Originally published October 2023.
There’s hope I think, for the young ones. They might grow up with sex narratives that keep them free. We didn’t. We grew up with sex narratives that told us sex was something women “give” to men, and if you do, that’s like…really bad, unless you’re married, then you should “give” sex to your husband whenever he wants, or that becomes the really bad thing — got it? The narratives of our youth put women at a sexual deficit, where our desire came with shame, and a man’s desire came with a right to orgasm. As much as I’m able to rewrite these narratives for myself now, it’s hard to repaint a house when some asshole is right behind you, rolling over your work with any color he wants.
This is the longest of shots, but if you’re reading this and you’re 16, “blue balls” aren’t real. They’re just code for feeling sexually disappointed. Have you ever felt sexually disappointed? It’s the same thing. This stupid, vulgar term is just a narrative designed to make girls feel obligated to satisfy boys. I hope, if you’re 16, my explanation sounds comical to you. I hope the idea of you feeling sexually obligated to a man would never cross your mind in a thousand years. But in my years, I was socially groomed to suppress my desire, while elevating and satisfying a man’s. In my opinion, that’s how ghosts were born.
I’m in a safe space, so when I say that in this moment I’m speaking specifically to women who desire romantic relationships (actual ones) with men, I know that I won’t get whataboutmes in the comments who think I don’t know that the desire for completely casual, consensual, no-strings-attached sex exists. I know it exists. I do not want it. I am not talking about it. And after five years of a career that centers single women, a lot a y’all don’t either. Now, ghosts.
Ghosts, in my opinion, are silently slut-shaming women. Ghosts, for those who have been partnered for the last ten years, are people who pursue the attention and time of someone in service of their own orgasm and once that’s achieved, they vanish into thin air as if made of vapor or dead. This leaves the other person regretting their decision to “give” the ghost what it wanted, completely forgetting their own desire and invalidating it because the shame of being fucked and forgotten is all they can think about right now. We quieted our (natural, valid, human) desire for as long as we could (and bear in mind, while we were doing that someone else was trying to activate it on purpose), and once we “gave in” and had sex, we lost the game. Because we thought we were fucking a potential boyfriend, not a ghost. Silly rabbit.
When someone ghosts, they silently slut shame you by communicating through their disappearance that you are nothing more than a one-time-use hole. Does that sound vile? Try being the hole. Try being someone who was actively pursued by someone that wanted to be wanted by you, then once you wanted them enough to have sex with them, they turned you into their own personal plastic water bottle, throwing you away with just as much regard. Not even good water, like…Dasani.
It’s a gross game. Does he like me like me, or does he only like me enough to have sex with me one time? I genuinely can’t tell the difference because these men are really fucking good at lying and I don’t want to be a jaded cranky bitch who has no hope for her own romantic future. Oh and at the same time, I like having sex. I have sexual needs just like this guy does. I want that, too! But if I’ve arrived at a place where I actually want to have sex with this person, that means I want it more than once. I want something more than just sex, or you wouldn’t be privileged enough to be seeing me naked right now. Please don’t ghost I cannot take this shit anymore.
Dating dynamics are antiques. Aren’t we tired of this shit yet? How many years will we participate, put up with, and guess? Aren’t we exhausted with guessing if someone is genuine or just wants to have sex? Aren’t we tired of gambling because…fuck, we want to have sex, too? At what point are we finally willing to do something about it? Because love, they won’t.
I hate asking these questions without also offering answers of some kind, and the closest I’ve come might not sound like fun, because it might not end in fun. Not for us, single women, who have been societally tasked with bearing every burden imaginable when it comes to two people coming together in the dating space. Honestly there are so many reasons I quit dating, but I genuinely think that me perpetually having to put forth the day, time, and place of every single date or else I’d never meet anyone in real life is what finally got me to leave. I couldn’t take this one-sided servitude anymore. Not for someone who was 100% likely (because remember, I’m still single) to pursue what he wanted from me with zero intention to remember my name afterward.
I think we have to say something. I think it goes a little like this: “Listen, I would really love to have sex with you, but not if I’m never going to hear from you again afterward. Thats not who I am. So if you’re enjoying my company and you think this could, at some point, become a relationship, fantastic. If what you’re looking for is to get laid and then disappear, I’m not participating in that. I’m not asking for commitment tonight, I’m asking for respect tomorrow. If thats too much to ask of you, then sex is too much to ask of me. Oh, and by the way…if you’re lying to me right now so that you can fuck me and then ghost me anyway, expect a brick through your window or forehead, whichever I find first.”
Consent goes further than sex. Or it damn well should. To think it doesn’t assumes that physical sex is the only thing that can cause harm. It’s not. Being discarded like garbage can cause quite a bit of damage, too. Especially when it’s the primary experience you’re having in your search for the love of your life. I couldn’t keep going, I had to stop. I had to acknowledge that dating culture wasn’t serving me, that it wasn’t adding anything positive to my life, it was only taking my dignity, sanity, and hope away from me. In leaving, I gained a lot of self worth, but I lost a lot, too. I live without. I go without. And I don’t think it’s fair, but what is?
If wishes were real, I’d talk to my sixteen-year-old self and I’d break down the actual dynamics of heterosexual sex for her benefit. I’d teach her about even playing fields, I’d tell her that when she wants to have sex with someone, that’s a really natural, valid, human feeling. Someone treating her like shit after sex doesn’t make her a slut, it makes them an animal. This all sounds really elementary to me now, but that’s because my brain isn’t a baby anymore. When the foundations of my sexual knowledge were being poured, that brain was new, and malleable, and deeply susceptible to shame. Sometimes I hate the world for what it taught me, but then I remember I’m a writer, and I get to respond in kind.
In my life now, with my entirely normal desires, I try to honor the kid who didn’t know any better, who navigated uncharted dating waters without an oar. Fuck, without a boat. I try to hold her hope in my hands, and not let it seep out every time she thinks she’s starting a new relationship but gets ghosted instead. I don’t shame her, or fault her, for participating in human interaction. I applaud her bravery for it instead. I remind her that what has been need not always be. There’s better in the world than what she’s seen so far. Ghosts disappear. Hope is immortal. Hang in there, kid.