Some names have been changed. But not all of them!
If I’d spent my late teens/early 20’s in LA, I’m truly afraid of what trap I would’ve fallen into. Some low-rent, 60-year-old Leonardo DiCaprio-wannabe could’ve given me a little too much attention at the wrong time, and BAM! I’d be swanning around parties, gushing, “Age means nothing when you’re in love.”
This is why I’m VERY SKEPTICAL of relationships between super young women and much older, established partners, especially men. (Looking at you, Anthony Kiedis.) Even in relationships with less obvious power disparity, I’ve seen too many young women spun away from their own potential and towards …well, whatever works best for the dude. Young womanhood is like dancing across a minefield of transactional relationships - emotionally, economically, socially - trying to avoid blowing your life up while figuring out what you want.
In my late teens/early 20’s, I lived in Toronto. My wide social circle featured a lot of different kinds of romantic relationships. Many were queer women, or would figure out they were queer in the near future. Some were virgins, or had dabbled in sugar daddies, or had boyfriends who were 13 years older and still attending college parties (Girl. RUN.) Some had high school sweethearts, or exclusively fucked their friends. A scant few were open and frequented sex clubs.
I’d only tried out one type of relationship: Soul-crushing serial monogamy. Since I was 14, I’d dated some version of the same pitchfork-loving dude for two years at a time. It always went down like this: I’d insist I didn’t want a boyfriend. That year’s Sensitive Boy would take this as a challenge (Thank you, 500 Days of Summer. Thank you so much.) I’d take his persistence/whining as a sign that this one really loved me, and my needy ass would commit because I was starving to be loved. Rinse, repeat.
After my THIRD two-year relationship before the age of 21 (barf) I finally learned that if I wanted to stay out of relationships? Then I needed to STAY OUT OF RELATIONSHIPS. I quickly stopped dating unless it was a clear one-night stand.
“We can have sex, but that’s it.” I said to a 30-year-old PhD candidate I took home after one mediocre date.
“Uh, fine?” He said.
Neither of us ever called the other again. I took it as personal growth.
What I really wanted, more than a boyfriend, more than sex, was to make things. Art, zines, theatre, comedy, anything. But, unfortunately, I was total chickenshit, and my fear of failure froze me in place for years. I was afraid of trying, afraid of losing, of being broke and terrible. Most of all, I was afraid that if I made something, everyone I ever met would stand up and yell, “HEY! WE WERE RIGHT! SHE’S VERY STUPID/BAD! BAD JENNIE!” then glare at me until I die of shame.
Meanwhile, I was surrounded by friends who were making art. Who took risks. I felt lucky to be around them, and terrified of embarrassing myself. I wanted to prove my worth, and, like most femme-presenting women, it had long been reinforced that my main value lay in my desirability. So when I came across a small opportunity (In a tiny, extremely Canadian way) to trade sexual currency for what I thought was social/creative legitimacy, it felt like a pragmatic approach to my dreams.
It happened like this:
I was 21. My friend Rozy was having her birthday party at Nirvana, a cheap restaurant in Toronto at the corner of Bathurst and College. I arrived late, knocking the snow off my boots at the door, before spotting a couple dozen people crammed around a long, makeshift rectangle of tables smashed together in the back. Rozy was (is) an up-and-coming playwright with a reputation for brilliance and is, most importantly, an excellent hang. I wasn’t surprised to see all the tables straining to fit everyone who’d come out to celebrate her, a mixture of college friends and older, professional colleagues.
I wiggled my hips as I made my way over, squeezing into a seat across from a tall, skinny dark-haired man squinting at the menu. A blonde performance artist from York University made introductions by pointing over the table. I couldn’t remember her name, but her last piece was called ‘Girl Danger’ or something. She would stand in a spotlight, take off her clothes and get blackout drunk on stage to see if anyone in the audience would call an ambulance. It was terribly cool.
“Hi Jennie, I’m -”
“Jacob! I know.”
