confessions · penis

Just a prop

WhaleHe judged me for the can in my hand, and I cared so much. It was the dumbest drink, too. A pale ale with a stupid, bright blue, preppy whale on it. Not even a cool beer, but it impressed him. I could tell by his dumb grin as he pointed it out to the other guys on the porch. “Does she look like a girl who would drink BudLight Lime-A-Ritas?” he said, condescending to them.

And I can’t get that moment out of my head. (I think at least) it bothers me more that I can’t get it out of my head than the judgement itself, a judgement I know was born of distorted standards. That beer had a fucking a whale on it!

Why can’t I let go of that judgement? Why does he take pride in having dated a girl who drinks pale ales? And why is that what he still likes about me?

As it turns out, I’m just a prop in his self identity story. I didn’t even like beer when we dated two years ago. And Mike’s Hard Black Cherry Lemonade will forever be a favorite beverage of mine.




I really, really, really love candy. So much so that I had to quit a general store after one Halloween, when I was being particularly generous with myself, and the store manager got too judgey. So when my boyfriend ordered recurring candy deliveries to my apartment for my half birthday, it really hit my sweet spot.

Now, I think having done so makes him feel like he’s really providing for me. You know, being emotionally supportive to me even in his absence, as he feels personally responsible for each chocolated-induced endorphin.

In fact, when he sees receipts or wrappers or an empty chocolate bunny box sitting in my apartment, he’ll want to know where and when and why I got the candy. When he asks, I sense a tinge of disappointment, or maybe it’s worry, in his voice like the world is doubting his ability to provide for me, questioning his manhood, or challenging his worth. It’s not.

I have an insatiable sweet spot. My eye will never stop wandering.