you — the “you” you’ll never be but can sometimes fake if you have the right lighting and are wearing a flattering outfit.)
Meet a boy at a bar who smells like fresh laundry and firewood. Eye fuck him until you’re exhausted and then make your way over to him. Yes, you can approach the guy first!!!! This is 2012. What do you think Susan Sontag was doing her entire life? She was working her ass off so you could approach a guy in some dimly lit bar. This is FEMINIZM.
Go up to this dude and be like, “So you took the STD test and it came back positive, huh?”
The dude — who looks like Aiden from Sex and the City except 30% more ugly and 20% more gay — says, “Excuse me?”
“The STD test. It came back positive, right?”
The man looks at you with utter confusion.
“I was just eye fucking you from across the bar and I’m pretty sure I gave you an STD. I’m sorry. Can I buy you a drink to make up for it?”
Ugh, that was such a good line. I have chills! The firewood guy agrees to let you buy him a drink, partially because he’s intrigued by you and partially because he’s terrified, and the two of you start talking.
You talk, you talk, you talk. You order guacamole. You talk some more. You imagine what he’d look like naked on all fours in a cabin in Aspen. You imagine his face as he cries to you in a cab and tells you that he has cancer. It all feels so real. Your relationship flashes before your eyes and it looks pretty good. There are a lot of brunches.
All of a sudden, you find yourself feeling overwhelmed with emotion at the bar so you start crying.
“Um, are you okay?” he asks.
“What’s your name, sir?” You ask, dodging the question.
“Don’t speak!” You snap back, putting your finger to his lips.
You read somewhere once that men like girls who are spontaneous and a little bit aloof. So far, you’ve accused this man of having an STD, cried in your guacamole, and refused to learn his name. You think you’re off to a pretty good start.
You dry your tears quickly and say you have to go. Men like mystery.
“I have to leave this instant!” you scream before running off alone into the cold, dark night. You assumed he would chase after you because that’s what they do in the movies. You wait outside the bar for 20 minutes, hoping he would eventually come outside, but when he doesn’t, you stomp back into the bar and ask if you can exchange numbers. Then, you tell him that his hair looks pretty.
You call the number he gives you when you’re standing right in front of him to make sure it’s not fake. Miraculously, it’s not.
That night, while sitting in your dreamcatcher, you Google his name, which he had told you right before you left, and find out that he is an artist of some sort. Like, he draws pictures of bears and somehow they sell for $5,000. Men are so weird.
You text him sporadically, like little bird craps, throughout the week. It takes you about an hour to compose each text message, two if it requires a question.
Somehow he’s into it. He texts back promptly, always with enthusiasm. You employ a team of social media experts AKA your best friends to analyze each text. The general consensus is that this man wants to be the father of your children.
You wait nine months to have sex with him because it’s the average length of pregnancy, and boy oh boy, is it worth the wait. You read somewhere in The New Yorker that men don’t marry sluts so you made sure to draw it out for as long as possible. To quench his thirst. You gave him three blowjobs a day and would occasionally let him do anal.
The day after you have sex, he gives you an engagement ring that’s the size of Tommy Lee’s penis. You cry. You scream. You dance in your underwear in the kitchen while listening to “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.”
You knew this would happen. You did extensive research on how to attract men and it all paid off! Now you’re getting married to a man who draws bears for a living and you couldn’t be happier.
Sometimes though, when you’re lying in bed together late at night, you forget his name. Is that bad?
“No,” you whisper to yourself. “That’s love.”