“Huh? Five what?”
“Ivy’s. I should have been accepted to five. But, you know, Stanford and all that.”
“I have no actual idea what you just said, but I think I just caught a whiff of something snobby. It smells a little funky.”
“I think that might be your lunch you’re smelling.”
Shosh was the queen of ordering too much food and eating almost none of it. “Oh yeah, look at that. That makes way more sense than what I said. But, still, with the snobbery.”
“It’s not me being a snob, it’s true. That school has like a six percent acceptance rate.”
“Let’s get back on track here, I’m bored with all the school talk.”
“Oh, don’t do that,” I told her.
“What?”
“Play the dumb role. Not only does it offend every feminist sensibility I have, it’s also blatantly not true. We both know you’re way smarter than I am.”
“I know no such thing. You’re the smart and pretty one. I’m just the one who can whip up witty Instagram stories and inventive hashtags.”
Don’t let Shoshana fool you. Her false modesty is just that. She’s also beautiful, crazy smart, and if she put any thought into starting her own social media pages, I’d be in some trouble. She always tells me that she loves being the behind-the-scenes girl much more than she likes being on camera. I interviewed her on one of my early vlogs and it was one of the most awkward and funny things ever. It’s still one of my most watched videos.
“You’re a lot more than just social media savvy, and you know it.”
“Agree to disagree,” she told me. “But let’s get back to you. Talking about me is boring. I already know all about me.”
“Let’s stay on you for one more minute. You think I’m crazy for my views on guys, but just look at your last four—that’s four—boyfriends.”
“What about them?”
“I think you’d agree that they were shitheads, one and all, and each one was worse than the last, if I’m keeping my douche bags in order.”
“You’re not totally wrong. Oh, did I ever tell you that I kept all their numbers? I have them all in my phone as ‘Ex-Dicks #’s 1-4’.”
“Really? Even Dillon?”
“Even good-old Dillon.”
Dillon was the absolute worst of the four—the last one in a long line of assholes Shoshana decided to give a chance to be with her. I didn’t like him from the second I met him. I never told Shosh, but when she first introduced me to Dillon he grabbed my ass when he hugged me hello. I knew he was a prick, but anytime I open my mouth about her choice in men she just writes it off as my ‘man-hating.’ Yet another example of what I always say about guys—their dicks have a gps to all the vaginas in the room. #slavestotheirdicks.
“Why keep their numbers? And don’t tell me you’d ever call or text that creep again or I’m gonna flip out.”
“No, never,” she said. “But I like to keep their numbers mementos.”
“Mementos?” I asked.
“Yeah. Like a little piece of my past mistakes to remind me of where I’ve been. But I won’t deny that I’ve had some bad luck with the XYs recently.”
“Four bad guys in a row isn’t bad luck, Shoshana. It’s evidence of why women need this book I wrote. I didn’t even realize how many women had such bad experiences until I started to write down all my past podcast guests’ stories. It’s crazy.”
“And you think that means that all men are like that?”
“No, it doesn’t mean that at all, but it definitely means that there’s something to the points I make in my book. I’m not totally crazy.”
“No one’s totally crazy, Tor. I mean, maybe like, Charles Manson or something, he was pretty batshit. But when it comes to someone like you, I’d say you’re only like. . . maybe sixty-five percent crazy. That’s not bad at all. The national average is probably higher.”
“It’s not my fault that all my female guests want to talk about is how the men in their lives—brothers, friends, boyfriends, husbands, fathers and yes, wait for it, even grandfathers—are running around twenty-four seven trying to stick their little dicks into everything.”
“Don’t say that, Tori. That’s not fair. Some of them may have pretty substantial dicks.”
“I’m sure they do. I wouldn’t know.”
“Wait, how big was. . . He-Who-Shall-Remain-Nameless’ dick? I never asked you. I know you didn’t measure it or anything. Unless you did, which would be some kinky shit for you—but forget that, just give me an approximation? Was it like a pencil—long and thin? Or was it more cucumber-ish?”
“Shosh, stop it. . .”
“Wait, don’t tell me he was packing a full eggplant down there?”
“Shoshana!”
“Sorry. Sorry. I got carried away with thoughts of. . .”
“I don’t want to talk about him—ever, really, but especially not right now.”
The him was my ex boyfriend from college—really the only boyfriend I’ve ever had. I’m not going to mention his name because I might speak his evil into existence. If I stood in front of a mirror and invoked his stupid name three times I’m sure he’d appear behind me with a full hard on, ready to stick it into the first willing woman he found.
That whole experience changed my opinions on guys. It was a few years ago, and I’ve basically been as celibate as a Tibetan monk ever since. That’s by choice, mind you. If there’s a universal truth that every one of us XX’s knows, it’s that no matter who you are, what you look like, or where you live, there’s never a shortage of men willing to fuck you if you offer them the chance.
After college, relationships and men were like that drink you order on your twenty-first birthday, have way too much of, and then can never smell again without vomiting on the floor.
Instead, I chose to podcast, vlog, and now write about other women’s experiences with their own fuckboys (the title of my upcoming book, btw)—how they were hurt, what was expected of them, how they were treated.
“I get it,” Shoshana said. “I know he hurt you bad, but still, you can’t blame all men. . .”
“Shoshana, seriously, I really don’t want to talk about him.”
“I know, just let me finish. I’m pulling the bestie card. That’s a thing. I know that whole thing back in school didn’t go the way you thought it would, but welcome to the club.”
“You’re making my points for me.”
“No, I’m not. You’re missing my point. I’m not even talking about him. I’m talking about you and all of us. There are some things that bind us together as women—the two that pop into my mind are getting our periods and having shitty ex boyfriend horror stories to share with friends—it’s a female universal. Doesn’t mean we all have to become bitter at the ripe old age of twenty-eight!”
“I’m not bitter, and like I’ve said a million times already, I don’t hate men. I just see them for what they are. There’s a difference.”