Anti-Hero

One page on love by someone who's never been in love. Probably.

Men are the real romantics. Straight men are villainized by the mainstream media, but I respect intentional energy. They say what they mean, and do what they say. Other than my college stalker and the sociopath who packed drugs in my luggage, my experiences with men have been great. Even the one who tried to ruin my life—he knew what he wanted and went after it.

I’ve called myself bisexual ever since I saw the movie Gia starring Angelina Jolie when I was thirteen. I’ve had enough fun, from Paris to Buenos Aires to Milan. What can I say? I’m attracted to beautiful men and women, the ones with doe eyes, full lips, and the bone structure of Greek gods, but I changed my mind. In school, my teachers said I can be whatever I want in life, so I will be straight.

Every man has experienced rejection. There’s something touching about not giving up and becoming jaded, despite being continuously rejected. If I make a bad joke or if I stop replying altogether, a man will never give up. Even if there’s just a tiny glimmer of hope, they will latch onto this and never let go.

Perhaps a quarter of the guys I’ve gone out with brought flowers on the first date, and the majority planned unique, thoughtful dates. This isn’t an age or a maturity issue. Younger men are very romantic. For too long, I’ve let great people slip through the cracks. Is my fear of being trapped the problem?

In freshman year of high school, it was a guy who got me into Taylor Swift. I had written her off completely, but he was obsessed with the Red album, which had just come out. We would drive around, blasting this album, and now it’s a vestige of my childhood. A time of freedom, when I was left alone to my own devices. The Smiths, The Cure, and Sombr, long live the men who yearn.

Last weekend, I canceled a date with a new guy. My air conditioning vent just tested positive for Cladosporium mold. I’ve been on a spiral ever since. For years, I’ve suffered from severe allergies. I blamed the Los Angeles air quality, so I bought air purifiers for every room. I blamed the glyphosate that’s sprayed on domestic wheat, so I went gluten free for a month. The Giorgio Baldi withdrawals were worse than any allergy. My problem was closer to home than I realized. I blamed America, not my own apartment.

I told him what’s going on in my humble abode. I told him that I need to move out and start a new life. Instead of getting upset with me for cancelling, he suggested buying me charcoal pills and sending me to the spa to detox.

Whereas, with women, you misspell one word and you might as well be dead. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. Girls will like your stories for three years and still ghost. You call, but they text. You come up with a fun plan, but they suggest a coffee “date” or even worse, a lunch sometime, but everything good dies in the land of sometimes. Each sad suggestion sucks the life right out of you. Never in my life has a man proposed coffee. Romance is a risk. Living is the biggest risk of all. Someone so risk averse, that they’re only willing to commit to a 20-minute sterile cup of coffee over suffocating, incandescent lighting–isn’t my person. There’s nothing romantic about girls who don’t know what they want.

“I have this thing where I get older but just never wiser,” plays over my bedroom speakers. Maybe it’s time to grow up and be serious for once in my life. Men pick you up on time, open doors, plan the trip, and never leave you second guessing. I thought I was too romantic for rules and regulations, but I realize that converting to straight is the solution. Good thing I know what I want, I tell myself. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to meet my Noah Calhoun and write my version of The Notebook.