There has been a question that has been plaguing my mind as of late. It is a thought that I never imagined would get stuck in my melon. Yet here it is, pervading my every whim, like a little kid that keeps poking their mom’s arm saying “Mom, mom mom, mom, mom,” until she can stand the torture no longer and finally screams “WHAT DO YOU WANT, YOU DISGUSTING CREATURE?!” Okay, so she probably doesn’t call her child a disgusting creature, but you get the point. That is what this thought is currently doing to me.
But enough with the foreplay! The question on my mind is: Should I go celibate?
I know, I know, I too vomited slightly in my mouth writing those words. Because let’s be real: sex is dope. People who aren’t having it want to have it. People who are having it want to have more of it. Go to any bar, club, or Equinox gym in Hollywood and you can see the sexpiration dripping off every person’s face there. And can you blame them? I mean anyone who has ever orgasmed (don’t get me started on the lucky few who have had multiple orgasms in one sexual sitting) would never want to mess around with the prospect of not having one again. And it makes sense: sex is biologically programmed to feel good so that we keep doing it for the purposes of reproduction. That’s what the human body does when it requires a certain behavior to survive—it makes the behavior enjoyable. (Hence why food tastes good, why water can at times taste like unicorn tears, and why drugs make you cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.) They release certain hormones within your body that are the feel-good ones. And since reproduction is kind of important for the continuation of the human species, smashing our junk together feels like the bomb.com.
And not to brag or anything, but I am especially fond of the coitus. Let me put it this way: whenever people ask me which character I am from Sex and the City, everyone within a ten-mile radius says that I am a Samantha. So yeah, me wanting to go celibate is pretty fucking weird.
But let me back up a bit, because this thought is not all that recent. The first time it laid an egg in my mind was about two months ago, when I had just been ghosted by a dude—and, no, he was not the first. Sadly for my lady parts, this past year has been filled with either ghostings or horrible endings between me and every single dude I was seeing or boning. In a word, it sucked. Although I am a feminist independent woman who don’t need no man, I am still a person, and my feelings were all raw and scabby. So I decided to go celibate for my own good. I thought that a break from all things genitalia would be good for the heart, mind, and soul. I vowed to not have sex with a dude or whoever (I’m open) until they got to know me, took me on actual dates, or just acted like an actual kind and respectful person. Yeah, good one: it lasted a month.
And what broke my resolve of feminist steel? What changed my firmly cemented mind? One of the dudes who ghosted me. Damn it all to hell! But wait—before you roll your eyes, listen to why. When I saw him on New Year’s Eve, he pulled me aside, and he fully apologized and explained why he ghosted me. He said that he did like me and had made a mistake. My inebriated brain was powerless to resist.
But here’s where it gets interesting.
After we slept together and he was texting me and being nice and all that shit, I had the very strong urge to go back to being celibate. It wasn’t that our sex wasn’t good, or that I didn’t think he was a nice guy; it was something else. It was the same something that makes me pull my arms in close to my body when I see that a man is going to sit in the empty spot next to me at a coffee shop. It was the same something that makes me jump out of my skin every time I hear a noise behind me when I’m walking on a street by myself. It was the same something I feel whenever a strange man smiles at me. And suddenly it dawned on me: I don’t trust men. Like, at all.
It was like a light had been switched on in my head. Of course I don’t trust men! Hundreds of them are being accused of sexual assault and harassment. And they don’t just come from Hollywood; they are everywhere: politics, sports (not surprised by that one), the arts, media, business… they’re quite literally everywhere. Talk about the real invasion of the body snatchers—these motherfuckers have been chillin’ in their disguises as decent men, but the masks are being pulled over their heads and their true ugly-ass forms are being revealed for all the world to see. Even the ones who claim to be feminist and pro-women, like Louis CK and Aziz Ansari, have been outed as the roaches they are—men who use their power and influence to take advantage of women. No wonder I don’t want to have sex with a male human!
And the more I thought about it, the more pieces I was able to fit together in the puzzle and disaster that is my romantic life. I have never had good luck in that department by any means, but this past year has been especially depressing and disappointing. So I started to think: what, oh, what could have happened a year ago that might be connected to my renewed distrust and distaste of men? Hm. Something about grabbing pussy, Cheetos, and the leader of the free world. Oh! That’s it: the President of the United States is a rapist and misogynist.
