To Good Eggs
I hate men.
There, I’ve said it. I know you’re not supposed to say it. We all pretend we don’t hate them; we all tell ourselves we don’t hate them. But I’m calling it. I’m standing here on this soapbox, and I’m saying it.
I. Hate. Men.
I mean, think about it. They’re just awful. I hate how selfish they are. How they take up so much space, assuming it’s always theirs to take. How they spread out their legs on public transport, like their balls need regular airing to stop them developing damp. I hate how they basically scent-mark anywhere they enter to make it work for them. Putting on the music they want to listen to the moment they arrive at any house party, and always taking the nicest chair. How they touch your stuff instead of just looking; even tweak the furniture arrangement to make it most comfortable for them. All without asking first – never asking first.
I hate how they think their interests are more important than yours – even though twice a week all most of them do is watch a bunch of strangers kick a circle around a piece of lawn and sulk if the circle doesn’t go in the right place. And how bored they look if you ever try to introduce them to a film, a band, or even a freaking YouTube clip, before you’ve even pressed play.
I hate their endless arrogance. I hate how they interrupt you and then apologise for it but carry on talking anyway. How they ask you a question but then check your answer afterwards. I hate how they can never do one piece of housework without telling you about it. I hate how they literally cannot handle being driven in a car by a woman, even if they’re terrible drivers themselves. I hate how they all think they’re fucking incredible at grilling meat on barbecues. The sun comes out and man must light fire and not let woman anywhere near the meat. Dumping blackened bits of chicken onto our plates along with the whiff of a burp from their beer breath, acting all caveman, like we’re supposed to find it cute that we may now get salmonella and that we’re going to have to do all the washing-up.
I hate how I’m quite scared of them. I hate the collective noise of them when they’re in a big group. The tribal waheying, like they all swap their IQs for extra testosterone when they swarm together. How, if you’re sitting alone on an empty train, they always come and deliberately sit next to you en masse, and talk extra loudly about macho nonsense, apparently to impress you. I hate the way they look at you when you walk past – automatically judging your screwability the moment they see you. Telling you to smile if you dare look anything other than delighted about living with stuff like this constantly fucking happening to you.
I hate how hard they are to love. How many of them actually, truly, think the way to your heart is sending you a selfie of them tugging themselves, hairy ball-sack very much still in shot. I hate how they have sex. How they shove their fingers into you, thinking it’s going to achieve anything. Jabbing their unwashed hands into your dry vagina, prodding about like they’re checking for prostate cancer, then wondering why you now have BV and you still haven’t come. Have none of them read a sex manual? Seriously? None of them? And I hate how they hate you a little just after they’ve finished. How even the nice ones lie there with cold eyes, pretending to cuddle, but clearly desperate to get as far away from you as possible.
I hate how it’s never equal. How they expect you to do all the emotional labour and then get upset when you’re the more stressed out one. I hate how they never understand you, no matter how hard they try, although, let’s be honest here, they never actually try that hard. And I hate how you’re always exhausting yourself trying to explain even the most basic of your rational emotional responses to their bored face.
I hate how every single last one of them has issues with their father.
And do you know what I hate most of all?
That despite this, despite all this disdain, I still fancy men. And I still want them to fancy me, to want me, to love me. I hate myself for how much I want them. Why do I still fancy men so much? What’s wrong with me? Why are they all so broken? Am I broken for still wanting to be with one, even after everything? I should be alone. That’s the only healthy way to be. BUT I DON’T WANT TO BE ALONE. I hate men, that’s the problem. GOD I HATE THEM SO MUCH – they’re so entitled and broken and lazy and wrong and … and …
Hang on …
My phone.
HE MESSAGED BACK!!!
WITH A KISS ON THE END!
Never mind.
Forget I said anything. It’s all good.
‘I think I’m going to fall in love with him,’ I tell Katy, as we stand by the dilapidated kettle, waiting for it to gurgle into a lacklustre boil.
‘Maybe a little bit soon for that, don’t you think?’
‘I know. But I also, like, know, you know?’
Katy closes her eyes for a little longer than necessary, which is fair enough. I can hear what I sound like with my very own ears. I am not this person. I am not this woman. Although I am, I am. ‘You’re getting carried away again, aren’t you?’ She’s washing out our mugs using the tiniest amount of Fairy Liquid, which has the note ‘please use sparingly’ on it, like the charity we work for can be saved from financial annihilation by more efficient washing-up.
‘It’s been five dates! Five! Do you have any idea what a milestone that is? I googled it, and it really, really is.’
‘Didn’t we talk about googling relationship stuff, April?’
‘I can’t help it. We work in an office with unrestricted Internet access and I’m not Gandhi. And even he, I am sure, would google “what to expect after five dates” if he was in my position.’
She laughs loudly enough that heads jerk up around the office. I shh her as I pour the coffee out of the cafetière into three mugs. She splashes in the milk equally and I giggle with her, but I can’t help but feel a twinge of hurt at her amusement. Katy’s been married for four years, to a man who completely and utterly adores her. She’s all smug and I-wouldn’t-be-like-that and chilled, which is so easy to be when you’ve been married for four years, to a man who completely and utterly adores you. I would be just as chill if I was married to a man like Jimmy. Bored as fuck, but chill.
We clatter back to our desks, through an office fizzing with Friday energy. The end of the week is tauntingly in sight. Shoulders relax as people tap at their keyboards, meetings are laced with jokes, and the radio’s been cranked on. No one is working quite as hard as they should be and their Monday-selves will hate their now-selves for being so lax. But that is then and this is now and I have a sixth date and a whole weekend and the hope of the beginning.
I attack my phone the second I’m sitting down. The sweet agonising apprehension of waiting for a red blob containing a message alert – my future mood totally dependent on it. For a millisecond, as I wait for my screen to unlock, I imagine it all disintegrating. Maybe I’m overhyping the connection, maybe he won’t have replied, maybe I’m delusional and mental and he’s figured this out and will now ghost me without explanation. I’ll have to start over again. Pick myself up and out of the dust again. Try to find the faith again. A dark chasm yawns open in my stomach … but wait!
There’s a message!