I admit I was arrogant walking into this mixer. Walking down the street, cars honk at me, trucks run over small dogs and firemen let children die. I am not exceptionally attractive but my features are soft and my aura is lacks any pretentiousness. It is the kind of face that men are attracted to because they feel they could jizz on her face and it is the face that would keep smiling, exuding graciousness, accepting them as they are. Jizz and all. I have that type of face, which is highly desirable and in high demand, because everyone wants a face to jizz on.
I do not think anything could have prepared me for what the expectations of desire seemed to be and how I could have missed the mark so explicitly. The women wearing dresses that resemble aprons. This anti-attracting-men style is taking off. At first, my understanding was that overalls and harem pants and grandma shoes were a stab at men, saying yeah? you want to sleep with me? well you are going to have to put up with my unshaven legs and untoned stomach. Take that, Man. Way to stick it to them.
These women seem to have little respect for themselves sexually: throwing themselves at these cool Brooklyn boys. Scouring around this mixer like sex-hunger teenage girls. They dress so unattractive. Ruffles and frills and clogs. Compensating for their lack of fashion sense by flirting relentlessly.At the bar. At this miserable mixer. It must be confusing to get such conflicting messages. I identified with the men at this mixer and their potential confusion. Maybe it's exciting and mysterious for men. Maybe it's good that emotionally compromised women have found a way to identify themselves so quickly.
I am in heels, cuffed jeans, casually styled button down and am cleverly using my scarf to color block. Conservative, a little sensual with the hair down. Entering the mixer, I realize we have to wear name tags with our favorite type of pie written beside it. Pie is another word for vagina. What flavor is your vagina? It really was a lot to think about. Men looking at my chest, nodding when I say my name and raising their gaze to meet mine when they say...sweet potato. I don't think I can ever eat pie again now that I have a different hipster as the mental image for each type.
The women have dogs in their laps. The dogs don't have name tags. Doesn't the dog deserve a name tag? The men are all short and frail and look like they need to eat something. They are playing super-cultured games that look like small scale curling or something else Canadian, and I'm frozen. Frozen sweet potato pie. It is everything but inviting and I do not feel like mixing with people that already have groups. All the young grandmas are so secure with this assumed identity. Here I am, overdressed in the summer, with a scarf. Where do you even put a name tag on a scarf? On my dog? Where is my dog, and why don't I have one?
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