It has happened to the best of us, and the worst of us in possession of a vagina that seems more and more symbolic of the power and chutzpah of a dick. The rejection and loudness of an unanswered text, a false promise, the lull into believing that it could actually be different this time. You mistakenly decide to put yourself in a position of vulnerability, and the second you do, a switch seems to snap within the “male” mind: must act like an asshole, must leave this bitch in a state of obsessive wondering.
You start to contemplate if maybe you’re not one bad experience away from joining a cult, the Manson kind, where you suppose, at least, there’s only one “man” to focus on, as opposed to the barrage that appears content to fuck you over, leave you with your own, much bigger metaphorical dick flapping in the wind after you took it out with plans to use it, only to find it sagging there helplessly, with no one around to insert it into. We’ll never know what thought processes, if any, go into these bizarre decision-making methods that prompt “men” to shut down, disappear into the ether. We can only know that it must somehow pertain to something we’ve done, some unnoticed flaw we displayed–a flabby thigh, a show of over earnestness. So when you find yourself with your dick in the wind, the only thing you can take comfort in is knowing that at least it was bigger than his.