I didn’t know him, but I knew of him. I’d seen him onstage in parts meant for Jesse Eisenberg-types. Even though he was only six years older than me, he was already something of a big deal, nationally lauded, award-winning, etc. Jacob inspected my expression, smiling, his face’s sharp angles radiating cerebral intensity out of pointed eyes. Eyes built for singling out small flaws in arguments and finding insightful details he could repackage and sell to a literary agent.
He’s so successful, I thought.This is exactly the kind of person I should be with.
My smile broadened, and I switched into seduction mode, quickly booting-up the version of myself I guessed he would find most attractive: a more vibrant me, extra-bright, full of confidence and quips. This version was sophisticated. She held impressive opinions about obscure books that I hadn’t actually read, but knew enough about to fake convincingly.
“What did you do last night?” he asked.
Last night? I thought. Last night I went to a party at my friend Erika’s apartment in Cabbagetown. Around midnight she ran out of drugs, so my high school friend decided to swallow all of Erika’s cat’s post-surgery painkillers. She ended up having sex with her ex-boyfriend in his hardcore band’s tour van while I drunkenly heckled from an open window in the second floor bathroom.
That wouldn’t do.
“I was drinking red wine and reading Walter Benjamin,” I lied.
We whipped through topics, drawing connections between open borders, theater of cruelty, the role of art in public spaces. Words tumbled off my tongue as I poured beer into my douchey, pretentious mouth. While Jacob monologued about some superior text, I congratulated myself on reading him so accurately. He was competitive. He used language as a battering ram, attempting to overwhelm, delighted when I parried back. He looked excited to play peacock, flashing his conversational plumage in a loquacious mating dance.
An hour later, deep into a flirtatious conversation debating the merits of verbatim playwriting and its influence on Toronto’s theater scene (BARF A MILLION), I stopped listening and started imagining myself on Jacob’s arm at all the galas and salons. (Those exist, right?) I’d suddenly be introduced to powerful artists and directors as not just his date, but his partner. No - his artistic and intellectual equal. His network would open doors to me, opportunities I obviously couldn’t get myself by just taking a goddamn risk.
I honestly believed that if someone creatively successful was interested in me, that would somehow make me successful. As if creative acclaim is an STD. This is how the world works, I thought, smiling into his face while ignoring everything he said. At least, this is how it works for young women.
I was so turned on by imagining my future that I missed a pause in Jacob’s speech. Catching myself, I instantly started agreeing.
“It sounds great!”
“Yeah, I think it’s going to be a really good piece. I’d love to read it to you sometime - ”
“Why don’t you show it to me now?” I purred. I reached over and touched his arm. I smiled at him, blasting him with warmth.
He blushed, unblinking, and I mentally tallied my points.
Gotcha.
We grabbed a cab.
------——————————
I’d only ever been in college kid apartments with multiple roommates, taped-up posters and mattresses on the floor. Never in a grown man’s home. So I was surprised when, shortly after entering his tasteful studio apartment, I saw the Kermits.
On top of his wall-to-wall bookshelves were three large Kermit the Frog stuffed animals.
“That’s a lot of Kermits,” I said.
“They’re my children,” he said. “I got them in the divorce.”
“Score,” I smiled.
I took the Kermit’s as a good sign. I love the Muppets! See, we were already so compatible! I could to have amphibian step-children, I thought.
He handed me a glass of wine and we sat together on the couch, sipping. Jacob stared into his wine. After an excruciatingly awkward minute, I poked him in the arm playfully.
“Hey.” I grinned at him. “You gonna read your piece?” He looked directly into my eyes. I bit my lip in a way I hoped looked enticing. “Or is ‘reading your piece’ your version of ‘Netflix and Chill?’” I laughed too loudly at my own stupid joke, my way of inviting him to relax.
Instead, he doubled down on the intensity. He quickly grabbed the wine out of my hand and placed both our glasses on the table. I stopped laughing.
He spoke bluntly. “Can I kiss you?”
I blushed, playing the part of every boring ingenue at once. “Um, sure.”
He leaned over and placed his thin lips on mine.