Now I try my absolute best to take responsibility for my actions when I fuck something up (or just plain fuck something), but I can say without a qualm that Donald Trump is the reason my dating and sex life is a disaster. That orange-faced monster has caused me to fear and distrust every single man I come in contact with. And when I mean every man I come in contact with, I mean every single man. Obviously, I’ve never trusted strange men on the streets or creeps in bars, but now I also don’t trust the seemingly innocent hipster dudes at cafes, my slightly balding neighbor with children, or the food delivery guy with the baseball cap. They’re all on my list. And what’s worse, I don’t trust men I know, either.
It’s not like I think my guy friends are going to do anything to me—they’re all lovely people—but I’m not sure I could name a single one who commented either in real life or online about the #MeToo movement or about #TimesUp. I mean, I wasn’t all that surprised when none of the dudes who were at the Golden Globes made a peep about how all the women in the room were sporting all black errything. Practically all men in Hollywood have starred in a Woody Allen movie at some point or plan to do so in the future, so my hope for them was lost long ago. But my homies—the select members of the male species whom I have chosen to keep in my life—were also non-communicado! How can they claim to support me in my daily (okay, hourly) feminist rants and manifestos, then remain silent when practically every woman they know has written those two syllables within the past few months? How can I fully trust them when so many questions run through my head? I mean, questions like:
Are they not saying anything about it because it makes them uncomfortable, and they place their comfort above doing what’s right?
Are they not saying anything about it because they don’t know what to say and are too lazy, uninterested, or unwilling to put time into something as critical as speaking out against rape culture?
Are they not saying anything because they think it’s unfair that women are “ruining men’s lives”?
Are they not saying anything because they have protected a male friend who has assaulted or harassed a woman before, and they don’t want to draw attention to that?
And the worst one:
Are they not saying anything because they have assaulted or harassed a woman before, and they are afraid they’re next?
Because when it comes down to it, men who say or do nothing about this epidemic are complicit in it. They are complicit in creating a culture of silence and rape. It is this cultural silence that led to Harvey “the Hutt” Weinstein getting away with his serial harassment and assault of countless women. It is this silence that led to Louis CK getting a fucked-up sense of pleasure from slapping his salami in front of numerous women—some of whom were his friends. And it is this silence that led to the election of a man who spent decades sexually traumatizing women and then started writing those same beliefs and values into our laws and institutions. So, no, I can’t fully trust them—not anymore. Not until they do something that makes me trust that they are willing to put the safety and equality of women over their own comfort and power.
And if I can’t trust my momies (male homies), I certainly can’t trust any other rando mando walking on the street or between my sheets. What if they are Trump supporters? What if they, too, have done nothing about #MeToo? What if they only speak up against sexism when a woman is present but are then sexist themselves when they are bro-ing out together? What if he refuses to go down on me? I CAN’T TAKE THAT RISK! So as I have been writing these words, power-fisting the air at my own witty remarks, I realize that my decision has been made. I am going celibate.
And you know what else? I implore all other heterosexual and bisexual and other man-boning sexuals to go celibate with me! We should all resolve to stop letting cis men’s peens in our vageens until they hold themselves accountable for their complicity in rape culture and actually fucking do something about it. Honestly, this is how we are going to get shit done, ladies. Nothing motivates men quite like a sex strike, and that fact right there is enough to strike all on its own. Sure, it would be great if they could recognize that our lives, well-being, and positions of power in this world deserve recognition and action on their part without us having to withhold sex from them. Unfortunately, it seems like that is the only option.
You may be asking yourself “Isn’t this chick being dramatic?” Well, I’M NOT BEING DRAMATIC ENOUGH! If you think about it, I’m actually being quite rational in asking for a sex strike against men. What do you do when a child misuses a privilege? You take it away. Having sex with us is a privilege, not a right. We should not have to walk in fear and distrust our whole lives because these dudes can’t keep their dicks in their pants. Therefore, we should make their dicks utterly useless. Time’s up on sexual harassment, and time’s up on the men who do nothing about it. Celibacy sisters, unite!