“Well it looks like somebody had a good night.”
I wanted to rip out my roommate’s ovaries through her throat as the the sugary sweet, but oh-so-cunty words came out of her mouth. But I was in no position to fire back. I’d just walked through the door with my clutch filled with extensions, one eyelash still in tact, and lipstick all over my chin. My nipples hurt, because I’d made the decision not to wear a bra the night before, and the fabric of my dress was unforgiving. My heels and faux fur jacket had transformed my aesthetic from glamour diva the previous night, to sex worker this morning. Plus, my vagina hurt. I had had a good night, though.
“What have you been doing this morning?” I asked her.
What, indeed, was so important that you couldn’t pick me up this morning, forcing me to walk home in the snow like some kind of hooker.
“Not much. I woke up kind of early, and just hung around being a waste of life for a little while. Jason texted me. He’s at the library. I think I’m going to throw some brownies in the oven and bring them to him.”
I raised a brow.
“Jason that guy you met last weekend?”
“Yeah, we’ve been texting all week.”
I had to physically stop myself from gagging. Oh, you’ve been texting a WHOLE fucking week?! Seven full days before you’re rearranging your day, buying organic eggs, and scouring Pinterest for a new recipe he might like — because he really likes nuts in his brownies — then dropping hints on hints until he invites you to come meet him so you can GIVE HIM THE GIFTS you just spent hours preparing for him.
And JUST like that, the judger became the judgee. Yes, it was true. I’d spent my whole night and part of that morning letting a guy penetrate me in exactly seven different positions. In fact, I could still smell a combination of his cologne, cigarettes, and God knows what else in my hair. But I’d argue — no, I’d insist — that I still had more self-respect than this bitch.
My roommate is a bakewhore. She does this kind of shit constantly. She meets a guy, and in an effort to win him over, meticulously plans each step in convincing him she is a domestic goddess worth dating. She’ll make them cookies, do their laundry, give them their class notes, and tidy up their rooms. And that, my friends, is a level of self-sacrificial desperation I never intend to reach.
It’s amazing to me, that this type of girl is the quickest to judge someone for “giving it up,” when the reality of it is, that what she’s giving up is so much more. A night in the sack is simply that — a spur of the moment decision that is equally beneficial to both parties. She’s giving him her time, her effort, and her thoughts — and then she’s telling him how much she gives a fuck in a neatly packaged gift basket, tied up with a bow. She’s not “making him work for it.” She’s working for it.
And no, by society’s standards, no one will judge her for bending over backwards in an effort to make a guy fall for her. Most people will commend her, in fact, for “not giving in to hookup culture.” But at the end of the day, at least I got an orgasm out of the deal. She got absolutely nothing in return..