The kiss was awkward and polite. Slow, but not tender. We bumped against each other’s faces. I opened my mouth, hoping that would improve the sensation. He raised a hand - I think to stroke my face? - and knocked his knuckles against my teeth. Not great, but I persevered.
Just when I felt we were maybe getting somewhere, he pulled away.
Wait,” he said, holding my shoulders squarely. “What are you into?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like sexually.”
He was gripping my shoulders. Making prolonged, determined eye contact.
“Um.”
“Are you more vanilla? Or do you have some kink? Where do you fit in this?”
“…I don’t know?” My mouth was still wet with his saliva. I shook my head a little, trying to catch up. “Do I need to know?”
He still hadn’t blinked. “I think it’s pretty important, yeah, before anything happens.”
I felt I was getting motion sickness, staring at his pupils while hurtling through a conversational black hole. He dropped his hands and reached for the wine, suddenly casual. “Not to scare you.” His mouth screwed up into a tight, crooked smile.
I looked up at the Kermits. I’m being a stupid little baby, I thought. Everyone has needs, and he wants to tell me about his. That’s very considerate. I closed my eyes, picturing Jacob and I back at that imaginary gala, giggling, sneaking off to have clandestine makeouts in the coat closet before accepting our high artistic honors. “Okay. Great! What are you into? You go first.”
His face was serious. “I’m into spanking.”
“…Spanking.”
“Yeah.”
I laughed. Spanking. “That’s hardly a thing!” I said. I’d never spanked anyone in my life, but considering the spectrum of kinks I figured I could handle it, no sweat.
He grinned. “I don’t mean just, like, a love tap.”
“Well, no, neither do I.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Yeah?”
“Of course!” I opened my arms like this was the most obvious thing in the world. “If you’re gonna do it, you gotta really do it, you know?”
He lowered his head like a hyena. At that angle he looked almost feral.
“Exactly.”
There, I thought, I passed the test. I leaned in to kiss him. He dodged my head and began rapidly spitting questions.
“But how into it are you? Like, what are you into? How does this work for you, do you give, do you receive?“
“Me? I…”
I didn’t want to seem inexperienced, especially not on a night when I’d been feeling so clever and worldly. “I guess…” I couldn’t decide which would be easier for me to fake so I left it to chance. “I like both?”
His grin was wolfish. “You’re a switch.”
“I’m a what?”
“That’s what it’s called in the fetish community, a switch.”
“The fetish –“
“Community. Yeah.” He leaned in, more excited by this information than by our kiss. “I’m a switch too. Do you know how rare that is? For two switches to find one another?”
Sure, I thought, It’s just like a fairy tale.
I put my hand on his chest in what I thought was a sexy, playful way. “I think - Isn’t this all a little fast? We’ve only barely kissed.”
“I just think this should all be out on the table.“
“This fast? Like, right away?”
“Well yeah, I mean, before things go too far.”
“I mean, talking is good,” I nodded like a broken pez dispenser. “It’s so important to be upfront.”
“Well yeah, I mean, if anything’s going to happen.”
IF?? If anything’s going to happen? I felt a pang of fear. Was he losing interest in me? More than anything, I wanted to stay desirable. That was my ticket to success.
“Okay.” I shook my hair, took another sip of wine. I re-adjusted myself on the couch to face him. “You want to know what I’m into?”
Jacob nodded solemnly. “Yes.”
“I guess I’m, uh. Well.” My brain was thinking too slowly. I opened my mouth, willing the right words to vomit out of my body. “I’m into… privacy.”
If it were possible to frown with every part of the face, that was his expression.
“You’re into privacy.” Even his ears were frowning.
I nodded, trying desperately to think of how privacy could be framed as a kink.
“Yeah.” I babbled. “Like - I don’t want to be filmed or photographed having sex. I’d want to know if there was a camera.” (At the time, I genuinely thought “not being sexually assaulted online” was a preference that required clarification. Dark.) “Like, I’m not a prude, it’s just, that part of my life is private? I don’t even really like to talk about it with strangers.”
Jacob shrugged. “I’ll talk about it with anyone.”
“I see that.”
“It’s just something I feel pretty comfortable with.”
“That’s great.” I nodded enthusiastically. “Comfort is great. And I’m totally for being upfront.“
“Yeah!”
“Yes.” I spoke like a sesame street character. “Upfront? That good. That is good.”
Jacob kissed me like he was trying to reset my factory settings with his tongue. Then he started unbuckling his pants.
I broke the kiss, startled. “Oh, you’re – “
He didn’t stop undoing his pants. “What?”
“Right. Okay!”
Jacob sat me down on his bed. I was fully clothed. He made no motion to touch or undress me. He stood in front of me, taking off his shirt, then pulling his pants down to his ankles.
Huh. I thought. This is new. Up to that point, getting naked for sex had felt like a group activity.
Maybe he wants to strip for me? Maybe he’s getting comfortable?
He stood naked in front of me, wire thin, his Q-tip head so much larger than his body. Then he spun around, pitched forward, and lay across my lap.
“Go ahead. Spank me.”
In hindsight, I absolutely should’ve seen this coming. But at that moment? I was shell-shocked. I stared at his backside, at his extremely sudden nakedness, at his bony, bony ass. I looked up and saw his Kermit children watching me. I was fully dressed with my shoes still on, seatbelted in by their very nude father. I was so mortified, I thought my heart had stopped beating.
I sat, frozen, until the rational part of my brain thawed.
Don’t worry. The voice was wry. It is not possible for humans to die of embarrassment. Otherwise, you would be dead right now.
“Ready?” He asked my ankles.
“One sec!” I heard my voice, high and falsely bright.
I took stock. He is on your lap. The voice in my head was calm. And you don’t know how to get out of this. So just do it.
I let my hand fly against his small, round buttocks.
“Not like that.” He instructed. “In the center. Don’t hit any bones.”
But you’re all bones, said the voice.
I aimed and hit the small area squarely.
“Like that?”
“Better. Harder.”
I hit him in the same spot, over and over, like playing whack-a-mole with an extremely fussy target.
Is this how this normally goes? I thought. I spanked him as accurately as I could. I watched each smack ripple, creating a reverberation of flesh that ended in deafening, joyless silence. I felt the gaze of the Kermits, three sets of burning black eyes staring directly at me. A choir of felted amphibian seraphim on high, judging my spanking precision.
If they were my stuffed animals, I thought, I’d at least turn them around so they couldn’t see this.
Somewhere between two minutes and eternity, he decided he’d been spanked enough.
He grunted and rolled over onto his back in the center of the bed.
“Do you want to take off your clothes?”
“My clothes?” Right, sex. You are having sex. This is sex.
I fumbled out of my jeans and gracelessly threw off my shirt before crawling into bed next to him. Secretly, I hoped my nakedness would shift the encounter in my favor. At the time, the dazed, horny look men got as they reached for my body made me feel powerful. (biked everywhere. Shit was tight.) I waited for Jacob’s face to shift, for him to reveal desire for me. For it to be my turn.
He didn’t touch me. He barely looked at me. He just rolled over and pulled a condom from a large stack.
“These condoms are only made and sold in Germany. I order them specially online.” He said. “They’re the only condoms that fit me.”
“Why?” I blurted. “Is your penis weird?
His penis looked like every other penis to me. But somehow, this was a penis that required extra shipping from Europe.
He shrugged, then rolled on top of me.
We moved through a series of positions with unmatched rhythms. Right away, I knew I wasn’t going to get off. But, still, I wanted him to like me, even though I knew I wasn’t attracted to him, even though this sex was irredeemably bad for me, probably for both of us. I actually remember posing while I was on top, trying to puzzle out what exactly it was he wanted from me.
I felt the stunned, unblinking eyes of the Kermits gazing at me. I locked eyes with one of them, his felted expression frozen with disapproval.
Isn’t Kermit the Frog supposed to be a prude? I telepathically sent my thoughts to Kermit #2. You’re not exactly the most sexually liberated Muppet.
We can’t look away, said the Kermits.
I can’t wait for this to be over, I sent.
Us too, said the Kermits. This is so weird.
I couldn’t tell if the mortifying reality of our bodies poking against each other in total silence was working for Jacob until apparently, it did. When he came, there was almost no change in his demeanor. I didn’t register it. I only noticed once he started to soften.
“Did you -”
“Yeah. A few minutes ago. Did you?”
“No. But I’m fine. I mean, if you want to keep going?”
“No.” He pushed my hips a little, and I climbed off quickly and covered myself with the blanket. He snapped the condom off, depositing it in the waste bin beside the bed. “If you’re good, I’d rather not waste another condom. They’re expensive.”
No sign of pleasure or release, no softness. Jacob was all analytical calculation. At that moment he had the cold, black eyes of a frog. The eyes of his Kermits. I looked down quickly, away from the Kermits’ that had watched my whole performance.
I pulled on my clothes while he stayed in bed, reclined, silent. So silent. Once my pants were on, I straightened.
“Welp. Better go!” I called, STILL trying to get him to like me. At that point, it was my default. “Oh man, wish I could stay!” I lied. “I have work in the morning.”
“No problem.”
We hugged at the door. He was still naked.
“I’ll call you.”
“Yeah, let’s hang out again soon.”
------——————————
As soon as I stepped outside, I burst out laughing. All that pent-up embarrassment released from my body. I ran, howling, until I thought my lungs would collapse. I called my friend Becca, and together we screamed with laughter. She met me at a dive bar equidistant between our two apartments.
“So,” she said, her smile as bent as her sense of humor. “Seriously. Are you going to see him again?”
I snorted, remembering how relieved I was to leave his apartment. The incalculable humiliation from our encounter bubbling under my skin. But then I remembered how flattered I’d been to have caught his attention.
I know now: The only certainties in life are death, taxes, and that dating an artist doesn’t make you an artist. Having sex with a comedian doesn’t make you funnier. Porking a painter won’t make you a Picasso. Frug-ing with Fosse don’t make you a dancer, baby girl, no matter how hard you Frug. (But I bet it would be fun!) When it comes to creative fields, unless you have nepotism or gobs of cash, there are no shortcuts. You just have to roll up your sleeves and fail, over and over again until, ultimately, you either give up or get better. That’s the deal. But, at 21, I didn’t understand that. I was cynical, and worse, I honestly thought I knew what I was talking about. I thought, If someone like Jacob likes you, the world opens. I didn’t believe what I wanted would matter, even if I could believe in myself enough to try.
I watched Becca take a sip from a large, foamy beer.
Later, in our 30’s, Becca admitted she always hated the taste of beer. “I only drank beer because I thought people would think I was cool,” she told me, laughing. “Seriously! I actually believed that if I drank beer, everyone would somehow think I was this chill, cool woman, which I desperately wanted to be. Why the fuck did I think that??”
In our 30’s, we can’t help but laugh. At our ignorance, at the stupid things we believed to be true, just because pop culture yelled it at us during our formative years. Over and over again, until it stuck.
But in our 20’s?
Becca choked back her beer, silently shuddering through the taste of bubbles and hops, and smiled at me. “So? Are you going to see him again?
And I smiled back.
“Definitely.”
Comments (Let’s Chat!):
What’s something you believed when you were young, that you now realize is complete horseshit?
What do you consider as transactional relationships? (Emotionally, physically, financially?) Have you ever been in a transactional relationship? Are all your relationships transactional? No wrong answers, no shame!
Imagine yourself at age 19, or 20, or 21. Would you also spank this dude? Would you spank the Kermits? Would you leave? Honest answers only!
i think i may have had a out of body experience having that toothpick lay across me like that. so very relatable 😭
Loved the article, especially the staring, judgmental Kermits!
1. When I was young, I believed that my value was and always would be my degree of desirability. Total bullshit.
2. I feel that ALL relationships are ‘transactional’ to some degree; aren’t we all seeking something in return? Self worth? Good company? A great orgasm?
3. I TOTALLY would have spanked the dude… he would have needed a ‘safe word’